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8
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THE ELF-CHILD AND THE MINISTER
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Governor Bellingham, in a loose gown and easy cap--such as elderly gentlemen loved to endue themselves with, in their domestic privacy--walked foremost, and appeared to be showing off his estate, and expatiating on his projected improvements. The wide circumference of an elaborate ruff, beneath his grey beard, in the antiquated fashion of King James's reign, caused his head to look not a little like that of John the Baptist in a charger. The impression made by his aspect, so rigid and severe, and frost-bitten with more than autumnal age, was hardly in keeping with the appliances of worldly enjoyment wherewith he had evidently done his utmost to surround himself. But it is an error to suppose that our great forefathers--though accustomed to speak and think of human existence as a state merely of trial and warfare, and though unfeignedly prepared to sacrifice goods and life at the behest of duty--made it a matter of conscience to reject such means of comfort, or even luxury, as lay fairly within their grasp. This creed was never taught, for instance, by the venerable pastor, John Wilson, whose beard, white as a snow-drift, was seen over Governor Bellingham's shoulders, while its wearer suggested that pears and peaches might yet be naturalised in the New England climate, and that purple grapes might possibly be compelled to flourish against the sunny garden-wall. The old clergyman, nurtured at the rich bosom of the English Church, had a long established and legitimate taste for all good and comfortable things, and however stern he might show himself in the pulpit, or in his public reproof of such transgressions as that of Hester Prynne, still, the genial benevolence of his private life had won him warmer affection than was accorded to any of his professional contemporaries.
Behind the Governor and Mr. Wilson came two other guests--one, the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, whom the reader may remember as having taken a brief and reluctant part in the scene of Hester Prynne's disgrace; and, in close companionship with him, old Roger Chillingworth, a person of great skill in physic, who for two or three years past had been settled in the town. It was understood that this learned man was the physician as well as friend of the young minister, whose health had severely suffered of late by his too unreserved self-sacrifice to the labours and duties of the pastoral relation.
The Governor, in advance of his visitors, ascended one or two steps, and, throwing open the leaves of the great hall window, found himself close to little Pearl. The shadow of the curtain fell on Hester Prynne, and partially concealed her.
"What have we here?" said Governor Bellingham, looking with surprise at the scarlet little figure before him. "I profess, I have never seen the like since my days of vanity, in old King James's time, when I was wont to esteem it a high favour to be admitted to a court mask! There used to be a swarm of these small apparitions in holiday time, and we called them children of the Lord of Misrule. But how gat such a guest into my hall?"
"Ay, indeed!" cried good old Mr. Wilson. "What little bird of scarlet plumage may this be? Methinks I have seen just such figures when the sun has been shining through a richly painted window, and tracing out the golden and crimson images across the floor. But that was in the old land. Prithee, young one, who art thou, and what has ailed thy mother to bedizen thee in this strange fashion? Art thou a Christian child--ha? Dost know thy catechism? Or art thou one of those naughty elfs or fairies whom we thought to have left behind us, with other relics of Papistry, in merry old England?"
"I am mother's child," answered the scarlet vision, "and my name is Pearl!"
"Pearl? --Ruby, rather--or Coral! --or Red Rose, at the very least, judging from thy hue!" responded the old minister, putting forth his hand in a vain attempt to pat little Pearl on the cheek. "But where is this mother of thine? Ah! I see," he added; and, turning to Governor Bellingham, whispered, "This is the selfsame child of whom we have held speech together; and behold here the unhappy woman, Hester Prynne, her mother!"
"Sayest thou so?" cried the Governor. "Nay, we might have judged that such a child's mother must needs be a scarlet woman, and a worthy type of her of Babylon! But she comes at a good time, and we will look into this matter forthwith."
Governor Bellingham stepped through the window into the hall, followed by his three guests.
"Hester Prynne," said he, fixing his naturally stern regard on the wearer of the scarlet letter, "there hath been much question concerning thee of late. The point hath been weightily discussed, whether we, that are of authority and influence, do well discharge our consciences by trusting an immortal soul, such as there is in yonder child, to the guidance of one who hath stumbled and fallen amid the pitfalls of this world. Speak thou, the child's own mother! Were it not, thinkest thou, for thy little one's temporal and eternal welfare that she be taken out of thy charge, and clad soberly, and disciplined strictly, and instructed in the truths of heaven and earth? What canst thou do for the child in this kind?"
"I can teach my little Pearl what I have learned from this!" answered Hester Prynne, laying her finger on the red token.
"Woman, it is thy badge of shame!" replied the stern magistrate. "It is because of the stain which that letter indicates that we would transfer thy child to other hands."
"Nevertheless," said the mother, calmly, though growing more pale, "this badge hath taught me--it daily teaches me--it is teaching me at this moment--lessons whereof my child may be the wiser and better, albeit they can profit nothing to myself."
"We will judge warily," said Bellingham, "and look well what we are about to do. Good Master Wilson, I pray you, examine this Pearl--since that is her name--and see whether she hath had such Christian nurture as befits a child of her age."
The old minister seated himself in an arm-chair and made an effort to draw Pearl betwixt his knees. But the child, unaccustomed to the touch or familiarity of any but her mother, escaped through the open window, and stood on the upper step, looking like a wild tropical bird of rich plumage, ready to take flight into the upper air. Mr. Wilson, not a little astonished at this outbreak--for he was a grandfatherly sort of personage, and usually a vast favourite with children--essayed, however, to proceed with the examination.
"Pearl," said he, with great solemnity, "thou must take heed to instruction, that so, in due season, thou mayest wear in thy bosom the pearl of great price. Canst thou tell me, my child, who made thee?"
Now Pearl knew well enough who made her, for Hester Prynne, the daughter of a pious home, very soon after her talk with the child about her Heavenly Father, had begun to inform her of those truths which the human spirit, at whatever stage of immaturity, imbibes with such eager interest. Pearl, therefore--so large were the attainments of her three years' lifetime--could have borne a fair examination in the New England Primer, or the first column of the Westminster Catechisms, although unacquainted with the outward form of either of those celebrated works. But that perversity, which all children have more or less of, and of which little Pearl had a tenfold portion, now, at the most inopportune moment, took thorough possession of her, and closed her lips, or impelled her to speak words amiss. After putting her finger in her mouth, with many ungracious refusals to answer good Mr. Wilson's question, the child finally announced that she had not been made at all, but had been plucked by her mother off the bush of wild roses that grew by the prison-door.
This phantasy was probably suggested by the near proximity of the Governor's red roses, as Pearl stood outside of the window, together with her recollection of the prison rose-bush, which she had passed in coming hither.
Old Roger Chillingworth, with a smile on his face, whispered something in the young clergyman's ear. Hester Prynne looked at the man of skill, and even then, with her fate hanging in the balance, was startled to perceive what a change had come over his features--how much uglier they were, how his dark complexion seemed to have grown duskier, and his figure more misshapen--since the days when she had familiarly known him. She met his eyes for an instant, but was immediately constrained to give all her attention to the scene now going forward.
"This is awful!" cried the Governor, slowly recovering from the astonishment into which Pearl's response had thrown him. "Here is a child of three years old, and she cannot tell who made her! Without question, she is equally in the dark as to her soul, its present depravity, and future destiny! Methinks, gentlemen, we need inquire no further."
Hester caught hold of Pearl, and drew her forcibly into her arms, confronting the old Puritan magistrate with almost a fierce expression. Alone in the world, cast off by it, and with this sole treasure to keep her heart alive, she felt that she possessed indefeasible rights against the world, and was ready to defend them to the death.
"God gave me the child!" cried she. "He gave her in requital of all things else which ye had taken from me. She is my happiness--she is my torture, none the less! Pearl keeps me here in life! Pearl punishes me, too! See ye not, she is the scarlet letter, only capable of being loved, and so endowed with a millionfold the power of retribution for my sin? Ye shall not take her! I will die first!"
"My poor woman," said the not unkind old minister, "the child shall be well cared for--far better than thou canst do for it."
"God gave her into my keeping!" repeated Hester Prynne, raising her voice almost to a shriek. "I will not give her up!" And here by a sudden impulse, she turned to the young clergyman, Mr. Dimmesdale, at whom, up to this moment, she had seemed hardly so much as once to direct her eyes. "Speak thou for me!" cried she. "Thou wast my pastor, and hadst charge of my soul, and knowest me better than these men can. I will not lose the child! Speak for me! Thou knowest--for thou hast sympathies which these men lack--thou knowest what is in my heart, and what are a mother's rights, and how much the stronger they are when that mother has but her child and the scarlet letter! Look thou to it! I will not lose the child! Look to it!"
At this wild and singular appeal, which indicated that Hester Prynne's situation had provoked her to little less than madness, the young minister at once came forward, pale, and holding his hand over his heart, as was his custom whenever his peculiarly nervous temperament was thrown into agitation. He looked now more careworn and emaciated than as we described him at the scene of Hester's public ignominy; and whether it were his failing health, or whatever the cause might be, his large dark eyes had a world of pain in their troubled and melancholy depth.
"There is truth in what she says," began the minister, with a voice sweet, tremulous, but powerful, insomuch that the hall re-echoed and the hollow armour rang with it--"truth in what Hester says, and in the feeling which inspires her! God gave her the child, and gave her, too, an instinctive knowledge of its nature and requirements--both seemingly so peculiar--which no other mortal being can possess. And, moreover, is there not a quality of awful sacredness in the relation between this mother and this child?"
"Ay--how is that, good Master Dimmesdale?" interrupted the Governor. "Make that plain, I pray you!"
"It must be even so," resumed the minister. "For, if we deem it otherwise, do we not thereby say that the Heavenly Father, the creator of all flesh, hath lightly recognised a deed of sin, and made of no account the distinction between unhallowed lust and holy love? This child of its father's guilt and its mother's shame has come from the hand of God, to work in many ways upon her heart, who pleads so earnestly and with such bitterness of spirit the right to keep her. It was meant for a blessing--for the one blessing of her life! It was meant, doubtless, the mother herself hath told us, for a retribution, too; a torture to be felt at many an unthought-of moment; a pang, a sting, an ever-recurring agony, in the midst of a troubled joy! Hath she not expressed this thought in the garb of the poor child, so forcibly reminding us of that red symbol which sears her bosom?"
"Well said again!" cried good Mr. Wilson. "I feared the woman had no better thought than to make a mountebank of her child!"
"Oh, not so! --not so!" continued Mr. Dimmesdale. "She recognises, believe me, the solemn miracle which God hath wrought in the existence of that child. And may she feel, too--what, methinks, is the very truth--that this boon was meant, above all things else, to keep the mother's soul alive, and to preserve her from blacker depths of sin into which Satan might else have sought to plunge her! Therefore it is good for this poor, sinful woman, that she hath an infant immortality, a being capable of eternal joy or sorrow, confided to her care--to be trained up by her to righteousness, to remind her, at every moment, of her fall, but yet to teach her, as if it were by the Creator's sacred pledge, that, if she bring the child to heaven, the child also will bring its parents thither! Herein is the sinful mother happier than the sinful father. For Hester Prynne's sake, then, and no less for the poor child's sake, let us leave them as Providence hath seen fit to place them!"
"You speak, my friend, with a strange earnestness," said old Roger Chillingworth, smiling at him.
"And there is a weighty import in what my young brother hath spoken," added the Rev. Mr. Wilson.
"What say you, worshipful Master Bellingham? Hath he not pleaded well for the poor woman?"
"Indeed hath he," answered the magistrate; "and hath adduced such arguments, that we will even leave the matter as it now stands; so long, at least, as there shall be no further scandal in the woman. Care must be had nevertheless, to put the child to due and stated examination in the catechism, at thy hands or Master Dimmesdale's. Moreover, at a proper season, the tithing-men must take heed that she go both to school and to meeting."
The young minister, on ceasing to speak had withdrawn a few steps from the group, and stood with his face partially concealed in the heavy folds of the window-curtain; while the shadow of his figure, which the sunlight cast upon the floor, was tremulous with the vehemence of his appeal. Pearl, that wild and flighty little elf stole softly towards him, and taking his hand in the grasp of both her own, laid her cheek against it; a caress so tender, and withal so unobtrusive, that her mother, who was looking on, asked herself--"Is that my Pearl?" Yet she knew that there was love in the child's heart, although it mostly revealed itself in passion, and hardly twice in her lifetime had been softened by such gentleness as now. The minister--for, save the long-sought regards of woman, nothing is sweeter than these marks of childish preference, accorded spontaneously by a spiritual instinct, and therefore seeming to imply in us something truly worthy to be loved--the minister looked round, laid his hand on the child's head, hesitated an instant, and then kissed her brow. Little Pearl's unwonted mood of sentiment lasted no longer; she laughed, and went capering down the hall so airily, that old Mr. Wilson raised a question whether even her tiptoes touched the floor.
"The little baggage hath witchcraft in her, I profess," said he to Mr. Dimmesdale. "She needs no old woman's broomstick to fly withal!"
"A strange child!" remarked old Roger Chillingworth. "It is easy to see the mother's part in her. Would it be beyond a philosopher's research, think ye, gentlemen, to analyse that child's nature, and, from it make a mould, to give a shrewd guess at the father?"
"Nay; it would be sinful, in such a question, to follow the clue of profane philosophy," said Mr. Wilson. "Better to fast and pray upon it; and still better, it may be, to leave the mystery as we find it, unless Providence reveal it of its own accord. Thereby, every good Christian man hath a title to show a father's kindness towards the poor, deserted babe."
The affair being so satisfactorily concluded, Hester Prynne, with Pearl, departed from the house. As they descended the steps, it is averred that the lattice of a chamber-window was thrown open, and forth into the sunny day was thrust the face of Mistress Hibbins, Governor Bellingham's bitter-tempered sister, and the same who, a few years later, was executed as a witch.
"Hist, hist!" said she, while her ill-omened physiognomy seemed to cast a shadow over the cheerful newness of the house. "Wilt thou go with us to-night? There will be a merry company in the forest; and I well-nigh promised the Black Man that comely Hester Prynne should make one."
"Make my excuse to him, so please you!" answered Hester, with a triumphant smile. "I must tarry at home, and keep watch over my little Pearl. Had they taken her from me, I would willingly have gone with thee into the forest, and signed my name in the Black Man's book too, and that with mine own blood!"
"We shall have thee there anon!" said the witch-lady, frowning, as she drew back her head.
But here--if we suppose this interview betwixt Mistress Hibbins and Hester Prynne to be authentic, and not a parable--was already an illustration of the young minister's argument against sundering the relation of a fallen mother to the offspring of her frailty. Even thus early had the child saved her from Satan's snare.
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{
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9
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THE LEECH
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Under the appellation of Roger Chillingworth, the reader will remember, was hidden another name, which its former wearer had resolved should never more be spoken. It has been related, how, in the crowd that witnessed Hester Prynne's ignominious exposure, stood a man, elderly, travel-worn, who, just emerging from the perilous wilderness, beheld the woman, in whom he hoped to find embodied the warmth and cheerfulness of home, set up as a type of sin before the people. Her matronly fame was trodden under all men's feet. Infamy was babbling around her in the public market-place. For her kindred, should the tidings ever reach them, and for the companions of her unspotted life, there remained nothing but the contagion of her dishonour; which would not fail to be distributed in strict accordance and proportion with the intimacy and sacredness of their previous relationship. Then why--since the choice was with himself--should the individual, whose connexion with the fallen woman had been the most intimate and sacred of them all, come forward to vindicate his claim to an inheritance so little desirable? He resolved not to be pilloried beside her on her pedestal of shame. Unknown to all but Hester Prynne, and possessing the lock and key of her silence, he chose to withdraw his name from the roll of mankind, and, as regarded his former ties and interest, to vanish out of life as completely as if he indeed lay at the bottom of the ocean, whither rumour had long ago consigned him. This purpose once effected, new interests would immediately spring up, and likewise a new purpose; dark, it is true, if not guilty, but of force enough to engage the full strength of his faculties.
In pursuance of this resolve, he took up his residence in the Puritan town as Roger Chillingworth, without other introduction than the learning and intelligence of which he possessed more than a common measure. As his studies, at a previous period of his life, had made him extensively acquainted with the medical science of the day, it was as a physician that he presented himself and as such was cordially received. Skilful men, of the medical and chirurgical profession, were of rare occurrence in the colony. They seldom, it would appear, partook of the religious zeal that brought other emigrants across the Atlantic. In their researches into the human frame, it may be that the higher and more subtle faculties of such men were materialised, and that they lost the spiritual view of existence amid the intricacies of that wondrous mechanism, which seemed to involve art enough to comprise all of life within itself. At all events, the health of the good town of Boston, so far as medicine had aught to do with it, had hitherto lain in the guardianship of an aged deacon and apothecary, whose piety and godly deportment were stronger testimonials in his favour than any that he could have produced in the shape of a diploma. The only surgeon was one who combined the occasional exercise of that noble art with the daily and habitual flourish of a razor. To such a professional body Roger Chillingworth was a brilliant acquisition. He soon manifested his familiarity with the ponderous and imposing machinery of antique physic; in which every remedy contained a multitude of far-fetched and heterogeneous ingredients, as elaborately compounded as if the proposed result had been the Elixir of Life. In his Indian captivity, moreover, he had gained much knowledge of the properties of native herbs and roots; nor did he conceal from his patients that these simple medicines, Nature's boon to the untutored savage, had quite as large a share of his own confidence as the European Pharmacopoeia, which so many learned doctors had spent centuries in elaborating.
This learned stranger was exemplary as regarded at least the outward forms of a religious life; and early after his arrival, had chosen for his spiritual guide the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. The young divine, whose scholar-like renown still lived in Oxford, was considered by his more fervent admirers as little less than a heavenly ordained apostle, destined, should he live and labour for the ordinary term of life, to do as great deeds, for the now feeble New England Church, as the early Fathers had achieved for the infancy of the Christian faith. About this period, however, the health of Mr. Dimmesdale had evidently begun to fail. By those best acquainted with his habits, the paleness of the young minister's cheek was accounted for by his too earnest devotion to study, his scrupulous fulfilment of parochial duty, and more than all, to the fasts and vigils of which he made a frequent practice, in order to keep the grossness of this earthly state from clogging and obscuring his spiritual lamp. Some declared, that if Mr. Dimmesdale were really going to die, it was cause enough that the world was not worthy to be any longer trodden by his feet. He himself, on the other hand, with characteristic humility, avowed his belief that if Providence should see fit to remove him, it would be because of his own unworthiness to perform its humblest mission here on earth. With all this difference of opinion as to the cause of his decline, there could be no question of the fact. His form grew emaciated; his voice, though still rich and sweet, had a certain melancholy prophecy of decay in it; he was often observed, on any slight alarm or other sudden accident, to put his hand over his heart with first a flush and then a paleness, indicative of pain.
Such was the young clergyman's condition, and so imminent the prospect that his dawning light would be extinguished, all untimely, when Roger Chillingworth made his advent to the town. His first entry on the scene, few people could tell whence, dropping down as it were out of the sky or starting from the nether earth, had an aspect of mystery, which was easily heightened to the miraculous. He was now known to be a man of skill; it was observed that he gathered herbs and the blossoms of wild-flowers, and dug up roots and plucked off twigs from the forest-trees like one acquainted with hidden virtues in what was valueless to common eyes. He was heard to speak of Sir Kenelm Digby and other famous men--whose scientific attainments were esteemed hardly less than supernatural--as having been his correspondents or associates. Why, with such rank in the learned world, had he come hither? What, could he, whose sphere was in great cities, be seeking in the wilderness? In answer to this query, a rumour gained ground--and however absurd, was entertained by some very sensible people--that Heaven had wrought an absolute miracle, by transporting an eminent Doctor of Physic from a German university bodily through the air and setting him down at the door of Mr. Dimmesdale's study! Individuals of wiser faith, indeed, who knew that Heaven promotes its purposes without aiming at the stage-effect of what is called miraculous interposition, were inclined to see a providential hand in Roger Chillingworth's so opportune arrival.
This idea was countenanced by the strong interest which the physician ever manifested in the young clergyman; he attached himself to him as a parishioner, and sought to win a friendly regard and confidence from his naturally reserved sensibility. He expressed great alarm at his pastor's state of health, but was anxious to attempt the cure, and, if early undertaken, seemed not despondent of a favourable result. The elders, the deacons, the motherly dames, and the young and fair maidens of Mr. Dimmesdale's flock, were alike importunate that he should make trial of the physician's frankly offered skill. Mr. Dimmesdale gently repelled their entreaties.
"I need no medicine," said he.
But how could the young minister say so, when, with every successive Sabbath, his cheek was paler and thinner, and his voice more tremulous than before--when it had now become a constant habit, rather than a casual gesture, to press his hand over his heart? Was he weary of his labours? Did he wish to die? These questions were solemnly propounded to Mr. Dimmesdale by the elder ministers of Boston, and the deacons of his church, who, to use their own phrase, "dealt with him," on the sin of rejecting the aid which Providence so manifestly held out. He listened in silence, and finally promised to confer with the physician.
"Were it God's will," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, when, in fulfilment of this pledge, he requested old Roger Chillingworth's professional advice, "I could be well content that my labours, and my sorrows, and my sins, and my pains, should shortly end with me, and what is earthly of them be buried in my grave, and the spiritual go with me to my eternal state, rather than that you should put your skill to the proof in my behalf."
"Ah," replied Roger Chillingworth, with that quietness, which, whether imposed or natural, marked all his deportment, "it is thus that a young clergyman is apt to speak. Youthful men, not having taken a deep root, give up their hold of life so easily! And saintly men, who walk with God on earth, would fain be away, to walk with him on the golden pavements of the New Jerusalem."
"Nay," rejoined the young minister, putting his hand to his heart, with a flush of pain flitting over his brow, "were I worthier to walk there, I could be better content to toil here."
"Good men ever interpret themselves too meanly," said the physician.
In this manner, the mysterious old Roger Chillingworth became the medical adviser of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. As not only the disease interested the physician, but he was strongly moved to look into the character and qualities of the patient, these two men, so different in age, came gradually to spend much time together. For the sake of the minister's health, and to enable the leech to gather plants with healing balm in them, they took long walks on the sea-shore, or in the forest; mingling various walks with the splash and murmur of the waves, and the solemn wind-anthem among the tree-tops. Often, likewise, one was the guest of the other in his place of study and retirement. There was a fascination for the minister in the company of the man of science, in whom he recognised an intellectual cultivation of no moderate depth or scope; together with a range and freedom of ideas, that he would have vainly looked for among the members of his own profession. In truth, he was startled, if not shocked, to find this attribute in the physician. Mr. Dimmesdale was a true priest, a true religionist, with the reverential sentiment largely developed, and an order of mind that impelled itself powerfully along the track of a creed, and wore its passage continually deeper with the lapse of time. In no state of society would he have been what is called a man of liberal views; it would always be essential to his peace to feel the pressure of a faith about him, supporting, while it confined him within its iron framework. Not the less, however, though with a tremulous enjoyment, did he feel the occasional relief of looking at the universe through the medium of another kind of intellect than those with which he habitually held converse. It was as if a window were thrown open, admitting a freer atmosphere into the close and stifled study, where his life was wasting itself away, amid lamp-light, or obstructed day-beams, and the musty fragrance, be it sensual or moral, that exhales from books. But the air was too fresh and chill to be long breathed with comfort. So the minister, and the physician with him, withdrew again within the limits of what their Church defined as orthodox.
Thus Roger Chillingworth scrutinised his patient carefully, both as he saw him in his ordinary life, keeping an accustomed pathway in the range of thoughts familiar to him, and as he appeared when thrown amidst other moral scenery, the novelty of which might call out something new to the surface of his character. He deemed it essential, it would seem, to know the man, before attempting to do him good. Wherever there is a heart and an intellect, the diseases of the physical frame are tinged with the peculiarities of these. In Arthur Dimmesdale, thought and imagination were so active, and sensibility so intense, that the bodily infirmity would be likely to have its groundwork there. So Roger Chillingworth--the man of skill, the kind and friendly physician--strove to go deep into his patient's bosom, delving among his principles, prying into his recollections, and probing everything with a cautious touch, like a treasure-seeker in a dark cavern. Few secrets can escape an investigator, who has opportunity and licence to undertake such a quest, and skill to follow it up. A man burdened with a secret should especially avoid the intimacy of his physician. If the latter possess native sagacity, and a nameless something more,--let us call it intuition; if he show no intrusive egotism, nor disagreeable prominent characteristics of his own; if he have the power, which must be born with him, to bring his mind into such affinity with his patient's, that this last shall unawares have spoken what he imagines himself only to have thought; if such revelations be received without tumult, and acknowledged not so often by an uttered sympathy as by silence, an inarticulate breath, and here and there a word to indicate that all is understood; if to these qualifications of a confidant be joined the advantages afforded by his recognised character as a physician;--then, at some inevitable moment, will the soul of the sufferer be dissolved, and flow forth in a dark but transparent stream, bringing all its mysteries into the daylight.
Roger Chillingworth possessed all, or most, of the attributes above enumerated. Nevertheless, time went on; a kind of intimacy, as we have said, grew up between these two cultivated minds, which had as wide a field as the whole sphere of human thought and study to meet upon; they discussed every topic of ethics and religion, of public affairs, and private character; they talked much, on both sides, of matters that seemed personal to themselves; and yet no secret, such as the physician fancied must exist there, ever stole out of the minister's consciousness into his companion's ear. The latter had his suspicions, indeed, that even the nature of Mr. Dimmesdale's bodily disease had never fairly been revealed to him. It was a strange reserve!
After a time, at a hint from Roger Chillingworth, the friends of Mr. Dimmesdale effected an arrangement by which the two were lodged in the same house; so that every ebb and flow of the minister's life-tide might pass under the eye of his anxious and attached physician. There was much joy throughout the town when this greatly desirable object was attained. It was held to be the best possible measure for the young clergyman's welfare; unless, indeed, as often urged by such as felt authorised to do so, he had selected some one of the many blooming damsels, spiritually devoted to him, to become his devoted wife. This latter step, however, there was no present prospect that Arthur Dimmesdale would be prevailed upon to take; he rejected all suggestions of the kind, as if priestly celibacy were one of his articles of Church discipline. Doomed by his own choice, therefore, as Mr. Dimmesdale so evidently was, to eat his unsavoury morsel always at another's board, and endure the life-long chill which must be his lot who seeks to warm himself only at another's fireside, it truly seemed that this sagacious, experienced, benevolent old physician, with his concord of paternal and reverential love for the young pastor, was the very man, of all mankind, to be constantly within reach of his voice.
The new abode of the two friends was with a pious widow, of good social rank, who dwelt in a house covering pretty nearly the site on which the venerable structure of King's Chapel has since been built. It had the graveyard, originally Isaac Johnson's home-field, on one side, and so was well adapted to call up serious reflections, suited to their respective employments, in both minister and man of physic. The motherly care of the good widow assigned to Mr. Dimmesdale a front apartment, with a sunny exposure, and heavy window-curtains, to create a noontide shadow when desirable. The walls were hung round with tapestry, said to be from the Gobelin looms, and, at all events, representing the Scriptural story of David and Bathsheba, and Nathan the Prophet, in colours still unfaded, but which made the fair woman of the scene almost as grimly picturesque as the woe-denouncing seer. Here the pale clergyman piled up his library, rich with parchment-bound folios of the Fathers, and the lore of Rabbis, and monkish erudition, of which the Protestant divines, even while they vilified and decried that class of writers, were yet constrained often to avail themselves. On the other side of the house, old Roger Chillingworth arranged his study and laboratory: not such as a modern man of science would reckon even tolerably complete, but provided with a distilling apparatus and the means of compounding drugs and chemicals, which the practised alchemist knew well how to turn to purpose. With such commodiousness of situation, these two learned persons sat themselves down, each in his own domain, yet familiarly passing from one apartment to the other, and bestowing a mutual and not incurious inspection into one another's business.
And the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale's best discerning friends, as we have intimated, very reasonably imagined that the hand of Providence had done all this for the purpose--besought in so many public and domestic and secret prayers--of restoring the young minister to health. But, it must now be said, another portion of the community had latterly begun to take its own view of the relation betwixt Mr. Dimmesdale and the mysterious old physician. When an uninstructed multitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedingly apt to be deceived. When, however, it forms its judgment, as it usually does, on the intuitions of its great and warm heart, the conclusions thus attained are often so profound and so unerring as to possess the character of truth supernaturally revealed. The people, in the case of which we speak, could justify its prejudice against Roger Chillingworth by no fact or argument worthy of serious refutation. There was an aged handicraftsman, it is true, who had been a citizen of London at the period of Sir Thomas Overbury's murder, now some thirty years agone; he testified to having seen the physician, under some other name, which the narrator of the story had now forgotten, in company with Dr. Forman, the famous old conjurer, who was implicated in the affair of Overbury. Two or three individuals hinted that the man of skill, during his Indian captivity, had enlarged his medical attainments by joining in the incantations of the savage priests, who were universally acknowledged to be powerful enchanters, often performing seemingly miraculous cures by their skill in the black art. A large number--and many of these were persons of such sober sense and practical observation that their opinions would have been valuable in other matters--affirmed that Roger Chillingworth's aspect had undergone a remarkable change while he had dwelt in town, and especially since his abode with Mr. Dimmesdale. At first, his expression had been calm, meditative, scholar-like. Now there was something ugly and evil in his face, which they had not previously noticed, and which grew still the more obvious to sight the oftener they looked upon him. According to the vulgar idea, the fire in his laboratory had been brought from the lower regions, and was fed with infernal fuel; and so, as might be expected, his visage was getting sooty with the smoke.
To sum up the matter, it grew to be a widely diffused opinion that the Rev. Arthur Dimmesdale, like many other personages of special sanctity, in all ages of the Christian world, was haunted either by Satan himself or Satan's emissary, in the guise of old Roger Chillingworth. This diabolical agent had the Divine permission, for a season, to burrow into the clergyman's intimacy, and plot against his soul. No sensible man, it was confessed, could doubt on which side the victory would turn. The people looked, with an unshaken hope, to see the minister come forth out of the conflict transfigured with the glory which he would unquestionably win. Meanwhile, nevertheless, it was sad to think of the perchance mortal agony through which he must struggle towards his triumph.
Alas! to judge from the gloom and terror in the depth of the poor minister's eyes, the battle was a sore one, and the victory anything but secure.
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{
"id": "33"
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10
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THE LEECH AND HIS PATIENT
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Old Roger Chillingworth, throughout life, had been calm in temperament, kindly, though not of warm affections, but ever, and in all his relations with the world, a pure and upright man. He had begun an investigation, as he imagined, with the severe and equal integrity of a judge, desirous only of truth, even as if the question involved no more than the air-drawn lines and figures of a geometrical problem, instead of human passions, and wrongs inflicted on himself. But, as he proceeded, a terrible fascination, a kind of fierce, though still calm, necessity, seized the old man within its gripe, and never set him free again until he had done all its bidding. He now dug into the poor clergyman's heart, like a miner searching for gold; or, rather, like a sexton delving into a grave, possibly in quest of a jewel that had been buried on the dead man's bosom, but likely to find nothing save mortality and corruption. Alas, for his own soul, if these were what he sought!
Sometimes a light glimmered out of the physician's eyes, burning blue and ominous, like the reflection of a furnace, or, let us say, like one of those gleams of ghastly fire that darted from Bunyan's awful doorway in the hillside, and quivered on the pilgrim's face. The soil where this dark miner was working had perchance shown indications that encouraged him.
"This man," said he, at one such moment, to himself, "pure as they deem him--all spiritual as he seems--hath inherited a strong animal nature from his father or his mother. Let us dig a little further in the direction of this vein!"
Then after long search into the minister's dim interior, and turning over many precious materials, in the shape of high aspirations for the welfare of his race, warm love of souls, pure sentiments, natural piety, strengthened by thought and study, and illuminated by revelation--all of which invaluable gold was perhaps no better than rubbish to the seeker--he would turn back, discouraged, and begin his quest towards another point. He groped along as stealthily, with as cautious a tread, and as wary an outlook, as a thief entering a chamber where a man lies only half asleep--or, it may be, broad awake--with purpose to steal the very treasure which this man guards as the apple of his eye. In spite of his premeditated carefulness, the floor would now and then creak; his garments would rustle; the shadow of his presence, in a forbidden proximity, would be thrown across his victim. In other words, Mr. Dimmesdale, whose sensibility of nerve often produced the effect of spiritual intuition, would become vaguely aware that something inimical to his peace had thrust itself into relation with him. But Old Roger Chillingworth, too, had perceptions that were almost intuitive; and when the minister threw his startled eyes towards him, there the physician sat; his kind, watchful, sympathising, but never intrusive friend.
Yet Mr. Dimmesdale would perhaps have seen this individual's character more perfectly, if a certain morbidness, to which sick hearts are liable, had not rendered him suspicious of all mankind. Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared. He therefore still kept up a familiar intercourse with him, daily receiving the old physician in his study, or visiting the laboratory, and, for recreation's sake, watching the processes by which weeds were converted into drugs of potency.
One day, leaning his forehead on his hand, and his elbow on the sill of the open window, that looked towards the grave-yard, he talked with Roger Chillingworth, while the old man was examining a bundle of unsightly plants.
"Where," asked he, with a look askance at them--for it was the clergyman's peculiarity that he seldom, now-a-days, looked straight forth at any object, whether human or inanimate, "where, my kind doctor, did you gather those herbs, with such a dark, flabby leaf?"
"Even in the graveyard here at hand," answered the physician, continuing his employment. "They are new to me. I found them growing on a grave, which bore no tombstone, no other memorial of the dead man, save these ugly weeds, that have taken upon themselves to keep him in remembrance. They grew out of his heart, and typify, it may be, some hideous secret that was buried with him, and which he had done better to confess during his lifetime."
"Perchance," said Mr. Dimmesdale, "he earnestly desired it, but could not."
"And wherefore?" rejoined the physician.
"Wherefore not; since all the powers of nature call so earnestly for the confession of sin, that these black weeds have sprung up out of a buried heart, to make manifest, an outspoken crime?"
"That, good sir, is but a phantasy of yours," replied the minister. "There can be, if I forbode aright, no power, short of the Divine mercy, to disclose, whether by uttered words, or by type or emblem, the secrets that may be buried in the human heart. The heart, making itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until the day when all hidden things shall be revealed. Nor have I so read or interpreted Holy Writ, as to understand that the disclosure of human thoughts and deeds, then to be made, is intended as a part of the retribution. That, surely, were a shallow view of it. No; these revelations, unless I greatly err, are meant merely to promote the intellectual satisfaction of all intelligent beings, who will stand waiting, on that day, to see the dark problem of this life made plain. A knowledge of men's hearts will be needful to the completest solution of that problem. And, I conceive moreover, that the hearts holding such miserable secrets as you speak of, will yield them up, at that last day, not with reluctance, but with a joy unutterable."
"Then why not reveal it here?" asked Roger Chillingworth, glancing quietly aside at the minister. "Why should not the guilty ones sooner avail themselves of this unutterable solace?"
"They mostly do," said the clergyman, griping hard at his breast, as if afflicted with an importunate throb of pain. "Many, many a poor soul hath given its confidence to me, not only on the death-bed, but while strong in life, and fair in reputation. And ever, after such an outpouring, oh, what a relief have I witnessed in those sinful brethren! even as in one who at last draws free air, after a long stifling with his own polluted breath. How can it be otherwise? Why should a wretched man--guilty, we will say, of murder--prefer to keep the dead corpse buried in his own heart, rather than fling it forth at once, and let the universe take care of it!"
"Yet some men bury their secrets thus," observed the calm physician.
"True; there are such men," answered Mr. Dimmesdale. "But not to suggest more obvious reasons, it may be that they are kept silent by the very constitution of their nature. Or--can we not suppose it? --guilty as they may be, retaining, nevertheless, a zeal for God's glory and man's welfare, they shrink from displaying themselves black and filthy in the view of men; because, thenceforward, no good can be achieved by them; no evil of the past be redeemed by better service. So, to their own unutterable torment, they go about among their fellow-creatures, looking pure as new-fallen snow, while their hearts are all speckled and spotted with iniquity of which they cannot rid themselves."
"These men deceive themselves," said Roger Chillingworth, with somewhat more emphasis than usual, and making a slight gesture with his forefinger. "They fear to take up the shame that rightfully belongs to them. Their love for man, their zeal for God's service--these holy impulses may or may not coexist in their hearts with the evil inmates to which their guilt has unbarred the door, and which must needs propagate a hellish breed within them. But, if they seek to glorify God, let them not lift heavenward their unclean hands! If they would serve their fellowmen, let them do it by making manifest the power and reality of conscience, in constraining them to penitential self-abasement! Would thou have me to believe, O wise and pious friend, that a false show can be better--can be more for God's glory, or man' welfare--than God's own truth? Trust me, such men deceive themselves!"
"It may be so," said the young clergyman, indifferently, as waiving a discussion that he considered irrelevant or unseasonable. He had a ready faculty, indeed, of escaping from any topic that agitated his too sensitive and nervous temperament. --"But, now, I would ask of my well-skilled physician, whether, in good sooth, he deems me to have profited by his kindly care of this weak frame of mine?"
Before Roger Chillingworth could answer, they heard the clear, wild laughter of a young child's voice, proceeding from the adjacent burial-ground. Looking instinctively from the open window--for it was summer-time--the minister beheld Hester Prynne and little Pearl passing along the footpath that traversed the enclosure. Pearl looked as beautiful as the day, but was in one of those moods of perverse merriment which, whenever they occurred, seemed to remove her entirely out of the sphere of sympathy or human contact. She now skipped irreverently from one grave to another; until coming to the broad, flat, armorial tombstone of a departed worthy--perhaps of Isaac Johnson himself--she began to dance upon it. In reply to her mother's command and entreaty that she would behave more decorously, little Pearl paused to gather the prickly burrs from a tall burdock which grew beside the tomb. Taking a handful of these, she arranged them along the lines of the scarlet letter that decorated the maternal bosom, to which the burrs, as their nature was, tenaciously adhered. Hester did not pluck them off.
Roger Chillingworth had by this time approached the window and smiled grimly down.
"There is no law, nor reverence for authority, no regard for human ordinances or opinions, right or wrong, mixed up with that child's composition," remarked he, as much to himself as to his companion. "I saw her, the other day, bespatter the Governor himself with water at the cattle-trough in Spring Lane. What, in heaven's name, is she? Is the imp altogether evil? Hath she affections? Hath she any discoverable principle of being?"
"None, save the freedom of a broken law," answered Mr. Dimmesdale, in a quiet way, as if he had been discussing the point within himself, "Whether capable of good, I know not."
The child probably overheard their voices, for, looking up to the window with a bright, but naughty smile of mirth and intelligence, she threw one of the prickly burrs at the Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale. The sensitive clergyman shrank, with nervous dread, from the light missile. Detecting his emotion, Pearl clapped her little hands in the most extravagant ecstacy. Hester Prynne, likewise, had involuntarily looked up, and all these four persons, old and young, regarded one another in silence, till the child laughed aloud, and shouted--"Come away, mother! Come away, or yonder old black man will catch you! He hath got hold of the minister already. Come away, mother or he will catch you! But he cannot catch little Pearl!"
So she drew her mother away, skipping, dancing, and frisking fantastically among the hillocks of the dead people, like a creature that had nothing in common with a bygone and buried generation, nor owned herself akin to it. It was as if she had been made afresh out of new elements, and must perforce be permitted to live her own life, and be a law unto herself without her eccentricities being reckoned to her for a crime.
"There goes a woman," resumed Roger Chillingworth, after a pause, "who, be her demerits what they may, hath none of that mystery of hidden sinfulness which you deem so grievous to be borne. Is Hester Prynne the less miserable, think you, for that scarlet letter on her breast?"
"I do verily believe it," answered the clergyman. "Nevertheless, I cannot answer for her. There was a look of pain in her face which I would gladly have been spared the sight of. But still, methinks, it must needs be better for the sufferer to be free to show his pain, as this poor woman Hester is, than to cover it up in his heart."
There was another pause, and the physician began anew to examine and arrange the plants which he had gathered.
"You inquired of me, a little time agone," said he, at length, "my judgment as touching your health."
"I did," answered the clergyman, "and would gladly learn it. Speak frankly, I pray you, be it for life or death."
"Freely then, and plainly," said the physician, still busy with his plants, but keeping a wary eye on Mr. Dimmesdale, "the disorder is a strange one; not so much in itself nor as outwardly manifested,--in so far, at least as the symptoms have been laid open to my observation. Looking daily at you, my good sir, and watching the tokens of your aspect now for months gone by, I should deem you a man sore sick, it may be, yet not so sick but that an instructed and watchful physician might well hope to cure you. But I know not what to say, the disease is what I seem to know, yet know it not."
"You speak in riddles, learned sir," said the pale minister, glancing aside out of the window.
"Then, to speak more plainly," continued the physician, "and I crave pardon, sir, should it seem to require pardon, for this needful plainness of my speech. Let me ask as your friend, as one having charge, under Providence, of your life and physical well being, hath all the operations of this disorder been fairly laid open and recounted to me?"
"How can you question it?" asked the minister. "Surely it were child's play to call in a physician and then hide the sore!"
"You would tell me, then, that I know all?" said Roger Chillingworth, deliberately, and fixing an eye, bright with intense and concentrated intelligence, on the minister's face. "Be it so! But again! He to whom only the outward and physical evil is laid open, knoweth, oftentimes, but half the evil which he is called upon to cure. A bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part. Your pardon once again, good sir, if my speech give the shadow of offence. You, sir, of all men whom I have known, are he whose body is the closest conjoined, and imbued, and identified, so to speak, with the spirit whereof it is the instrument."
"Then I need ask no further," said the clergyman, somewhat hastily rising from his chair. "You deal not, I take it, in medicine for the soul!"
"Thus, a sickness," continued Roger Chillingworth, going on, in an unaltered tone, without heeding the interruption, but standing up and confronting the emaciated and white-cheeked minister, with his low, dark, and misshapen figure,--"a sickness, a sore place, if we may so call it, in your spirit hath immediately its appropriate manifestation in your bodily frame. Would you, therefore, that your physician heal the bodily evil? How may this be unless you first lay open to him the wound or trouble in your soul?"
"No, not to thee! not to an earthly physician!" cried Mr. Dimmesdale, passionately, and turning his eyes, full and bright, and with a kind of fierceness, on old Roger Chillingworth. "Not to thee! But, if it be the soul's disease, then do I commit myself to the one Physician of the soul! He, if it stand with His good pleasure, can cure, or he can kill. Let Him do with me as, in His justice and wisdom, He shall see good. But who art thou, that meddlest in this matter? that dares thrust himself between the sufferer and his God?"
With a frantic gesture he rushed out of the room.
"It is as well to have made this step," said Roger Chillingworth to himself, looking after the minister, with a grave smile. "There is nothing lost. We shall be friends again anon. But see, now, how passion takes hold upon this man, and hurrieth him out of himself! As with one passion so with another. He hath done a wild thing ere now, this pious Master Dimmesdale, in the hot passion of his heart."
It proved not difficult to re-establish the intimacy of the two companions, on the same footing and in the same degree as heretofore. The young clergyman, after a few hours of privacy, was sensible that the disorder of his nerves had hurried him into an unseemly outbreak of temper, which there had been nothing in the physician's words to excuse or palliate. He marvelled, indeed, at the violence with which he had thrust back the kind old man, when merely proffering the advice which it was his duty to bestow, and which the minister himself had expressly sought. With these remorseful feelings, he lost no time in making the amplest apologies, and besought his friend still to continue the care which, if not successful in restoring him to health, had, in all probability, been the means of prolonging his feeble existence to that hour. Roger Chillingworth readily assented, and went on with his medical supervision of the minister; doing his best for him, in all good faith, but always quitting the patient's apartment, at the close of the professional interview, with a mysterious and puzzled smile upon his lips. This expression was invisible in Mr. Dimmesdale's presence, but grew strongly evident as the physician crossed the threshold.
"A rare case," he muttered. "I must needs look deeper into it. A strange sympathy betwixt soul and body! Were it only for the art's sake, I must search this matter to the bottom."
It came to pass, not long after the scene above recorded, that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, noon-day, and entirely unawares, fell into a deep, deep slumber, sitting in his chair, with a large black-letter volume open before him on the table. It must have been a work of vast ability in the somniferous school of literature. The profound depth of the minister's repose was the more remarkable, inasmuch as he was one of those persons whose sleep ordinarily is as light as fitful, and as easily scared away, as a small bird hopping on a twig. To such an unwonted remoteness, however, had his spirit now withdrawn into itself that he stirred not in his chair when old Roger Chillingworth, without any extraordinary precaution, came into the room. The physician advanced directly in front of his patient, laid his hand upon his bosom, and thrust aside the vestment, that hitherto had always covered it even from the professional eye.
Then, indeed, Mr. Dimmesdale shuddered, and slightly stirred.
After a brief pause, the physician turned away.
But with what a wild look of wonder, joy, and horror! With what a ghastly rapture, as it were, too mighty to be expressed only by the eye and features, and therefore bursting forth through the whole ugliness of his figure, and making itself even riotously manifest by the extravagant gestures with which he threw up his arms towards the ceiling, and stamped his foot upon the floor! Had a man seen old Roger Chillingworth, at that moment of his ecstasy, he would have had no need to ask how Satan comports himself when a precious human soul is lost to heaven, and won into his kingdom.
But what distinguished the physician's ecstasy from Satan's was the trait of wonder in it!
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{
"id": "33"
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11
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THE INTERIOR OF A HEART
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After the incident last described, the intercourse between the clergyman and the physician, though externally the same, was really of another character than it had previously been. The intellect of Roger Chillingworth had now a sufficiently plain path before it. It was not, indeed, precisely that which he had laid out for himself to tread. Calm, gentle, passionless, as he appeared, there was yet, we fear, a quiet depth of malice, hitherto latent, but active now, in this unfortunate old man, which led him to imagine a more intimate revenge than any mortal had ever wreaked upon an enemy. To make himself the one trusted friend, to whom should be confided all the fear, the remorse, the agony, the ineffectual repentance, the backward rush of sinful thoughts, expelled in vain! All that guilty sorrow, hidden from the world, whose great heart would have pitied and forgiven, to be revealed to him, the Pitiless--to him, the Unforgiving! All that dark treasure to be lavished on the very man, to whom nothing else could so adequately pay the debt of vengeance!
The clergyman's shy and sensitive reserve had balked this scheme. Roger Chillingworth, however, was inclined to be hardly, if at all, less satisfied with the aspect of affairs, which Providence--using the avenger and his victim for its own purposes, and, perchance, pardoning, where it seemed most to punish--had substituted for his black devices. A revelation, he could almost say, had been granted to him. It mattered little for his object, whether celestial or from what other region. By its aid, in all the subsequent relations betwixt him and Mr. Dimmesdale, not merely the external presence, but the very inmost soul of the latter, seemed to be brought out before his eyes, so that he could see and comprehend its every movement. He became, thenceforth, not a spectator only, but a chief actor in the poor minister's interior world. He could play upon him as he chose. Would he arouse him with a throb of agony? The victim was for ever on the rack; it needed only to know the spring that controlled the engine: and the physician knew it well. Would he startle him with sudden fear? As at the waving of a magician's wand, up rose a grisly phantom--up rose a thousand phantoms--in many shapes, of death, or more awful shame, all flocking round about the clergyman, and pointing with their fingers at his breast!
All this was accomplished with a subtlety so perfect, that the minister, though he had constantly a dim perception of some evil influence watching over him, could never gain a knowledge of its actual nature. True, he looked doubtfully, fearfully--even, at times, with horror and the bitterness of hatred--at the deformed figure of the old physician. His gestures, his gait, his grizzled beard, his slightest and most indifferent acts, the very fashion of his garments, were odious in the clergyman's sight; a token implicitly to be relied on of a deeper antipathy in the breast of the latter than he was willing to acknowledge to himself. For, as it was impossible to assign a reason for such distrust and abhorrence, so Mr. Dimmesdale, conscious that the poison of one morbid spot was infecting his heart's entire substance, attributed all his presentiments to no other cause. He took himself to task for his bad sympathies in reference to Roger Chillingworth, disregarded the lesson that he should have drawn from them, and did his best to root them out. Unable to accomplish this, he nevertheless, as a matter of principle, continued his habits of social familiarity with the old man, and thus gave him constant opportunities for perfecting the purpose to which--poor forlorn creature that he was, and more wretched than his victim--the avenger had devoted himself.
While thus suffering under bodily disease, and gnawed and tortured by some black trouble of the soul, and given over to the machinations of his deadliest enemy, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale had achieved a brilliant popularity in his sacred office. He won it indeed, in great part, by his sorrows. His intellectual gifts, his moral perceptions, his power of experiencing and communicating emotion, were kept in a state of preternatural activity by the prick and anguish of his daily life. His fame, though still on its upward slope, already overshadowed the soberer reputations of his fellow-clergymen, eminent as several of them were. There are scholars among them, who had spent more years in acquiring abstruse lore, connected with the divine profession, than Mr. Dimmesdale had lived; and who might well, therefore, be more profoundly versed in such solid and valuable attainments than their youthful brother. There were men, too, of a sturdier texture of mind than his, and endowed with a far greater share of shrewd, hard iron, or granite understanding; which, duly mingled with a fair proportion of doctrinal ingredient, constitutes a highly respectable, efficacious, and unamiable variety of the clerical species. There were others again, true saintly fathers, whose faculties had been elaborated by weary toil among their books, and by patient thought, and etherealised, moreover, by spiritual communications with the better world, into which their purity of life had almost introduced these holy personages, with their garments of mortality still clinging to them. All that they lacked was, the gift that descended upon the chosen disciples at Pentecost, in tongues of flame; symbolising, it would seem, not the power of speech in foreign and unknown languages, but that of addressing the whole human brotherhood in the heart's native language. These fathers, otherwise so apostolic, lacked Heaven's last and rarest attestation of their office, the Tongue of Flame. They would have vainly sought--had they ever dreamed of seeking--to express the highest truths through the humblest medium of familiar words and images. Their voices came down, afar and indistinctly, from the upper heights where they habitually dwelt.
Not improbably, it was to this latter class of men that Mr. Dimmesdale, by many of his traits of character, naturally belonged. To the high mountain peaks of faith and sanctity he would have climbed, had not the tendency been thwarted by the burden, whatever it might be, of crime or anguish, beneath which it was his doom to totter. It kept him down on a level with the lowest; him, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the angels might else have listened to and answered! But this very burden it was that gave him sympathies so intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankind; so that his heart vibrated in unison with theirs, and received their pain into itself and sent its own throb of pain through a thousand other hearts, in gushes of sad, persuasive eloquence. Oftenest persuasive, but sometimes terrible! The people knew not the power that moved them thus. They deemed the young clergyman a miracle of holiness. They fancied him the mouth-piece of Heaven's messages of wisdom, and rebuke, and love. In their eyes, the very ground on which he trod was sanctified. The virgins of his church grew pale around him, victims of a passion so imbued with religious sentiment, that they imagined it to be all religion, and brought it openly, in their white bosoms, as their most acceptable sacrifice before the altar. The aged members of his flock, beholding Mr. Dimmesdale's frame so feeble, while they were themselves so rugged in their infirmity, believed that he would go heavenward before them, and enjoined it upon their children that their old bones should be buried close to their young pastor's holy grave. And all this time, perchance, when poor Mr. Dimmesdale was thinking of his grave, he questioned with himself whether the grass would ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must there be buried!
It is inconceivable, the agony with which this public veneration tortured him. It was his genuine impulse to adore the truth, and to reckon all things shadow-like, and utterly devoid of weight or value, that had not its divine essence as the life within their life. Then what was he? --a substance? --or the dimmest of all shadows? He longed to speak out from his own pulpit at the full height of his voice, and tell the people what he was. "I, whom you behold in these black garments of the priesthood--I, who ascend the sacred desk, and turn my pale face heavenward, taking upon myself to hold communion in your behalf with the Most High Omniscience--I, in whose daily life you discern the sanctity of Enoch--I, whose footsteps, as you suppose, leave a gleam along my earthly track, whereby the Pilgrims that shall come after me may be guided to the regions of the blest--I, who have laid the hand of baptism upon your children--I, who have breathed the parting prayer over your dying friends, to whom the Amen sounded faintly from a world which they had quitted--I, your pastor, whom you so reverence and trust, am utterly a pollution and a lie!"
More than once, Mr. Dimmesdale had gone into the pulpit, with a purpose never to come down its steps until he should have spoken words like the above. More than once he had cleared his throat, and drawn in the long, deep, and tremulous breath, which, when sent forth again, would come burdened with the black secret of his soul. More than once--nay, more than a hundred times--he had actually spoken! Spoken! But how? He had told his hearers that he was altogether vile, a viler companion of the vilest, the worst of sinners, an abomination, a thing of unimaginable iniquity, and that the only wonder was that they did not see his wretched body shrivelled up before their eyes by the burning wrath of the Almighty! Could there be plainer speech than this? Would not the people start up in their seats, by a simultaneous impulse, and tear him down out of the pulpit which he defiled? Not so, indeed! They heard it all, and did but reverence him the more. They little guessed what deadly purport lurked in those self-condemning words. "The godly youth!" said they among themselves. "The saint on earth! Alas! if he discern such sinfulness in his own white soul, what horrid spectacle would he behold in thine or mine!" The minister well knew--subtle, but remorseful hypocrite that he was! --the light in which his vague confession would be viewed. He had striven to put a cheat upon himself by making the avowal of a guilty conscience, but had gained only one other sin, and a self-acknowledged shame, without the momentary relief of being self-deceived. He had spoken the very truth, and transformed it into the veriest falsehood. And yet, by the constitution of his nature, he loved the truth, and loathed the lie, as few men ever did. Therefore, above all things else, he loathed his miserable self!
His inward trouble drove him to practices more in accordance with the old, corrupted faith of Rome than with the better light of the church in which he had been born and bred. In Mr. Dimmesdale's secret closet, under lock and key, there was a bloody scourge. Oftentimes, this Protestant and Puritan divine had plied it on his own shoulders, laughing bitterly at himself the while, and smiting so much the more pitilessly because of that bitter laugh. It was his custom, too, as it has been that of many other pious Puritans, to fast--not however, like them, in order to purify the body, and render it the fitter medium of celestial illumination--but rigorously, and until his knees trembled beneath him, as an act of penance. He kept vigils, likewise, night after night, sometimes in utter darkness, sometimes with a glimmering lamp, and sometimes, viewing his own face in a looking-glass, by the most powerful light which he could throw upon it. He thus typified the constant introspection wherewith he tortured, but could not purify himself. In these lengthened vigils, his brain often reeled, and visions seemed to flit before him; perhaps seen doubtfully, and by a faint light of their own, in the remote dimness of the chamber, or more vividly and close beside him, within the looking-glass. Now it was a herd of diabolic shapes, that grinned and mocked at the pale minister, and beckoned him away with them; now a group of shining angels, who flew upward heavily, as sorrow-laden, but grew more ethereal as they rose. Now came the dead friends of his youth, and his white-bearded father, with a saint-like frown, and his mother turning her face away as she passed by. Ghost of a mother--thinnest fantasy of a mother--methinks she might yet have thrown a pitying glance towards her son! And now, through the chamber which these spectral thoughts had made so ghastly, glided Hester Prynne leading along little Pearl, in her scarlet garb, and pointing her forefinger, first at the scarlet letter on her bosom, and then at the clergyman's own breast.
None of these visions ever quite deluded him. At any moment, by an effort of his will, he could discern substances through their misty lack of substance, and convince himself that they were not solid in their nature, like yonder table of carved oak, or that big, square, leather-bound and brazen-clasped volume of divinity. But, for all that, they were, in one sense, the truest and most substantial things which the poor minister now dealt with. It is the unspeakable misery of a life so false as his, that it steals the pith and substance out of whatever realities there are around us, and which were meant by Heaven to be the spirit's joy and nutriment. To the untrue man, the whole universe is false--it is impalpable--it shrinks to nothing within his grasp. And he himself in so far as he shows himself in a false light, becomes a shadow, or, indeed, ceases to exist. The only truth that continued to give Mr. Dimmesdale a real existence on this earth was the anguish in his inmost soul, and the undissembled expression of it in his aspect. Had he once found power to smile, and wear a face of gaiety, there would have been no such man!
On one of those ugly nights, which we have faintly hinted at, but forborne to picture forth, the minister started from his chair. A new thought had struck him. There might be a moment's peace in it. Attiring himself with as much care as if it had been for public worship, and precisely in the same manner, he stole softly down the staircase, undid the door, and issued forth.
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{
"id": "33"
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12
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THE MINISTER'S VIGIL
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Walking in the shadow of a dream, as it were, and perhaps actually under the influence of a species of somnambulism, Mr. Dimmesdale reached the spot where, now so long since, Hester Prynne had lived through her first hours of public ignominy. The same platform or scaffold, black and weather-stained with the storm or sunshine of seven long years, and foot-worn, too, with the tread of many culprits who had since ascended it, remained standing beneath the balcony of the meeting-house. The minister went up the steps.
It was an obscure night in early May. An unvaried pall of cloud muffled the whole expanse of sky from zenith to horizon. If the same multitude which had stood as eye-witnesses while Hester Prynne sustained her punishment could now have been summoned forth, they would have discerned no face above the platform nor hardly the outline of a human shape, in the dark grey of the midnight. But the town was all asleep. There was no peril of discovery. The minister might stand there, if it so pleased him, until morning should redden in the east, without other risk than that the dank and chill night air would creep into his frame, and stiffen his joints with rheumatism, and clog his throat with catarrh and cough; thereby defrauding the expectant audience of to-morrow's prayer and sermon. No eye could see him, save that ever-wakeful one which had seen him in his closet, wielding the bloody scourge. Why, then, had he come hither? Was it but the mockery of penitence? A mockery, indeed, but in which his soul trifled with itself! A mockery at which angels blushed and wept, while fiends rejoiced with jeering laughter! He had been driven hither by the impulse of that Remorse which dogged him everywhere, and whose own sister and closely linked companion was that Cowardice which invariably drew him back, with her tremulous gripe, just when the other impulse had hurried him to the verge of a disclosure. Poor, miserable man! what right had infirmity like his to burden itself with crime? Crime is for the iron-nerved, who have their choice either to endure it, or, if it press too hard, to exert their fierce and savage strength for a good purpose, and fling it off at once! This feeble and most sensitive of spirits could do neither, yet continually did one thing or another, which intertwined, in the same inextricable knot, the agony of heaven-defying guilt and vain repentance.
And thus, while standing on the scaffold, in this vain show of expiation, Mr. Dimmesdale was overcome with a great horror of mind, as if the universe were gazing at a scarlet token on his naked breast, right over his heart. On that spot, in very truth, there was, and there had long been, the gnawing and poisonous tooth of bodily pain. Without any effort of his will, or power to restrain himself, he shrieked aloud: an outcry that went pealing through the night, and was beaten back from one house to another, and reverberated from the hills in the background; as if a company of devils, detecting so much misery and terror in it, had made a plaything of the sound, and were bandying it to and fro.
"It is done!" muttered the minister, covering his face with his hands. "The whole town will awake and hurry forth, and find me here!"
But it was not so. The shriek had perhaps sounded with a far greater power, to his own startled ears, than it actually possessed. The town did not awake; or, if it did, the drowsy slumberers mistook the cry either for something frightful in a dream, or for the noise of witches, whose voices, at that period, were often heard to pass over the settlements or lonely cottages, as they rode with Satan through the air. The clergyman, therefore, hearing no symptoms of disturbance, uncovered his eyes and looked about him. At one of the chamber-windows of Governor Bellingham's mansion, which stood at some distance, on the line of another street, he beheld the appearance of the old magistrate himself with a lamp in his hand a white night-cap on his head, and a long white gown enveloping his figure. He looked like a ghost evoked unseasonably from the grave. The cry had evidently startled him. At another window of the same house, moreover appeared old Mistress Hibbins, the Governor's sister, also with a lamp, which even thus far off revealed the expression of her sour and discontented face. She thrust forth her head from the lattice, and looked anxiously upward. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, this venerable witch-lady had heard Mr. Dimmesdale's outcry, and interpreted it, with its multitudinous echoes and reverberations, as the clamour of the fiends and night-hags, with whom she was well known to make excursions in the forest.
Detecting the gleam of Governor Bellingham's lamp, the old lady quickly extinguished her own, and vanished. Possibly, she went up among the clouds. The minister saw nothing further of her motions. The magistrate, after a wary observation of the darkness--into which, nevertheless, he could see but little further than he might into a mill-stone--retired from the window.
The minister grew comparatively calm. His eyes, however, were soon greeted by a little glimmering light, which, at first a long way off was approaching up the street. It threw a gleam of recognition, on here a post, and there a garden fence, and here a latticed window-pane, and there a pump, with its full trough of water, and here again an arched door of oak, with an iron knocker, and a rough log for the door-step. The Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale noted all these minute particulars, even while firmly convinced that the doom of his existence was stealing onward, in the footsteps which he now heard; and that the gleam of the lantern would fall upon him in a few moments more, and reveal his long-hidden secret. As the light drew nearer, he beheld, within its illuminated circle, his brother clergyman--or, to speak more accurately, his professional father, as well as highly valued friend--the Reverend Mr. Wilson, who, as Mr. Dimmesdale now conjectured, had been praying at the bedside of some dying man. And so he had. The good old minister came freshly from the death-chamber of Governor Winthrop, who had passed from earth to heaven within that very hour. And now surrounded, like the saint-like personage of olden times, with a radiant halo, that glorified him amid this gloomy night of sin--as if the departed Governor had left him an inheritance of his glory, or as if he had caught upon himself the distant shine of the celestial city, while looking thitherward to see the triumphant pilgrim pass within its gates--now, in short, good Father Wilson was moving homeward, aiding his footsteps with a lighted lantern! The glimmer of this luminary suggested the above conceits to Mr. Dimmesdale, who smiled--nay, almost laughed at them--and then wondered if he was going mad.
As the Reverend Mr. Wilson passed beside the scaffold, closely muffling his Geneva cloak about him with one arm, and holding the lantern before his breast with the other, the minister could hardly restrain himself from speaking-- "A good evening to you, venerable Father Wilson. Come up hither, I pray you, and pass a pleasant hour with me!"
Good Heavens! Had Mr. Dimmesdale actually spoken? For one instant he believed that these words had passed his lips. But they were uttered only within his imagination. The venerable Father Wilson continued to step slowly onward, looking carefully at the muddy pathway before his feet, and never once turning his head towards the guilty platform. When the light of the glimmering lantern had faded quite away, the minister discovered, by the faintness which came over him, that the last few moments had been a crisis of terrible anxiety, although his mind had made an involuntary effort to relieve itself by a kind of lurid playfulness.
Shortly afterwards, the like grisly sense of the humorous again stole in among the solemn phantoms of his thought. He felt his limbs growing stiff with the unaccustomed chilliness of the night, and doubted whether he should be able to descend the steps of the scaffold. Morning would break and find him there. The neighbourhood would begin to rouse itself. The earliest riser, coming forth in the dim twilight, would perceive a vaguely-defined figure aloft on the place of shame; and half-crazed betwixt alarm and curiosity, would go knocking from door to door, summoning all the people to behold the ghost--as he needs must think it--of some defunct transgressor. A dusky tumult would flap its wings from one house to another. Then--the morning light still waxing stronger--old patriarchs would rise up in great haste, each in his flannel gown, and matronly dames, without pausing to put off their night-gear. The whole tribe of decorous personages, who had never heretofore been seen with a single hair of their heads awry, would start into public view with the disorder of a nightmare in their aspects. Old Governor Bellingham would come grimly forth, with his King James' ruff fastened askew, and Mistress Hibbins, with some twigs of the forest clinging to her skirts, and looking sourer than ever, as having hardly got a wink of sleep after her night ride; and good Father Wilson too, after spending half the night at a death-bed, and liking ill to be disturbed, thus early, out of his dreams about the glorified saints. Hither, likewise, would come the elders and deacons of Mr. Dimmesdale's church, and the young virgins who so idolized their minister, and had made a shrine for him in their white bosoms, which now, by-the-bye, in their hurry and confusion, they would scantly have given themselves time to cover with their kerchiefs. All people, in a word, would come stumbling over their thresholds, and turning up their amazed and horror-stricken visages around the scaffold. Whom would they discern there, with the red eastern light upon his brow? Whom, but the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, half-frozen to death, overwhelmed with shame, and standing where Hester Prynne had stood!
Carried away by the grotesque horror of this picture, the minister, unawares, and to his own infinite alarm, burst into a great peal of laughter. It was immediately responded to by a light, airy, childish laugh, in which, with a thrill of the heart--but he knew not whether of exquisite pain, or pleasure as acute--he recognised the tones of little Pearl.
"Pearl! Little Pearl!" cried he, after a moment's pause; then, suppressing his voice--"Hester! Hester Prynne! Are you there?"
"Yes; it is Hester Prynne!" she replied, in a tone of surprise; and the minister heard her footsteps approaching from the side-walk, along which she had been passing. "It is I, and my little Pearl."
"Whence come you, Hester?" asked the minister. "What sent you hither?"
"I have been watching at a death-bed," answered Hester Prynne "at Governor Winthrop's death-bed, and have taken his measure for a robe, and am now going homeward to my dwelling."
"Come up hither, Hester, thou and little Pearl," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. "Ye have both been here before, but I was not with you. Come up hither once again, and we will stand all three together."
She silently ascended the steps, and stood on the platform, holding little Pearl by the hand. The minister felt for the child's other hand, and took it. The moment that he did so, there came what seemed a tumultuous rush of new life, other life than his own pouring like a torrent into his heart, and hurrying through all his veins, as if the mother and the child were communicating their vital warmth to his half-torpid system. The three formed an electric chain.
"Minister!" whispered little Pearl.
"What wouldst thou say, child?" asked Mr. Dimmesdale.
"Wilt thou stand here with mother and me, to-morrow noontide?" inquired Pearl.
"Nay; not so, my little Pearl," answered the minister; for, with the new energy of the moment, all the dread of public exposure, that had so long been the anguish of his life, had returned upon him; and he was already trembling at the conjunction in which--with a strange joy, nevertheless--he now found himself--"not so, my child. I shall, indeed, stand with thy mother and thee one other day, but not to-morrow."
Pearl laughed, and attempted to pull away her hand. But the minister held it fast.
"A moment longer, my child!" said he.
"But wilt thou promise," asked Pearl, "to take my hand, and mother's hand, to-morrow noontide?"
"Not then, Pearl," said the minister; "but another time."
"And what other time?" persisted the child.
"At the great judgment day," whispered the minister; and, strangely enough, the sense that he was a professional teacher of the truth impelled him to answer the child so. "Then, and there, before the judgment-seat, thy mother, and thou, and I must stand together. But the daylight of this world shall not see our meeting!"
Pearl laughed again.
But before Mr. Dimmesdale had done speaking, a light gleamed far and wide over all the muffled sky. It was doubtless caused by one of those meteors, which the night-watcher may so often observe burning out to waste, in the vacant regions of the atmosphere. So powerful was its radiance, that it thoroughly illuminated the dense medium of cloud betwixt the sky and earth. The great vault brightened, like the dome of an immense lamp. It showed the familiar scene of the street with the distinctness of mid-day, but also with the awfulness that is always imparted to familiar objects by an unaccustomed light. The wooden houses, with their jutting storeys and quaint gable-peaks; the doorsteps and thresholds with the early grass springing up about them; the garden-plots, black with freshly-turned earth; the wheel-track, little worn, and even in the market-place margined with green on either side--all were visible, but with a singularity of aspect that seemed to give another moral interpretation to the things of this world than they had ever borne before. And there stood the minister, with his hand over his heart; and Hester Prynne, with the embroidered letter glimmering on her bosom; and little Pearl, herself a symbol, and the connecting link between those two. They stood in the noon of that strange and solemn splendour, as if it were the light that is to reveal all secrets, and the daybreak that shall unite all who belong to one another.
There was witchcraft in little Pearl's eyes; and her face, as she glanced upward at the minister, wore that naughty smile which made its expression frequently so elvish. She withdrew her hand from Mr. Dimmesdale's, and pointed across the street. But he clasped both his hands over his breast, and cast his eyes towards the zenith.
Nothing was more common, in those days, than to interpret all meteoric appearances, and other natural phenomena that occurred with less regularity than the rise and set of sun and moon, as so many revelations from a supernatural source. Thus, a blazing spear, a sword of flame, a bow, or a sheaf of arrows seen in the midnight sky, prefigured Indian warfare. Pestilence was known to have been foreboded by a shower of crimson light. We doubt whether any marked event, for good or evil, ever befell New England, from its settlement down to revolutionary times, of which the inhabitants had not been previously warned by some spectacle of its nature. Not seldom, it had been seen by multitudes. Oftener, however, its credibility rested on the faith of some lonely eye-witness, who beheld the wonder through the coloured, magnifying, and distorted medium of his imagination, and shaped it more distinctly in his after-thought. It was, indeed, a majestic idea that the destiny of nations should be revealed, in these awful hieroglyphics, on the cope of heaven. A scroll so wide might not be deemed too expensive for Providence to write a people's doom upon. The belief was a favourite one with our forefathers, as betokening that their infant commonwealth was under a celestial guardianship of peculiar intimacy and strictness. But what shall we say, when an individual discovers a revelation addressed to himself alone, on the same vast sheet of record. In such a case, it could only be the symptom of a highly disordered mental state, when a man, rendered morbidly self-contemplative by long, intense, and secret pain, had extended his egotism over the whole expanse of nature, until the firmament itself should appear no more than a fitting page for his soul's history and fate.
We impute it, therefore, solely to the disease in his own eye and heart that the minister, looking upward to the zenith, beheld there the appearance of an immense letter--the letter A--marked out in lines of dull red light. Not but the meteor may have shown itself at that point, burning duskily through a veil of cloud, but with no such shape as his guilty imagination gave it, or, at least, with so little definiteness, that another's guilt might have seen another symbol in it.
There was a singular circumstance that characterised Mr. Dimmesdale's psychological state at this moment. All the time that he gazed upward to the zenith, he was, nevertheless, perfectly aware that little Pearl was pointing her finger towards old Roger Chillingworth, who stood at no great distance from the scaffold. The minister appeared to see him, with the same glance that discerned the miraculous letter. To his feature as to all other objects, the meteoric light imparted a new expression; or it might well be that the physician was not careful then, as at all other times, to hide the malevolence with which he looked upon his victim. Certainly, if the meteor kindled up the sky, and disclosed the earth, with an awfulness that admonished Hester Prynne and the clergyman of the day of judgment, then might Roger Chillingworth have passed with them for the arch-fiend, standing there with a smile and scowl, to claim his own. So vivid was the expression, or so intense the minister's perception of it, that it seemed still to remain painted on the darkness after the meteor had vanished, with an effect as if the street and all things else were at once annihilated.
"Who is that man, Hester?" gasped Mr. Dimmesdale, overcome with terror. "I shiver at him! Dost thou know the man? I hate him, Hester!"
She remembered her oath, and was silent.
"I tell thee, my soul shivers at him!" muttered the minister again. "Who is he? Who is he? Canst thou do nothing for me? I have a nameless horror of the man!"
"Minister," said little Pearl, "I can tell thee who he is!"
"Quickly, then, child!" said the minister, bending his ear close to her lips. "Quickly, and as low as thou canst whisper."
Pearl mumbled something into his ear that sounded, indeed, like human language, but was only such gibberish as children may be heard amusing themselves with by the hour together. At all events, if it involved any secret information in regard to old Roger Chillingworth, it was in a tongue unknown to the erudite clergyman, and did but increase the bewilderment of his mind. The elvish child then laughed aloud.
"Dost thou mock me now?" said the minister.
"Thou wast not bold! --thou wast not true!" answered the child. "Thou wouldst not promise to take my hand, and mother's hand, to-morrow noon-tide!"
"Worthy sir," answered the physician, who had now advanced to the foot of the platform--"pious Master Dimmesdale! can this be you? Well, well, indeed! We men of study, whose heads are in our books, have need to be straitly looked after! We dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep. Come, good sir, and my dear friend, I pray you let me lead you home!"
"How knewest thou that I was here?" asked the minister, fearfully.
"Verily, and in good faith," answered Roger Chillingworth, "I knew nothing of the matter. I had spent the better part of the night at the bedside of the worshipful Governor Winthrop, doing what my poor skill might to give him ease. He, going home to a better world, I, likewise, was on my way homeward, when this light shone out. Come with me, I beseech you, Reverend sir, else you will be poorly able to do Sabbath duty to-morrow. Aha! see now how they trouble the brain--these books! --these books! You should study less, good sir, and take a little pastime, or these night whimsies will grow upon you."
"I will go home with you," said Mr. Dimmesdale.
With a chill despondency, like one awakening, all nerveless, from an ugly dream, he yielded himself to the physician, and was led away.
The next day, however, being the Sabbath, he preached a discourse which was held to be the richest and most powerful, and the most replete with heavenly influences, that had ever proceeded from his lips. Souls, it is said, more souls than one, were brought to the truth by the efficacy of that sermon, and vowed within themselves to cherish a holy gratitude towards Mr. Dimmesdale throughout the long hereafter. But as he came down the pulpit steps, the grey-bearded sexton met him, holding up a black glove, which the minister recognised as his own.
"It was found," said the Sexton, "this morning on the scaffold where evil-doers are set up to public shame. Satan dropped it there, I take it, intending a scurrilous jest against your reverence. But, indeed, he was blind and foolish, as he ever and always is. A pure hand needs no glove to cover it!"
"Thank you, my good friend," said the minister, gravely, but startled at heart; for so confused was his remembrance, that he had almost brought himself to look at the events of the past night as visionary.
"Yes, it seems to be my glove, indeed!"
"And, since Satan saw fit to steal it, your reverence must needs handle him without gloves henceforward," remarked the old sexton, grimly smiling. "But did your reverence hear of the portent that was seen last night? a great red letter in the sky--the letter A, which we interpret to stand for Angel. For, as our good Governor Winthrop was made an angel this past night, it was doubtless held fit that there should be some notice thereof!"
"No," answered the minister; "I had not heard of it."
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"id": "33"
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13
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ANOTHER VIEW OF HESTER
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In her late singular interview with Mr. Dimmesdale, Hester Prynne was shocked at the condition to which she found the clergyman reduced. His nerve seemed absolutely destroyed. His moral force was abased into more than childish weakness. It grovelled helpless on the ground, even while his intellectual faculties retained their pristine strength, or had perhaps acquired a morbid energy, which disease only could have given them. With her knowledge of a train of circumstances hidden from all others, she could readily infer that, besides the legitimate action of his own conscience, a terrible machinery had been brought to bear, and was still operating, on Mr. Dimmesdale's well-being and repose. Knowing what this poor fallen man had once been, her whole soul was moved by the shuddering terror with which he had appealed to her--the outcast woman--for support against his instinctively discovered enemy. She decided, moreover, that he had a right to her utmost aid. Little accustomed, in her long seclusion from society, to measure her ideas of right and wrong by any standard external to herself, Hester saw--or seemed to see--that there lay a responsibility upon her in reference to the clergyman, which she owned to no other, nor to the whole world besides. The links that united her to the rest of humankind--links of flowers, or silk, or gold, or whatever the material--had all been broken. Here was the iron link of mutual crime, which neither he nor she could break. Like all other ties, it brought along with it its obligations.
Hester Prynne did not now occupy precisely the same position in which we beheld her during the earlier periods of her ignominy. Years had come and gone. Pearl was now seven years old. Her mother, with the scarlet letter on her breast, glittering in its fantastic embroidery, had long been a familiar object to the townspeople. As is apt to be the case when a person stands out in any prominence before the community, and, at the same time, interferes neither with public nor individual interests and convenience, a species of general regard had ultimately grown up in reference to Hester Prynne. It is to the credit of human nature that, except where its selfishness is brought into play, it loves more readily than it hates. Hatred, by a gradual and quiet process, will even be transformed to love, unless the change be impeded by a continually new irritation of the original feeling of hostility. In this matter of Hester Prynne there was neither irritation nor irksomeness. She never battled with the public, but submitted uncomplainingly to its worst usage; she made no claim upon it in requital for what she suffered; she did not weigh upon its sympathies. Then, also, the blameless purity of her life during all these years in which she had been set apart to infamy was reckoned largely in her favour. With nothing now to lose, in the sight of mankind, and with no hope, and seemingly no wish, of gaining anything, it could only be a genuine regard for virtue that had brought back the poor wanderer to its paths.
It was perceived, too, that while Hester never put forward even the humblest title to share in the world's privileges--further than to breathe the common air and earn daily bread for little Pearl and herself by the faithful labour of her hands--she was quick to acknowledge her sisterhood with the race of man whenever benefits were to be conferred. None so ready as she to give of her little substance to every demand of poverty, even though the bitter-hearted pauper threw back a gibe in requital of the food brought regularly to his door, or the garments wrought for him by the fingers that could have embroidered a monarch's robe. None so self-devoted as Hester when pestilence stalked through the town. In all seasons of calamity, indeed, whether general or of individuals, the outcast of society at once found her place. She came, not as a guest, but as a rightful inmate, into the household that was darkened by trouble, as if its gloomy twilight were a medium in which she was entitled to hold intercourse with her fellow-creature. There glimmered the embroidered letter, with comfort in its unearthly ray. Elsewhere the token of sin, it was the taper of the sick chamber. It had even thrown its gleam, in the sufferer's hard extremity, across the verge of time. It had shown him where to set his foot, while the light of earth was fast becoming dim, and ere the light of futurity could reach him. In such emergencies Hester's nature showed itself warm and rich--a well-spring of human tenderness, unfailing to every real demand, and inexhaustible by the largest. Her breast, with its badge of shame, was but the softer pillow for the head that needed one. She was self-ordained a Sister of Mercy, or, we may rather say, the world's heavy hand had so ordained her, when neither the world nor she looked forward to this result. The letter was the symbol of her calling. Such helpfulness was found in her--so much power to do, and power to sympathise--that many people refused to interpret the scarlet A by its original signification. They said that it meant Able, so strong was Hester Prynne, with a woman's strength.
It was only the darkened house that could contain her. When sunshine came again, she was not there. Her shadow had faded across the threshold. The helpful inmate had departed, without one backward glance to gather up the meed of gratitude, if any were in the hearts of those whom she had served so zealously. Meeting them in the street, she never raised her head to receive their greeting. If they were resolute to accost her, she laid her finger on the scarlet letter, and passed on. This might be pride, but was so like humility, that it produced all the softening influence of the latter quality on the public mind. The public is despotic in its temper; it is capable of denying common justice when too strenuously demanded as a right; but quite as frequently it awards more than justice, when the appeal is made, as despots love to have it made, entirely to its generosity. Interpreting Hester Prynne's deportment as an appeal of this nature, society was inclined to show its former victim a more benign countenance than she cared to be favoured with, or, perchance, than she deserved.
The rulers, and the wise and learned men of the community, were longer in acknowledging the influence of Hester's good qualities than the people. The prejudices which they shared in common with the latter were fortified in themselves by an iron frame-work of reasoning, that made it a far tougher labour to expel them. Day by day, nevertheless, their sour and rigid wrinkles were relaxing into something which, in the due course of years, might grow to be an expression of almost benevolence. Thus it was with the men of rank, on whom their eminent position imposed the guardianship of the public morals. Individuals in private life, meanwhile, had quite forgiven Hester Prynne for her frailty; nay, more, they had begun to look upon the scarlet letter as the token, not of that one sin for which she had borne so long and dreary a penance, but of her many good deeds since. "Do you see that woman with the embroidered badge?" they would say to strangers. "It is our Hester--the town's own Hester--who is so kind to the poor, so helpful to the sick, so comfortable to the afflicted!" Then, it is true, the propensity of human nature to tell the very worst of itself, when embodied in the person of another, would constrain them to whisper the black scandal of bygone years. It was none the less a fact, however, that in the eyes of the very men who spoke thus, the scarlet letter had the effect of the cross on a nun's bosom. It imparted to the wearer a kind of sacredness, which enabled her to walk securely amid all peril. Had she fallen among thieves, it would have kept her safe. It was reported, and believed by many, that an Indian had drawn his arrow against the badge, and that the missile struck it, and fell harmless to the ground.
The effect of the symbol--or rather, of the position in respect to society that was indicated by it--on the mind of Hester Prynne herself was powerful and peculiar. All the light and graceful foliage of her character had been withered up by this red-hot brand, and had long ago fallen away, leaving a bare and harsh outline, which might have been repulsive had she possessed friends or companions to be repelled by it. Even the attractiveness of her person had undergone a similar change. It might be partly owing to the studied austerity of her dress, and partly to the lack of demonstration in her manners. It was a sad transformation, too, that her rich and luxuriant hair had either been cut off, or was so completely hidden by a cap, that not a shining lock of it ever once gushed into the sunshine. It was due in part to all these causes, but still more to something else, that there seemed to be no longer anything in Hester's face for Love to dwell upon; nothing in Hester's form, though majestic and statue like, that Passion would ever dream of clasping in its embrace; nothing in Hester's bosom to make it ever again the pillow of Affection. Some attribute had departed from her, the permanence of which had been essential to keep her a woman. Such is frequently the fate, and such the stern development, of the feminine character and person, when the woman has encountered, and lived through, an experience of peculiar severity. If she be all tenderness, she will die. If she survive, the tenderness will either be crushed out of her, or--and the outward semblance is the same--crushed so deeply into her heart that it can never show itself more. The latter is perhaps the truest theory. She who has once been a woman, and ceased to be so, might at any moment become a woman again, if there were only the magic touch to effect the transformation. We shall see whether Hester Prynne were ever afterwards so touched and so transfigured.
Much of the marble coldness of Hester's impression was to be attributed to the circumstance that her life had turned, in a great measure, from passion and feeling to thought. Standing alone in the world--alone, as to any dependence on society, and with little Pearl to be guided and protected--alone, and hopeless of retrieving her position, even had she not scorned to consider it desirable--she cast away the fragment of a broken chain. The world's law was no law for her mind. It was an age in which the human intellect, newly emancipated, had taken a more active and a wider range than for many centuries before. Men of the sword had overthrown nobles and kings. Men bolder than these had overthrown and rearranged--not actually, but within the sphere of theory, which was their most real abode--the whole system of ancient prejudice, wherewith was linked much of ancient principle. Hester Prynne imbibed this spirit. She assumed a freedom of speculation, then common enough on the other side of the Atlantic, but which our forefathers, had they known it, would have held to be a deadlier crime than that stigmatised by the scarlet letter. In her lonesome cottage, by the seashore, thoughts visited her such as dared to enter no other dwelling in New England; shadowy guests, that would have been as perilous as demons to their entertainer, could they have been seen so much as knocking at her door.
It is remarkable that persons who speculate the most boldly often conform with the most perfect quietude to the external regulations of society. The thought suffices them, without investing itself in the flesh and blood of action. So it seemed to be with Hester. Yet, had little Pearl never come to her from the spiritual world, it might have been far otherwise. Then she might have come down to us in history, hand in hand with Ann Hutchinson, as the foundress of a religious sect. She might, in one of her phases, have been a prophetess. She might, and not improbably would, have suffered death from the stern tribunals of the period, for attempting to undermine the foundations of the Puritan establishment. But, in the education of her child, the mother's enthusiasm of thought had something to wreak itself upon. Providence, in the person of this little girl, had assigned to Hester's charge, the germ and blossom of womanhood, to be cherished and developed amid a host of difficulties. Everything was against her. The world was hostile. The child's own nature had something wrong in it which continually betokened that she had been born amiss--the effluence of her mother's lawless passion--and often impelled Hester to ask, in bitterness of heart, whether it were for ill or good that the poor little creature had been born at all.
Indeed, the same dark question often rose into her mind with reference to the whole race of womanhood. Was existence worth accepting even to the happiest among them? As concerned her own individual existence, she had long ago decided in the negative, and dismissed the point as settled. A tendency to speculation, though it may keep women quiet, as it does man, yet makes her sad. She discerns, it may be, such a hopeless task before her. As a first step, the whole system of society is to be torn down and built up anew. Then the very nature of the opposite sex, or its long hereditary habit, which has become like nature, is to be essentially modified before woman can be allowed to assume what seems a fair and suitable position. Finally, all other difficulties being obviated, woman cannot take advantage of these preliminary reforms until she herself shall have undergone a still mightier change, in which, perhaps, the ethereal essence, wherein she has her truest life, will be found to have evaporated. A woman never overcomes these problems by any exercise of thought. They are not to be solved, or only in one way. If her heart chance to come uppermost, they vanish. Thus Hester Prynne, whose heart had lost its regular and healthy throb, wandered without a clue in the dark labyrinth of mind; now turned aside by an insurmountable precipice; now starting back from a deep chasm. There was wild and ghastly scenery all around her, and a home and comfort nowhere. At times a fearful doubt strove to possess her soul, whether it were not better to send Pearl at once to Heaven, and go herself to such futurity as Eternal Justice should provide.
The scarlet letter had not done its office. Now, however, her interview with the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the night of his vigil, had given her a new theme of reflection, and held up to her an object that appeared worthy of any exertion and sacrifice for its attainment. She had witnessed the intense misery beneath which the minister struggled, or, to speak more accurately, had ceased to struggle. She saw that he stood on the verge of lunacy, if he had not already stepped across it. It was impossible to doubt that, whatever painful efficacy there might be in the secret sting of remorse, a deadlier venom had been infused into it by the hand that proffered relief. A secret enemy had been continually by his side, under the semblance of a friend and helper, and had availed himself of the opportunities thus afforded for tampering with the delicate springs of Mr. Dimmesdale's nature. Hester could not but ask herself whether there had not originally been a defect of truth, courage, and loyalty on her own part, in allowing the minister to be thrown into a position where so much evil was to be foreboded and nothing auspicious to be hoped. Her only justification lay in the fact that she had been able to discern no method of rescuing him from a blacker ruin than had overwhelmed herself except by acquiescing in Roger Chillingworth's scheme of disguise. Under that impulse she had made her choice, and had chosen, as it now appeared, the more wretched alternative of the two. She determined to redeem her error so far as it might yet be possible. Strengthened by years of hard and solemn trial, she felt herself no longer so inadequate to cope with Roger Chillingworth as on that night, abased by sin and half-maddened by the ignominy that was still new, when they had talked together in the prison-chamber. She had climbed her way since then to a higher point. The old man, on the other hand, had brought himself nearer to her level, or, perhaps, below it, by the revenge which he had stooped for.
In fine, Hester Prynne resolved to meet her former husband, and do what might be in her power for the rescue of the victim on whom he had so evidently set his gripe. The occasion was not long to seek. One afternoon, walking with Pearl in a retired part of the peninsula, she beheld the old physician with a basket on one arm and a staff in the other hand, stooping along the ground in quest of roots and herbs to concoct his medicine withal.
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{
"id": "33"
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14
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HESTER AND THE PHYSICIAN
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Hester bade little Pearl run down to the margin of the water, and play with the shells and tangled sea-weed, until she should have talked awhile with yonder gatherer of herbs. So the child flew away like a bird, and, making bare her small white feet went pattering along the moist margin of the sea. Here and there she came to a full stop, and peeped curiously into a pool, left by the retiring tide as a mirror for Pearl to see her face in. Forth peeped at her, out of the pool, with dark, glistening curls around her head, and an elf-smile in her eyes, the image of a little maid whom Pearl, having no other playmate, invited to take her hand and run a race with her. But the visionary little maid on her part, beckoned likewise, as if to say--"This is a better place; come thou into the pool." And Pearl, stepping in mid-leg deep, beheld her own white feet at the bottom; while, out of a still lower depth, came the gleam of a kind of fragmentary smile, floating to and fro in the agitated water.
Meanwhile her mother had accosted the physician. "I would speak a word with you," said she--"a word that concerns us much."
"Aha! and is it Mistress Hester that has a word for old Roger Chillingworth?" answered he, raising himself from his stooping posture. "With all my heart! Why, mistress, I hear good tidings of you on all hands! No longer ago than yester-eve, a magistrate, a wise and godly man, was discoursing of your affairs, Mistress Hester, and whispered me that there had been question concerning you in the council. It was debated whether or no, with safety to the commonweal, yonder scarlet letter might be taken off your bosom. On my life, Hester, I made my intreaty to the worshipful magistrate that it might be done forthwith."
"It lies not in the pleasure of the magistrates to take off the badge," calmly replied Hester. "Were I worthy to be quit of it, it would fall away of its own nature, or be transformed into something that should speak a different purport."
"Nay, then, wear it, if it suit you better," rejoined he, "A woman must needs follow her own fancy touching the adornment of her person. The letter is gaily embroidered, and shows right bravely on your bosom!"
All this while Hester had been looking steadily at the old man, and was shocked, as well as wonder-smitten, to discern what a change had been wrought upon him within the past seven years. It was not so much that he had grown older; for though the traces of advancing life were visible he bore his age well, and seemed to retain a wiry vigour and alertness. But the former aspect of an intellectual and studious man, calm and quiet, which was what she best remembered in him, had altogether vanished, and been succeeded by an eager, searching, almost fierce, yet carefully guarded look. It seemed to be his wish and purpose to mask this expression with a smile, but the latter played him false, and flickered over his visage so derisively that the spectator could see his blackness all the better for it. Ever and anon, too, there came a glare of red light out of his eyes, as if the old man's soul were on fire and kept on smouldering duskily within his breast, until by some casual puff of passion it was blown into a momentary flame. This he repressed as speedily as possible, and strove to look as if nothing of the kind had happened.
In a word, old Roger Chillingworth was a striking evidence of man's faculty of transforming himself into a devil, if he will only, for a reasonable space of time, undertake a devil's office. This unhappy person had effected such a transformation by devoting himself for seven years to the constant analysis of a heart full of torture, and deriving his enjoyment thence, and adding fuel to those fiery tortures which he analysed and gloated over.
The scarlet letter burned on Hester Prynne's bosom. Here was another ruin, the responsibility of which came partly home to her.
"What see you in my face," asked the physician, "that you look at it so earnestly?"
"Something that would make me weep, if there were any tears bitter enough for it," answered she. "But let it pass! It is of yonder miserable man that I would speak."
"And what of him?" cried Roger Chillingworth, eagerly, as if he loved the topic, and were glad of an opportunity to discuss it with the only person of whom he could make a confidant. "Not to hide the truth, Mistress Hester, my thoughts happen just now to be busy with the gentleman. So speak freely and I will make answer."
"When we last spake together," said Hester, "now seven years ago, it was your pleasure to extort a promise of secrecy as touching the former relation betwixt yourself and me. As the life and good fame of yonder man were in your hands there seemed no choice to me, save to be silent in accordance with your behest. Yet it was not without heavy misgivings that I thus bound myself, for, having cast off all duty towards other human beings, there remained a duty towards him, and something whispered me that I was betraying it in pledging myself to keep your counsel. Since that day no man is so near to him as you. You tread behind his every footstep. You are beside him, sleeping and waking. You search his thoughts. You burrow and rankle in his heart! Your clutch is on his life, and you cause him to die daily a living death, and still he knows you not. In permitting this I have surely acted a false part by the only man to whom the power was left me to be true!"
"What choice had you?" asked Roger Chillingworth. "My finger, pointed at this man, would have hurled him from his pulpit into a dungeon, thence, peradventure, to the gallows!"
"It had been better so!" said Hester Prynne.
"What evil have I done the man?" asked Roger Chillingworth again. "I tell thee, Hester Prynne, the richest fee that ever physician earned from monarch could not have bought such care as I have wasted on this miserable priest! But for my aid his life would have burned away in torments within the first two years after the perpetration of his crime and thine. For, Hester, his spirit lacked the strength that could have borne up, as thine has, beneath a burden like thy scarlet letter. Oh, I could reveal a goodly secret! But enough. What art can do, I have exhausted on him. That he now breathes and creeps about on earth is owing all to me!"
"Better he had died at once!" said Hester Prynne.
"Yea, woman, thou sayest truly!" cried old Roger Chillingworth, letting the lurid fire of his heart blaze out before her eyes. "Better had he died at once! Never did mortal suffer what this man has suffered. And all, all, in the sight of his worst enemy! He has been conscious of me. He has felt an influence dwelling always upon him like a curse. He knew, by some spiritual sense--for the Creator never made another being so sensitive as this--he knew that no friendly hand was pulling at his heartstrings, and that an eye was looking curiously into him, which sought only evil, and found it. But he knew not that the eye and hand were mine! With the superstition common to his brotherhood, he fancied himself given over to a fiend, to be tortured with frightful dreams and desperate thoughts, the sting of remorse and despair of pardon, as a foretaste of what awaits him beyond the grave. But it was the constant shadow of my presence, the closest propinquity of the man whom he had most vilely wronged, and who had grown to exist only by this perpetual poison of the direst revenge! Yea, indeed, he did not err, there was a fiend at his elbow! A mortal man, with once a human heart, has become a fiend for his especial torment."
The unfortunate physician, while uttering these words, lifted his hands with a look of horror, as if he had beheld some frightful shape, which he could not recognise, usurping the place of his own image in a glass. It was one of those moments--which sometimes occur only at the interval of years--when a man's moral aspect is faithfully revealed to his mind's eye. Not improbably he had never before viewed himself as he did now.
"Hast thou not tortured him enough?" said Hester, noticing the old man's look. "Has he not paid thee all?"
"No, no! He has but increased the debt!" answered the physician, and as he proceeded, his manner lost its fiercer characteristics, and subsided into gloom. "Dost thou remember me, Hester, as I was nine years agone? Even then I was in the autumn of my days, nor was it the early autumn. But all my life had been made up of earnest, studious, thoughtful, quiet years, bestowed faithfully for the increase of mine own knowledge, and faithfully, too, though this latter object was but casual to the other--faithfully for the advancement of human welfare. No life had been more peaceful and innocent than mine; few lives so rich with benefits conferred. Dost thou remember me? Was I not, though you might deem me cold, nevertheless a man thoughtful for others, craving little for himself--kind, true, just and of constant, if not warm affections? Was I not all this?"
"All this, and more," said Hester.
"And what am I now?" demanded he, looking into her face, and permitting the whole evil within him to be written on his features. "I have already told thee what I am--a fiend! Who made me so?"
"It was myself," cried Hester, shuddering. "It was I, not less than he. Why hast thou not avenged thyself on me?"
"I have left thee to the scarlet letter," replied Roger Chillingworth. "If that has not avenged me, I can do no more!"
He laid his finger on it with a smile.
"It has avenged thee," answered Hester Prynne.
"I judged no less," said the physician. "And now what wouldst thou with me touching this man?"
"I must reveal the secret," answered Hester, firmly. "He must discern thee in thy true character. What may be the result I know not. But this long debt of confidence, due from me to him, whose bane and ruin I have been, shall at length be paid. So far as concerns the overthrow or preservation of his fair fame and his earthly state, and perchance his life, he is in my hands. Nor do I--whom the scarlet letter has disciplined to truth, though it be the truth of red-hot iron entering into the soul--nor do I perceive such advantage in his living any longer a life of ghastly emptiness, that I shall stoop to implore thy mercy. Do with him as thou wilt! There is no good for him, no good for me, no good for thee. There is no good for little Pearl. There is no path to guide us out of this dismal maze."
"Woman, I could well-nigh pity thee," said Roger Chillingworth, unable to restrain a thrill of admiration too, for there was a quality almost majestic in the despair which she expressed. "Thou hadst great elements. Peradventure, hadst thou met earlier with a better love than mine, this evil had not been. I pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in thy nature."
"And I thee," answered Hester Prynne, "for the hatred that has transformed a wise and just man to a fiend! Wilt thou yet purge it out of thee, and be once more human? If not for his sake, then doubly for thine own! Forgive, and leave his further retribution to the Power that claims it! I said, but now, that there could be no good event for him, or thee, or me, who are here wandering together in this gloomy maze of evil, and stumbling at every step over the guilt wherewith we have strewn our path. It is not so! There might be good for thee, and thee alone, since thou hast been deeply wronged and hast it at thy will to pardon. Wilt thou give up that only privilege? Wilt thou reject that priceless benefit?"
"Peace, Hester--peace!" replied the old man, with gloomy sternness--"it is not granted me to pardon. I have no such power as thou tellest me of. My old faith, long forgotten, comes back to me, and explains all that we do, and all we suffer. By thy first step awry, thou didst plant the germ of evil; but since that moment it has all been a dark necessity. Ye that have wronged me are not sinful, save in a kind of typical illusion; neither am I fiend-like, who have snatched a fiend's office from his hands. It is our fate. Let the black flower blossom as it may! Now, go thy ways, and deal as thou wilt with yonder man."
He waved his hand, and betook himself again to his employment of gathering herbs.
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{
"id": "33"
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15
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HESTER AND PEARL
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So Roger Chillingworth--a deformed old figure with a face that haunted men's memories longer than they liked--took leave of Hester Prynne, and went stooping away along the earth. He gathered here and there a herb, or grubbed up a root and put it into the basket on his arm. His gray beard almost touched the ground as he crept onward. Hester gazed after him a little while, looking with a half fantastic curiosity to see whether the tender grass of early spring would not be blighted beneath him and show the wavering track of his footsteps, sere and brown, across its cheerful verdure. She wondered what sort of herbs they were which the old man was so sedulous to gather. Would not the earth, quickened to an evil purpose by the sympathy of his eye, greet him with poisonous shrubs of species hitherto unknown, that would start up under his fingers? Or might it suffice him that every wholesome growth should be converted into something deleterious and malignant at his touch? Did the sun, which shone so brightly everywhere else, really fall upon him? Or was there, as it rather seemed, a circle of ominous shadow moving along with his deformity whichever way he turned himself? And whither was he now going? Would he not suddenly sink into the earth, leaving a barren and blasted spot, where, in due course of time, would be seen deadly nightshade, dogwood, henbane, and whatever else of vegetable wickedness the climate could produce, all flourishing with hideous luxuriance? Or would he spread bat's wings and flee away, looking so much the uglier the higher he rose towards heaven?
"Be it sin or no," said Hester Prynne, bitterly, as still she gazed after him, "I hate the man!"
She upbraided herself for the sentiment, but could not overcome or lessen it. Attempting to do so, she thought of those long-past days in a distant land, when he used to emerge at eventide from the seclusion of his study and sit down in the firelight of their home, and in the light of her nuptial smile. He needed to bask himself in that smile, he said, in order that the chill of so many lonely hours among his books might be taken off the scholar's heart. Such scenes had once appeared not otherwise than happy, but now, as viewed through the dismal medium of her subsequent life, they classed themselves among her ugliest remembrances. She marvelled how such scenes could have been! She marvelled how she could ever have been wrought upon to marry him! She deemed it her crime most to be repented of, that she had ever endured and reciprocated the lukewarm grasp of his hand, and had suffered the smile of her lips and eyes to mingle and melt into his own. And it seemed a fouler offence committed by Roger Chillingworth than any which had since been done him, that, in the time when her heart knew no better, he had persuaded her to fancy herself happy by his side.
"Yes, I hate him!" repeated Hester more bitterly than before. "He betrayed me! He has done me worse wrong than I did him!"
Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart! Else it may be their miserable fortune, as it was Roger Chillingworth's, when some mightier touch than their own may have awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached even for the calm content, the marble image of happiness, which they will have imposed upon her as the warm reality. But Hester ought long ago to have done with this injustice. What did it betoken? Had seven long years, under the torture of the scarlet letter, inflicted so much of misery and wrought out no repentance?
The emotion of that brief space, while she stood gazing after the crooked figure of old Roger Chillingworth, threw a dark light on Hester's state of mind, revealing much that she might not otherwise have acknowledged to herself.
He being gone, she summoned back her child.
"Pearl! Little Pearl! Where are you?"
Pearl, whose activity of spirit never flagged, had been at no loss for amusement while her mother talked with the old gatherer of herbs. At first, as already told, she had flirted fancifully with her own image in a pool of water, beckoning the phantom forth, and--as it declined to venture--seeking a passage for herself into its sphere of impalpable earth and unattainable sky. Soon finding, however, that either she or the image was unreal, she turned elsewhere for better pastime. She made little boats out of birch-bark, and freighted them with snailshells, and sent out more ventures on the mighty deep than any merchant in New England; but the larger part of them foundered near the shore. She seized a live horse-shoe by the tail, and made prize of several five-fingers, and laid out a jelly-fish to melt in the warm sun. Then she took up the white foam that streaked the line of the advancing tide, and threw it upon the breeze, scampering after it with winged footsteps to catch the great snowflakes ere they fell. Perceiving a flock of beach-birds that fed and fluttered along the shore, the naughty child picked up her apron full of pebbles, and, creeping from rock to rock after these small sea-fowl, displayed remarkable dexterity in pelting them. One little gray bird, with a white breast, Pearl was almost sure had been hit by a pebble, and fluttered away with a broken wing. But then the elf-child sighed, and gave up her sport, because it grieved her to have done harm to a little being that was as wild as the sea-breeze, or as wild as Pearl herself.
Her final employment was to gather seaweed of various kinds, and make herself a scarf or mantle, and a head-dress, and thus assume the aspect of a little mermaid. She inherited her mother's gift for devising drapery and costume. As the last touch to her mermaid's garb, Pearl took some eel-grass and imitated, as best she could, on her own bosom the decoration with which she was so familiar on her mother's. A letter--the letter A--but freshly green instead of scarlet. The child bent her chin upon her breast, and contemplated this device with strange interest, even as if the one only thing for which she had been sent into the world was to make out its hidden import.
"I wonder if mother will ask me what it means?" thought Pearl.
Just then she heard her mother's voice, and, flitting along as lightly as one of the little sea-birds, appeared before Hester Prynne dancing, laughing, and pointing her finger to the ornament upon her bosom.
"My little Pearl," said Hester, after a moment's silence, "the green letter, and on thy childish bosom, has no purport. But dost thou know, my child, what this letter means which thy mother is doomed to wear?"
"Yes, mother," said the child. "It is the great letter A. Thou hast taught me in the horn-book."
Hester looked steadily into her little face; but though there was that singular expression which she had so often remarked in her black eyes, she could not satisfy herself whether Pearl really attached any meaning to the symbol. She felt a morbid desire to ascertain the point.
"Dost thou know, child, wherefore thy mother wears this letter?"
"Truly do I!" answered Pearl, looking brightly into her mother's face. "It is for the same reason that the minister keeps his hand over his heart!"
"And what reason is that?" asked Hester, half smiling at the absurd incongruity of the child's observation; but on second thoughts turning pale.
"What has the letter to do with any heart save mine?"
"Nay, mother, I have told all I know," said Pearl, more seriously than she was wont to speak. "Ask yonder old man whom thou hast been talking with,--it may be he can tell. But in good earnest now, mother dear, what does this scarlet letter mean? --and why dost thou wear it on thy bosom? --and why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?"
She took her mother's hand in both her own, and gazed into her eyes with an earnestness that was seldom seen in her wild and capricious character. The thought occurred to Hester, that the child might really be seeking to approach her with childlike confidence, and doing what she could, and as intelligently as she knew how, to establish a meeting-point of sympathy. It showed Pearl in an unwonted aspect. Heretofore, the mother, while loving her child with the intensity of a sole affection, had schooled herself to hope for little other return than the waywardness of an April breeze, which spends its time in airy sport, and has its gusts of inexplicable passion, and is petulant in its best of moods, and chills oftener than caresses you, when you take it to your bosom; in requital of which misdemeanours it will sometimes, of its own vague purpose, kiss your cheek with a kind of doubtful tenderness, and play gently with your hair, and then be gone about its other idle business, leaving a dreamy pleasure at your heart. And this, moreover, was a mother's estimate of the child's disposition. Any other observer might have seen few but unamiable traits, and have given them a far darker colouring. But now the idea came strongly into Hester's mind, that Pearl, with her remarkable precocity and acuteness, might already have approached the age when she could have been made a friend, and intrusted with as much of her mother's sorrows as could be imparted, without irreverence either to the parent or the child. In the little chaos of Pearl's character there might be seen emerging and could have been from the very first--the steadfast principles of an unflinching courage--an uncontrollable will--sturdy pride, which might be disciplined into self-respect--and a bitter scorn of many things which, when examined, might be found to have the taint of falsehood in them. She possessed affections, too, though hitherto acrid and disagreeable, as are the richest flavours of unripe fruit. With all these sterling attributes, thought Hester, the evil which she inherited from her mother must be great indeed, if a noble woman do not grow out of this elfish child.
Pearl's inevitable tendency to hover about the enigma of the scarlet letter seemed an innate quality of her being. From the earliest epoch of her conscious life, she had entered upon this as her appointed mission. Hester had often fancied that Providence had a design of justice and retribution, in endowing the child with this marked propensity; but never, until now, had she bethought herself to ask, whether, linked with that design, there might not likewise be a purpose of mercy and beneficence. If little Pearl were entertained with faith and trust, as a spirit messenger no less than an earthly child, might it not be her errand to soothe away the sorrow that lay cold in her mother's heart, and converted it into a tomb? --and to help her to overcome the passion, once so wild, and even yet neither dead nor asleep, but only imprisoned within the same tomb-like heart?
Such were some of the thoughts that now stirred in Hester's mind, with as much vivacity of impression as if they had actually been whispered into her ear. And there was little Pearl, all this while, holding her mother's hand in both her own, and turning her face upward, while she put these searching questions, once and again, and still a third time.
"What does the letter mean, mother? and why dost thou wear it? and why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?"
"What shall I say?" thought Hester to herself. "No! if this be the price of the child's sympathy, I cannot pay it."
Then she spoke aloud-- "Silly Pearl," said she, "what questions are these? There are many things in this world that a child must not ask about. What know I of the minister's heart? And as for the scarlet letter, I wear it for the sake of its gold thread."
In all the seven bygone years, Hester Prynne had never before been false to the symbol on her bosom. It may be that it was the talisman of a stern and severe, but yet a guardian spirit, who now forsook her; as recognising that, in spite of his strict watch over her heart, some new evil had crept into it, or some old one had never been expelled. As for little Pearl, the earnestness soon passed out of her face.
But the child did not see fit to let the matter drop. Two or three times, as her mother and she went homeward, and as often at supper-time, and while Hester was putting her to bed, and once after she seemed to be fairly asleep, Pearl looked up, with mischief gleaming in her black eyes.
"Mother," said she, "what does the scarlet letter mean?"
And the next morning, the first indication the child gave of being awake was by popping up her head from the pillow, and making that other enquiry, which she had so unaccountably connected with her investigations about the scarlet letter-- "Mother! --Mother! --Why does the minister keep his hand over his heart?"
"Hold thy tongue, naughty child!" answered her mother, with an asperity that she had never permitted to herself before. "Do not tease me; else I shall put thee into the dark closet!"
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{
"id": "33"
}
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16
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A FOREST WALK
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Hester Prynne remained constant in her resolve to make known to Mr. Dimmesdale, at whatever risk of present pain or ulterior consequences, the true character of the man who had crept into his intimacy. For several days, however, she vainly sought an opportunity of addressing him in some of the meditative walks which she knew him to be in the habit of taking along the shores of the Peninsula, or on the wooded hills of the neighbouring country. There would have been no scandal, indeed, nor peril to the holy whiteness of the clergyman's good fame, had she visited him in his own study, where many a penitent, ere now, had confessed sins of perhaps as deep a dye as the one betokened by the scarlet letter. But, partly that she dreaded the secret or undisguised interference of old Roger Chillingworth, and partly that her conscious heart imparted suspicion where none could have been felt, and partly that both the minister and she would need the whole wide world to breathe in, while they talked together--for all these reasons Hester never thought of meeting him in any narrower privacy than beneath the open sky.
At last, while attending a sick chamber, whither the Rev. Mr. Dimmesdale had been summoned to make a prayer, she learnt that he had gone, the day before, to visit the Apostle Eliot, among his Indian converts. He would probably return by a certain hour in the afternoon of the morrow. Betimes, therefore, the next day, Hester took little Pearl--who was necessarily the companion of all her mother's expeditions, however inconvenient her presence--and set forth.
The road, after the two wayfarers had crossed from the Peninsula to the mainland, was no other than a foot-path. It straggled onward into the mystery of the primeval forest. This hemmed it in so narrowly, and stood so black and dense on either side, and disclosed such imperfect glimpses of the sky above, that, to Hester's mind, it imaged not amiss the moral wilderness in which she had so long been wandering. The day was chill and sombre. Overhead was a gray expanse of cloud, slightly stirred, however, by a breeze; so that a gleam of flickering sunshine might now and then be seen at its solitary play along the path. This flitting cheerfulness was always at the further extremity of some long vista through the forest. The sportive sunlight--feebly sportive, at best, in the predominant pensiveness of the day and scene--withdrew itself as they came nigh, and left the spots where it had danced the drearier, because they had hoped to find them bright.
"Mother," said little Pearl, "the sunshine does not love you. It runs away and hides itself, because it is afraid of something on your bosom. Now, see! There it is, playing a good way off. Stand you here, and let me run and catch it. I am but a child. It will not flee from me--for I wear nothing on my bosom yet!"
"Nor ever will, my child, I hope," said Hester.
"And why not, mother?" asked Pearl, stopping short, just at the beginning of her race. "Will not it come of its own accord when I am a woman grown?"
"Run away, child," answered her mother, "and catch the sunshine. It will soon be gone."
Pearl set forth at a great pace, and as Hester smiled to perceive, did actually catch the sunshine, and stood laughing in the midst of it, all brightened by its splendour, and scintillating with the vivacity excited by rapid motion. The light lingered about the lonely child, as if glad of such a playmate, until her mother had drawn almost nigh enough to step into the magic circle too.
"It will go now," said Pearl, shaking her head.
"See!" answered Hester, smiling; "now I can stretch out my hand and grasp some of it."
As she attempted to do so, the sunshine vanished; or, to judge from the bright expression that was dancing on Pearl's features, her mother could have fancied that the child had absorbed it into herself, and would give it forth again, with a gleam about her path, as they should plunge into some gloomier shade. There was no other attribute that so much impressed her with a sense of new and untransmitted vigour in Pearl's nature, as this never failing vivacity of spirits: she had not the disease of sadness, which almost all children, in these latter days, inherit, with the scrofula, from the troubles of their ancestors. Perhaps this, too, was a disease, and but the reflex of the wild energy with which Hester had fought against her sorrows before Pearl's birth. It was certainly a doubtful charm, imparting a hard, metallic lustre to the child's character. She wanted--what some people want throughout life--a grief that should deeply touch her, and thus humanise and make her capable of sympathy. But there was time enough yet for little Pearl.
"Come, my child!" said Hester, looking about her from the spot where Pearl had stood still in the sunshine--"we will sit down a little way within the wood, and rest ourselves."
"I am not aweary, mother," replied the little girl. "But you may sit down, if you will tell me a story meanwhile."
"A story, child!" said Hester. "And about what?"
"Oh, a story about the Black Man," answered Pearl, taking hold of her mother's gown, and looking up, half earnestly, half mischievously, into her face.
"How he haunts this forest, and carries a book with him a big, heavy book, with iron clasps; and how this ugly Black Man offers his book and an iron pen to everybody that meets him here among the trees; and they are to write their names with their own blood; and then he sets his mark on their bosoms. Didst thou ever meet the Black Man, mother?"
"And who told you this story, Pearl," asked her mother, recognising a common superstition of the period.
"It was the old dame in the chimney corner, at the house where you watched last night," said the child. "But she fancied me asleep while she was talking of it. She said that a thousand and a thousand people had met him here, and had written in his book, and have his mark on them. And that ugly tempered lady, old Mistress Hibbins, was one. And, mother, the old dame said that this scarlet letter was the Black Man's mark on thee, and that it glows like a red flame when thou meetest him at midnight, here in the dark wood. Is it true, mother? And dost thou go to meet him in the nighttime?"
"Didst thou ever awake and find thy mother gone?" asked Hester. "Not that I remember," said the child. "If thou fearest to leave me in our cottage, thou mightest take me along with thee. I would very gladly go! But, mother, tell me now! Is there such a Black Man? And didst thou ever meet him? And is this his mark?"
"Wilt thou let me be at peace, if I once tell thee?" asked her mother.
"Yes, if thou tellest me all," answered Pearl.
"Once in my life I met the Black Man!" said her mother. "This scarlet letter is his mark!"
Thus conversing, they entered sufficiently deep into the wood to secure themselves from the observation of any casual passenger along the forest track. Here they sat down on a luxuriant heap of moss; which at some epoch of the preceding century, had been a gigantic pine, with its roots and trunk in the darksome shade, and its head aloft in the upper atmosphere. It was a little dell where they had seated themselves, with a leaf-strewn bank rising gently on either side, and a brook flowing through the midst, over a bed of fallen and drowned leaves. The trees impending over it had flung down great branches from time to time, which choked up the current, and compelled it to form eddies and black depths at some points; while, in its swifter and livelier passages there appeared a channel-way of pebbles, and brown, sparkling sand. Letting the eyes follow along the course of the stream, they could catch the reflected light from its water, at some short distance within the forest, but soon lost all traces of it amid the bewilderment of tree-trunks and underbrush, and here and there a huge rock covered over with gray lichens. All these giant trees and boulders of granite seemed intent on making a mystery of the course of this small brook; fearing, perhaps, that, with its never-ceasing loquacity, it should whisper tales out of the heart of the old forest whence it flowed, or mirror its revelations on the smooth surface of a pool. Continually, indeed, as it stole onward, the streamlet kept up a babble, kind, quiet, soothing, but melancholy, like the voice of a young child that was spending its infancy without playfulness, and knew not how to be merry among sad acquaintance and events of sombre hue.
"Oh, brook! Oh, foolish and tiresome little brook!" cried Pearl, after listening awhile to its talk, "Why art thou so sad? Pluck up a spirit, and do not be all the time sighing and murmuring!"
But the brook, in the course of its little lifetime among the forest trees, had gone through so solemn an experience that it could not help talking about it, and seemed to have nothing else to say. Pearl resembled the brook, inasmuch as the current of her life gushed from a well-spring as mysterious, and had flowed through scenes shadowed as heavily with gloom. But, unlike the little stream, she danced and sparkled, and prattled airily along her course.
"What does this sad little brook say, mother?" inquired she.
"If thou hadst a sorrow of thine own, the brook might tell thee of it," answered her mother, "even as it is telling me of mine. But now, Pearl, I hear a footstep along the path, and the noise of one putting aside the branches. I would have thee betake thyself to play, and leave me to speak with him that comes yonder."
"Is it the Black Man?" asked Pearl.
"Wilt thou go and play, child?" repeated her mother, "But do not stray far into the wood. And take heed that thou come at my first call."
"Yes, mother," answered Pearl, "But if it be the Black Man, wilt thou not let me stay a moment, and look at him, with his big book under his arm?"
"Go, silly child!" said her mother impatiently. "It is no Black Man! Thou canst see him now, through the trees. It is the minister!"
"And so it is!" said the child. "And, mother, he has his hand over his heart! Is it because, when the minister wrote his name in the book, the Black Man set his mark in that place? But why does he not wear it outside his bosom, as thou dost, mother?"
"Go now, child, and thou shalt tease me as thou wilt another time," cried Hester Prynne. "But do not stray far. Keep where thou canst hear the babble of the brook."
The child went singing away, following up the current of the brook, and striving to mingle a more lightsome cadence with its melancholy voice. But the little stream would not be comforted, and still kept telling its unintelligible secret of some very mournful mystery that had happened--or making a prophetic lamentation about something that was yet to happen--within the verge of the dismal forest. So Pearl, who had enough of shadow in her own little life, chose to break off all acquaintance with this repining brook. She set herself, therefore, to gathering violets and wood-anemones, and some scarlet columbines that she found growing in the crevice of a high rock.
When her elf-child had departed, Hester Prynne made a step or two towards the track that led through the forest, but still remained under the deep shadow of the trees. She beheld the minister advancing along the path entirely alone, and leaning on a staff which he had cut by the wayside. He looked haggard and feeble, and betrayed a nerveless despondency in his air, which had never so remarkably characterised him in his walks about the settlement, nor in any other situation where he deemed himself liable to notice. Here it was wofully visible, in this intense seclusion of the forest, which of itself would have been a heavy trial to the spirits. There was a listlessness in his gait, as if he saw no reason for taking one step further, nor felt any desire to do so, but would have been glad, could he be glad of anything, to fling himself down at the root of the nearest tree, and lie there passive for evermore. The leaves might bestrew him, and the soil gradually accumulate and form a little hillock over his frame, no matter whether there were life in it or no. Death was too definite an object to be wished for or avoided.
To Hester's eye, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale exhibited no symptom of positive and vivacious suffering, except that, as little Pearl had remarked, he kept his hand over his heart.
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{
"id": "33"
}
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17
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THE PASTOR AND HIS PARISHIONER
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Slowly as the minister walked, he had almost gone by before Hester Prynne could gather voice enough to attract his observation. At length she succeeded.
"Arthur Dimmesdale!" she said, faintly at first, then louder, but hoarsely--"Arthur Dimmesdale!"
"Who speaks?" answered the minister. Gathering himself quickly up, he stood more erect, like a man taken by surprise in a mood to which he was reluctant to have witnesses. Throwing his eyes anxiously in the direction of the voice, he indistinctly beheld a form under the trees, clad in garments so sombre, and so little relieved from the gray twilight into which the clouded sky and the heavy foliage had darkened the noontide, that he knew not whether it were a woman or a shadow. It may be that his pathway through life was haunted thus by a spectre that had stolen out from among his thoughts.
He made a step nigher, and discovered the scarlet letter.
"Hester! Hester Prynne!" , said he; "is it thou? Art thou in life?"
"Even so." she answered. "In such life as has been mine these seven years past! And thou, Arthur Dimmesdale, dost thou yet live?"
It was no wonder that they thus questioned one another's actual and bodily existence, and even doubted of their own. So strangely did they meet in the dim wood that it was like the first encounter in the world beyond the grave of two spirits who had been intimately connected in their former life, but now stood coldly shuddering in mutual dread, as not yet familiar with their state, nor wonted to the companionship of disembodied beings. Each a ghost, and awe-stricken at the other ghost. They were awe-stricken likewise at themselves, because the crisis flung back to them their consciousness, and revealed to each heart its history and experience, as life never does, except at such breathless epochs. The soul beheld its features in the mirror of the passing moment. It was with fear, and tremulously, and, as it were, by a slow, reluctant necessity, that Arthur Dimmesdale put forth his hand, chill as death, and touched the chill hand of Hester Prynne. The grasp, cold as it was, took away what was dreariest in the interview. They now felt themselves, at least, inhabitants of the same sphere.
Without a word more spoken--neither he nor she assuming the guidance, but with an unexpressed consent--they glided back into the shadow of the woods whence Hester had emerged, and sat down on the heap of moss where she and Pearl had before been sitting. When they found voice to speak, it was at first only to utter remarks and inquiries such as any two acquaintances might have made, about the gloomy sky, the threatening storm, and, next, the health of each. Thus they went onward, not boldly, but step by step, into the themes that were brooding deepest in their hearts. So long estranged by fate and circumstances, they needed something slight and casual to run before and throw open the doors of intercourse, so that their real thoughts might be led across the threshold.
After awhile, the minister fixed his eyes on Hester Prynne's.
"Hester," said he, "hast thou found peace?"
She smiled drearily, looking down upon her bosom.
"Hast thou?" she asked.
"None--nothing but despair!" he answered. "What else could I look for, being what I am, and leading such a life as mine? Were I an atheist--a man devoid of conscience--a wretch with coarse and brutal instincts--I might have found peace long ere now. Nay, I never should have lost it. But, as matters stand with my soul, whatever of good capacity there originally was in me, all of God's gifts that were the choicest have become the ministers of spiritual torment. Hester, I am most miserable!"
"The people reverence thee," said Hester. "And surely thou workest good among them! Doth this bring thee no comfort?"
"More misery, Hester! --Only the more misery!" answered the clergyman with a bitter smile. "As concerns the good which I may appear to do, I have no faith in it. It must needs be a delusion. What can a ruined soul like mine effect towards the redemption of other souls? --or a polluted soul towards their purification? And as for the people's reverence, would that it were turned to scorn and hatred! Canst thou deem it, Hester, a consolation that I must stand up in my pulpit, and meet so many eyes turned upward to my face, as if the light of heaven were beaming from it! --must see my flock hungry for the truth, and listening to my words as if a tongue of Pentecost were speaking! --and then look inward, and discern the black reality of what they idolise? I have laughed, in bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast between what I seem and what I am! And Satan laughs at it!"
"You wrong yourself in this," said Hester gently. "You have deeply and sorely repented. Your sin is left behind you in the days long past. Your present life is not less holy, in very truth, than it seems in people's eyes. Is there no reality in the penitence thus sealed and witnessed by good works? And wherefore should it not bring you peace?"
"No, Hester--no!" replied the clergyman. "There is no substance in it! It is cold and dead, and can do nothing for me! Of penance, I have had enough! Of penitence, there has been none! Else, I should long ago have thrown off these garments of mock holiness, and have shown myself to mankind as they will see me at the judgment-seat. Happy are you, Hester, that wear the scarlet letter openly upon your bosom! Mine burns in secret! Thou little knowest what a relief it is, after the torment of a seven years' cheat, to look into an eye that recognises me for what I am! Had I one friend--or were it my worst enemy! --to whom, when sickened with the praises of all other men, I could daily betake myself, and be known as the vilest of all sinners, methinks my soul might keep itself alive thereby. Even thus much of truth would save me! But now, it is all falsehood! --all emptiness! --all death!"
Hester Prynne looked into his face, but hesitated to speak. Yet, uttering his long-restrained emotions so vehemently as he did, his words here offered her the very point of circumstances in which to interpose what she came to say. She conquered her fears, and spoke: "Such a friend as thou hast even now wished for," said she, "with whom to weep over thy sin, thou hast in me, the partner of it!" Again she hesitated, but brought out the words with an effort. --"Thou hast long had such an enemy, and dwellest with him, under the same roof!"
The minister started to his feet, gasping for breath, and clutching at his heart, as if he would have torn it out of his bosom.
"Ha! What sayest thou?" cried he. "An enemy! And under mine own roof! What mean you?"
Hester Prynne was now fully sensible of the deep injury for which she was responsible to this unhappy man, in permitting him to lie for so many years, or, indeed, for a single moment, at the mercy of one whose purposes could not be other than malevolent. The very contiguity of his enemy, beneath whatever mask the latter might conceal himself, was enough to disturb the magnetic sphere of a being so sensitive as Arthur Dimmesdale. There had been a period when Hester was less alive to this consideration; or, perhaps, in the misanthropy of her own trouble, she left the minister to bear what she might picture to herself as a more tolerable doom. But of late, since the night of his vigil, all her sympathies towards him had been both softened and invigorated. She now read his heart more accurately. She doubted not that the continual presence of Roger Chillingworth--the secret poison of his malignity, infecting all the air about him--and his authorised interference, as a physician, with the minister's physical and spiritual infirmities--that these bad opportunities had been turned to a cruel purpose. By means of them, the sufferer's conscience had been kept in an irritated state, the tendency of which was, not to cure by wholesome pain, but to disorganize and corrupt his spiritual being. Its result, on earth, could hardly fail to be insanity, and hereafter, that eternal alienation from the Good and True, of which madness is perhaps the earthly type.
Such was the ruin to which she had brought the man, once--nay, why should we not speak it? --still so passionately loved! Hester felt that the sacrifice of the clergyman's good name, and death itself, as she had already told Roger Chillingworth, would have been infinitely preferable to the alternative which she had taken upon herself to choose. And now, rather than have had this grievous wrong to confess, she would gladly have laid down on the forest leaves, and died there, at Arthur Dimmesdale's feet.
"Oh, Arthur!" cried she, "forgive me! In all things else, I have striven to be true! Truth was the one virtue which I might have held fast, and did hold fast, through all extremity; save when thy good--thy life--thy fame--were put in question! Then I consented to a deception. But a lie is never good, even though death threaten on the other side! Dost thou not see what I would say? That old man! --the physician! --he whom they call Roger Chillingworth! --he was my husband!"
The minister looked at her for an instant, with all that violence of passion, which--intermixed in more shapes than one with his higher, purer, softer qualities--was, in fact, the portion of him which the devil claimed, and through which he sought to win the rest. Never was there a blacker or a fiercer frown than Hester now encountered. For the brief space that it lasted, it was a dark transfiguration. But his character had been so much enfeebled by suffering, that even its lower energies were incapable of more than a temporary struggle. He sank down on the ground, and buried his face in his hands.
"I might have known it," murmured he--"I did know it! Was not the secret told me, in the natural recoil of my heart at the first sight of him, and as often as I have seen him since? Why did I not understand? Oh, Hester Prynne, thou little, little knowest all the horror of this thing! And the shame! --the indelicacy! --the horrible ugliness of this exposure of a sick and guilty heart to the very eye that would gloat over it! Woman, woman, thou art accountable for this! --I cannot forgive thee!"
"Thou shalt forgive me!" cried Hester, flinging herself on the fallen leaves beside him. "Let God punish! Thou shalt forgive!"
With sudden and desperate tenderness she threw her arms around him, and pressed his head against her bosom, little caring though his cheek rested on the scarlet letter. He would have released himself, but strove in vain to do so. Hester would not set him free, lest he should look her sternly in the face. All the world had frowned on her--for seven long years had it frowned upon this lonely woman--and still she bore it all, nor ever once turned away her firm, sad eyes. Heaven, likewise, had frowned upon her, and she had not died. But the frown of this pale, weak, sinful, and sorrow-stricken man was what Hester could not bear, and live!
"Wilt thou yet forgive me?" she repeated, over and over again. "Wilt thou not frown? Wilt thou forgive?"
"I do forgive you, Hester," replied the minister at length, with a deep utterance, out of an abyss of sadness, but no anger. "I freely forgive you now. May God forgive us both. We are not, Hester, the worst sinners in the world. There is one worse than even the polluted priest! That old man's revenge has been blacker than my sin. He has violated, in cold blood, the sanctity of a human heart. Thou and I, Hester, never did so!"
"Never, never!" whispered she. "What we did had a consecration of its own. We felt it so! We said so to each other. Hast thou forgotten it?"
"Hush, Hester!" said Arthur Dimmesdale, rising from the ground. "No; I have not forgotten!"
They sat down again, side by side, and hand clasped in hand, on the mossy trunk of the fallen tree. Life had never brought them a gloomier hour; it was the point whither their pathway had so long been tending, and darkening ever, as it stole along--and yet it unclosed a charm that made them linger upon it, and claim another, and another, and, after all, another moment. The forest was obscure around them, and creaked with a blast that was passing through it. The boughs were tossing heavily above their heads; while one solemn old tree groaned dolefully to another, as if telling the sad story of the pair that sat beneath, or constrained to forbode evil to come.
And yet they lingered. How dreary looked the forest-track that led backward to the settlement, where Hester Prynne must take up again the burden of her ignominy and the minister the hollow mockery of his good name! So they lingered an instant longer. No golden light had ever been so precious as the gloom of this dark forest. Here seen only by his eyes, the scarlet letter need not burn into the bosom of the fallen woman! Here seen only by her eyes, Arthur Dimmesdale, false to God and man, might be, for one moment true!
He started at a thought that suddenly occurred to him.
"Hester!" cried he, "here is a new horror! Roger Chillingworth knows your purpose to reveal his true character. Will he continue, then, to keep our secret? What will now be the course of his revenge?"
"There is a strange secrecy in his nature," replied Hester, thoughtfully; "and it has grown upon him by the hidden practices of his revenge. I deem it not likely that he will betray the secret. He will doubtless seek other means of satiating his dark passion."
"And I! --how am I to live longer, breathing the same air with this deadly enemy?" exclaimed Arthur Dimmesdale, shrinking within himself, and pressing his hand nervously against his heart--a gesture that had grown involuntary with him. "Think for me, Hester! Thou art strong. Resolve for me!"
"Thou must dwell no longer with this man," said Hester, slowly and firmly. "Thy heart must be no longer under his evil eye!"
"It were far worse than death!" replied the minister. "But how to avoid it? What choice remains to me? Shall I lie down again on these withered leaves, where I cast myself when thou didst tell me what he was? Must I sink down there, and die at once?"
"Alas! what a ruin has befallen thee!" said Hester, with the tears gushing into her eyes. "Wilt thou die for very weakness? There is no other cause!"
"The judgment of God is on me," answered the conscience-stricken priest. "It is too mighty for me to struggle with!"
"Heaven would show mercy," rejoined Hester, "hadst thou but the strength to take advantage of it."
"Be thou strong for me!" answered he. "Advise me what to do."
"Is the world, then, so narrow?" exclaimed Hester Prynne, fixing her deep eyes on the minister's, and instinctively exercising a magnetic power over a spirit so shattered and subdued that it could hardly hold itself erect. "Doth the universe lie within the compass of yonder town, which only a little time ago was but a leaf-strewn desert, as lonely as this around us? Whither leads yonder forest-track? Backward to the settlement, thou sayest! Yes; but, onward, too! Deeper it goes, and deeper into the wilderness, less plainly to be seen at every step; until some few miles hence the yellow leaves will show no vestige of the white man's tread. There thou art free! So brief a journey would bring thee from a world where thou hast been most wretched, to one where thou mayest still be happy! Is there not shade enough in all this boundless forest to hide thy heart from the gaze of Roger Chillingworth?"
"Yes, Hester; but only under the fallen leaves!" replied the minister, with a sad smile.
"Then there is the broad pathway of the sea!" continued Hester. "It brought thee hither. If thou so choose, it will bear thee back again. In our native land, whether in some remote rural village, or in vast London--or, surely, in Germany, in France, in pleasant Italy--thou wouldst be beyond his power and knowledge! And what hast thou to do with all these iron men, and their opinions? They have kept thy better part in bondage too long already!"
"It cannot be!" answered the minister, listening as if he were called upon to realise a dream. "I am powerless to go. Wretched and sinful as I am, I have had no other thought than to drag on my earthly existence in the sphere where Providence hath placed me. Lost as my own soul is, I would still do what I may for other human souls! I dare not quit my post, though an unfaithful sentinel, whose sure reward is death and dishonour, when his dreary watch shall come to an end!"
"Thou art crushed under this seven years' weight of misery," replied Hester, fervently resolved to buoy him up with her own energy. "But thou shalt leave it all behind thee! It shall not cumber thy steps, as thou treadest along the forest-path: neither shalt thou freight the ship with it, if thou prefer to cross the sea. Leave this wreck and ruin here where it hath happened. Meddle no more with it! Begin all anew! Hast thou exhausted possibility in the failure of this one trial? Not so! The future is yet full of trial and success. There is happiness to be enjoyed! There is good to be done! Exchange this false life of thine for a true one. Be, if thy spirit summon thee to such a mission, the teacher and apostle of the red men. Or, as is more thy nature, be a scholar and a sage among the wisest and the most renowned of the cultivated world. Preach! Write! Act! Do anything, save to lie down and die! Give up this name of Arthur Dimmesdale, and make thyself another, and a high one, such as thou canst wear without fear or shame. Why shouldst thou tarry so much as one other day in the torments that have so gnawed into thy life? that have made thee feeble to will and to do? that will leave thee powerless even to repent? Up, and away!"
"Oh, Hester!" cried Arthur Dimmesdale, in whose eyes a fitful light, kindled by her enthusiasm, flashed up and died away, "thou tellest of running a race to a man whose knees are tottering beneath him! I must die here! There is not the strength or courage left me to venture into the wide, strange, difficult world alone!"
It was the last expression of the despondency of a broken spirit. He lacked energy to grasp the better fortune that seemed within his reach.
He repeated the word--"Alone, Hester!"
"Thou shall not go alone!" answered she, in a deep whisper. Then, all was spoken!
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{
"id": "33"
}
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18
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A FLOOD OF SUNSHINE
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Arthur Dimmesdale gazed into Hester's face with a look in which hope and joy shone out, indeed, but with fear betwixt them, and a kind of horror at her boldness, who had spoken what he vaguely hinted at, but dared not speak.
But Hester Prynne, with a mind of native courage and activity, and for so long a period not merely estranged, but outlawed from society, had habituated herself to such latitude of speculation as was altogether foreign to the clergyman. She had wandered, without rule or guidance, in a moral wilderness, as vast, as intricate, and shadowy as the untamed forest, amid the gloom of which they were now holding a colloquy that was to decide their fate. Her intellect and heart had their home, as it were, in desert places, where she roamed as freely as the wild Indian in his woods. For years past she had looked from this estranged point of view at human institutions, and whatever priests or legislators had established; criticising all with hardly more reverence than the Indian would feel for the clerical band, the judicial robe, the pillory, the gallows, the fireside, or the church. The tendency of her fate and fortunes had been to set her free. The scarlet letter was her passport into regions where other women dared not tread. Shame, Despair, Solitude! These had been her teachers--stern and wild ones--and they had made her strong, but taught her much amiss.
The minister, on the other hand, had never gone through an experience calculated to lead him beyond the scope of generally received laws; although, in a single instance, he had so fearfully transgressed one of the most sacred of them. But this had been a sin of passion, not of principle, nor even purpose. Since that wretched epoch, he had watched with morbid zeal and minuteness, not his acts--for those it was easy to arrange--but each breath of emotion, and his every thought. At the head of the social system, as the clergymen of that day stood, he was only the more trammelled by its regulations, its principles, and even its prejudices. As a priest, the framework of his order inevitably hemmed him in. As a man who had once sinned, but who kept his conscience all alive and painfully sensitive by the fretting of an unhealed wound, he might have been supposed safer within the line of virtue than if he had never sinned at all.
Thus we seem to see that, as regarded Hester Prynne, the whole seven years of outlaw and ignominy had been little other than a preparation for this very hour. But Arthur Dimmesdale! Were such a man once more to fall, what plea could be urged in extenuation of his crime? None; unless it avail him somewhat that he was broken down by long and exquisite suffering; that his mind was darkened and confused by the very remorse which harrowed it; that, between fleeing as an avowed criminal, and remaining as a hypocrite, conscience might find it hard to strike the balance; that it was human to avoid the peril of death and infamy, and the inscrutable machinations of an enemy; that, finally, to this poor pilgrim, on his dreary and desert path, faint, sick, miserable, there appeared a glimpse of human affection and sympathy, a new life, and a true one, in exchange for the heavy doom which he was now expiating. And be the stern and sad truth spoken, that the breach which guilt has once made into the human soul is never, in this mortal state, repaired. It may be watched and guarded, so that the enemy shall not force his way again into the citadel, and might even in his subsequent assaults, select some other avenue, in preference to that where he had formerly succeeded. But there is still the ruined wall, and near it the stealthy tread of the foe that would win over again his unforgotten triumph.
The struggle, if there were one, need not be described. Let it suffice that the clergyman resolved to flee, and not alone.
"If in all these past seven years," thought he, "I could recall one instant of peace or hope, I would yet endure, for the sake of that earnest of Heaven's mercy. But now--since I am irrevocably doomed--wherefore should I not snatch the solace allowed to the condemned culprit before his execution? Or, if this be the path to a better life, as Hester would persuade me, I surely give up no fairer prospect by pursuing it! Neither can I any longer live without her companionship; so powerful is she to sustain--so tender to soothe! O Thou to whom I dare not lift mine eyes, wilt Thou yet pardon me?"
"Thou wilt go!" said Hester calmly, as he met her glance.
The decision once made, a glow of strange enjoyment threw its flickering brightness over the trouble of his breast. It was the exhilarating effect--upon a prisoner just escaped from the dungeon of his own heart--of breathing the wild, free atmosphere of an unredeemed, unchristianised, lawless region. His spirit rose, as it were, with a bound, and attained a nearer prospect of the sky, than throughout all the misery which had kept him grovelling on the earth. Of a deeply religious temperament, there was inevitably a tinge of the devotional in his mood.
"Do I feel joy again?" cried he, wondering at himself. "Methought the germ of it was dead in me! Oh, Hester, thou art my better angel! I seem to have flung myself--sick, sin-stained, and sorrow-blackened--down upon these forest leaves, and to have risen up all made anew, and with new powers to glorify Him that hath been merciful! This is already the better life! Why did we not find it sooner?"
"Let us not look back," answered Hester Prynne. "The past is gone! Wherefore should we linger upon it now? See! With this symbol I undo it all, and make it as if it had never been!"
So speaking, she undid the clasp that fastened the scarlet letter, and, taking it from her bosom, threw it to a distance among the withered leaves. The mystic token alighted on the hither verge of the stream. With a hand's-breadth further flight, it would have fallen into the water, and have given the little brook another woe to carry onward, besides the unintelligible tale which it still kept murmuring about. But there lay the embroidered letter, glittering like a lost jewel, which some ill-fated wanderer might pick up, and thenceforth be haunted by strange phantoms of guilt, sinkings of the heart, and unaccountable misfortune.
The stigma gone, Hester heaved a long, deep sigh, in which the burden of shame and anguish departed from her spirit. O exquisite relief! She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom! By another impulse, she took off the formal cap that confined her hair, and down it fell upon her shoulders, dark and rich, with at once a shadow and a light in its abundance, and imparting the charm of softness to her features. There played around her mouth, and beamed out of her eyes, a radiant and tender smile, that seemed gushing from the very heart of womanhood. A crimson flush was glowing on her cheek, that had been long so pale. Her sex, her youth, and the whole richness of her beauty, came back from what men call the irrevocable past, and clustered themselves with her maiden hope, and a happiness before unknown, within the magic circle of this hour. And, as if the gloom of the earth and sky had been but the effluence of these two mortal hearts, it vanished with their sorrow. All at once, as with a sudden smile of heaven, forth burst the sunshine, pouring a very flood into the obscure forest, gladdening each green leaf, transmuting the yellow fallen ones to gold, and gleaming adown the gray trunks of the solemn trees. The objects that had made a shadow hitherto, embodied the brightness now. The course of the little brook might be traced by its merry gleam afar into the wood's heart of mystery, which had become a mystery of joy.
Such was the sympathy of Nature--that wild, heathen Nature of the forest, never subjugated by human law, nor illumined by higher truth--with the bliss of these two spirits! Love, whether newly-born, or aroused from a death-like slumber, must always create a sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, that it overflows upon the outward world. Had the forest still kept its gloom, it would have been bright in Hester's eyes, and bright in Arthur Dimmesdale's!
Hester looked at him with a thrill of another joy.
"Thou must know Pearl!" said she. "Our little Pearl! Thou hast seen her--yes, I know it! --but thou wilt see her now with other eyes. She is a strange child! I hardly comprehend her! But thou wilt love her dearly, as I do, and wilt advise me how to deal with her!"
"Dost thou think the child will be glad to know me?" asked the minister, somewhat uneasily. "I have long shrunk from children, because they often show a distrust--a backwardness to be familiar with me. I have even been afraid of little Pearl!"
"Ah, that was sad!" answered the mother. "But she will love thee dearly, and thou her. She is not far off. I will call her. Pearl! Pearl!"
"I see the child," observed the minister. "Yonder she is, standing in a streak of sunshine, a good way off, on the other side of the brook. So thou thinkest the child will love me?"
Hester smiled, and again called to Pearl, who was visible at some distance, as the minister had described her, like a bright-apparelled vision in a sunbeam, which fell down upon her through an arch of boughs. The ray quivered to and fro, making her figure dim or distinct--now like a real child, now like a child's spirit--as the splendour went and came again. She heard her mother's voice, and approached slowly through the forest.
Pearl had not found the hour pass wearisomely while her mother sat talking with the clergyman. The great black forest--stern as it showed itself to those who brought the guilt and troubles of the world into its bosom--became the playmate of the lonely infant, as well as it knew how. Sombre as it was, it put on the kindest of its moods to welcome her. It offered her the partridge-berries, the growth of the preceding autumn, but ripening only in the spring, and now red as drops of blood upon the withered leaves. These Pearl gathered, and was pleased with their wild flavour. The small denizens of the wilderness hardly took pains to move out of her path. A partridge, indeed, with a brood of ten behind her, ran forward threateningly, but soon repented of her fierceness, and clucked to her young ones not to be afraid. A pigeon, alone on a low branch, allowed Pearl to come beneath, and uttered a sound as much of greeting as alarm. A squirrel, from the lofty depths of his domestic tree, chattered either in anger or merriment--for the squirrel is such a choleric and humorous little personage, that it is hard to distinguish between his moods--so he chattered at the child, and flung down a nut upon her head. It was a last year's nut, and already gnawed by his sharp tooth. A fox, startled from his sleep by her light footstep on the leaves, looked inquisitively at Pearl, as doubting whether it were better to steal off, or renew his nap on the same spot. A wolf, it is said--but here the tale has surely lapsed into the improbable--came up and smelt of Pearl's robe, and offered his savage head to be patted by her hand. The truth seems to be, however, that the mother-forest, and these wild things which it nourished, all recognised a kindred wilderness in the human child.
And she was gentler here than in the grassy-margined streets of the settlement, or in her mother's cottage. The Bowers appeared to know it, and one and another whispered as she passed, "Adorn thyself with me, thou beautiful child, adorn thyself with me!" --and, to please them, Pearl gathered the violets, and anemones, and columbines, and some twigs of the freshest green, which the old trees held down before her eyes. With these she decorated her hair and her young waist, and became a nymph child, or an infant dryad, or whatever else was in closest sympathy with the antique wood. In such guise had Pearl adorned herself, when she heard her mother's voice, and came slowly back.
Slowly--for she saw the clergyman!
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{
"id": "33"
}
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19
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THE CHILD AT THE BROOKSIDE
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"Thou wilt love her dearly," repeated Hester Prynne, as she and the minister sat watching little Pearl. "Dost thou not think her beautiful? And see with what natural skill she has made those simple flowers adorn her! Had she gathered pearls, and diamonds, and rubies in the wood, they could not have become her better! She is a splendid child! But I know whose brow she has!"
"Dost thou know, Hester," said Arthur Dimmesdale, with an unquiet smile, "that this dear child, tripping about always at thy side, hath caused me many an alarm? Methought--oh, Hester, what a thought is that, and how terrible to dread it! --that my own features were partly repeated in her face, and so strikingly that the world might see them! But she is mostly thine!"
"No, no! Not mostly!" answered the mother, with a tender smile. "A little longer, and thou needest not to be afraid to trace whose child she is. But how strangely beautiful she looks with those wild flowers in her hair! It is as if one of the fairies, whom we left in dear old England, had decked her out to meet us."
It was with a feeling which neither of them had ever before experienced, that they sat and watched Pearl's slow advance. In her was visible the tie that united them. She had been offered to the world, these seven past years, as the living hieroglyphic, in which was revealed the secret they so darkly sought to hide--all written in this symbol--all plainly manifest--had there been a prophet or magician skilled to read the character of flame! And Pearl was the oneness of their being. Be the foregone evil what it might, how could they doubt that their earthly lives and future destinies were conjoined when they beheld at once the material union, and the spiritual idea, in whom they met, and were to dwell immortally together; thoughts like these--and perhaps other thoughts, which they did not acknowledge or define--threw an awe about the child as she came onward.
"Let her see nothing strange--no passion or eagerness--in thy way of accosting her," whispered Hester. "Our Pearl is a fitful and fantastic little elf sometimes. Especially she is generally intolerant of emotion, when she does not fully comprehend the why and wherefore. But the child hath strong affections! She loves me, and will love thee!"
"Thou canst not think," said the minister, glancing aside at Hester Prynne, "how my heart dreads this interview, and yearns for it! But, in truth, as I already told thee, children are not readily won to be familiar with me. They will not climb my knee, nor prattle in my ear, nor answer to my smile, but stand apart, and eye me strangely. Even little babes, when I take them in my arms, weep bitterly. Yet Pearl, twice in her little lifetime, hath been kind to me! The first time--thou knowest it well! The last was when thou ledst her with thee to the house of yonder stern old Governor."
"And thou didst plead so bravely in her behalf and mine!" answered the mother. "I remember it; and so shall little Pearl. Fear nothing. She may be strange and shy at first, but will soon learn to love thee!"
By this time Pearl had reached the margin of the brook, and stood on the further side, gazing silently at Hester and the clergyman, who still sat together on the mossy tree-trunk waiting to receive her. Just where she had paused, the brook chanced to form a pool so smooth and quiet that it reflected a perfect image of her little figure, with all the brilliant picturesqueness of her beauty, in its adornment of flowers and wreathed foliage, but more refined and spiritualized than the reality. This image, so nearly identical with the living Pearl, seemed to communicate somewhat of its own shadowy and intangible quality to the child herself. It was strange, the way in which Pearl stood, looking so steadfastly at them through the dim medium of the forest gloom, herself, meanwhile, all glorified with a ray of sunshine, that was attracted thitherward as by a certain sympathy. In the brook beneath stood another child--another and the same--with likewise its ray of golden light. Hester felt herself, in some indistinct and tantalizing manner, estranged from Pearl, as if the child, in her lonely ramble through the forest, had strayed out of the sphere in which she and her mother dwelt together, and was now vainly seeking to return to it.
There were both truth and error in the impression; the child and mother were estranged, but through Hester's fault, not Pearl's. Since the latter rambled from her side, another inmate had been admitted within the circle of the mother's feelings, and so modified the aspect of them all, that Pearl, the returning wanderer, could not find her wonted place, and hardly knew where she was.
"I have a strange fancy," observed the sensitive minister, "that this brook is the boundary between two worlds, and that thou canst never meet thy Pearl again. Or is she an elfish spirit, who, as the legends of our childhood taught us, is forbidden to cross a running stream? Pray hasten her, for this delay has already imparted a tremor to my nerves."
"Come, dearest child!" said Hester encouragingly, and stretching out both her arms. "How slow thou art! When hast thou been so sluggish before now? Here is a friend of mine, who must be thy friend also. Thou wilt have twice as much love henceforward as thy mother alone could give thee! Leap across the brook and come to us. Thou canst leap like a young deer!"
Pearl, without responding in any manner to these honey-sweet expressions, remained on the other side of the brook. Now she fixed her bright wild eyes on her mother, now on the minister, and now included them both in the same glance, as if to detect and explain to herself the relation which they bore to one another. For some unaccountable reason, as Arthur Dimmesdale felt the child's eyes upon himself, his hand--with that gesture so habitual as to have become involuntary--stole over his heart. At length, assuming a singular air of authority, Pearl stretched out her hand, with the small forefinger extended, and pointing evidently towards her mother's breast. And beneath, in the mirror of the brook, there was the flower-girdled and sunny image of little Pearl, pointing her small forefinger too.
"Thou strange child! why dost thou not come to me?" exclaimed Hester.
Pearl still pointed with her forefinger, and a frown gathered on her brow--the more impressive from the childish, the almost baby-like aspect of the features that conveyed it. As her mother still kept beckoning to her, and arraying her face in a holiday suit of unaccustomed smiles, the child stamped her foot with a yet more imperious look and gesture. In the brook, again, was the fantastic beauty of the image, with its reflected frown, its pointed finger, and imperious gesture, giving emphasis to the aspect of little Pearl.
"Hasten, Pearl, or I shall be angry with thee!" cried Hester Prynne, who, however, inured to such behaviour on the elf-child's part at other seasons, was naturally anxious for a more seemly deportment now. "Leap across the brook, naughty child, and run hither! Else I must come to thee!"
But Pearl, not a whit startled at her mother's threats any more than mollified by her entreaties, now suddenly burst into a fit of passion, gesticulating violently, and throwing her small figure into the most extravagant contortions. She accompanied this wild outbreak with piercing shrieks, which the woods reverberated on all sides, so that, alone as she was in her childish and unreasonable wrath, it seemed as if a hidden multitude were lending her their sympathy and encouragement. Seen in the brook once more was the shadowy wrath of Pearl's image, crowned and girdled with flowers, but stamping its foot, wildly gesticulating, and, in the midst of all, still pointing its small forefinger at Hester's bosom.
"I see what ails the child," whispered Hester to the clergyman, and turning pale in spite of a strong effort to conceal her trouble and annoyance, "Children will not abide any, the slightest, change in the accustomed aspect of things that are daily before their eyes. Pearl misses something that she has always seen me wear!"
"I pray you," answered the minister, "if thou hast any means of pacifying the child, do it forthwith! Save it were the cankered wrath of an old witch like Mistress Hibbins," added he, attempting to smile, "I know nothing that I would not sooner encounter than this passion in a child. In Pearl's young beauty, as in the wrinkled witch, it has a preternatural effect. Pacify her if thou lovest me!"
Hester turned again towards Pearl with a crimson blush upon her cheek, a conscious glance aside clergyman, and then a heavy sigh, while, even before she had time to speak, the blush yielded to a deadly pallor.
"Pearl," said she sadly, "look down at thy feet! There! --before thee! --on the hither side of the brook!"
The child turned her eyes to the point indicated, and there lay the scarlet letter so close upon the margin of the stream that the gold embroidery was reflected in it.
"Bring it hither!" said Hester.
"Come thou and take it up!" answered Pearl.
"Was ever such a child!" observed Hester aside to the minister. "Oh, I have much to tell thee about her! But, in very truth, she is right as regards this hateful token. I must bear its torture yet a little longer--only a few days longer--until we shall have left this region, and look back hither as to a land which we have dreamed of. The forest cannot hide it! The mid-ocean shall take it from my hand, and swallow it up for ever!"
With these words she advanced to the margin of the brook, took up the scarlet letter, and fastened it again into her bosom. Hopefully, but a moment ago, as Hester had spoken of drowning it in the deep sea, there was a sense of inevitable doom upon her as she thus received back this deadly symbol from the hand of fate. She had flung it into infinite space! she had drawn an hour's free breath! and here again was the scarlet misery glittering on the old spot! So it ever is, whether thus typified or no, that an evil deed invests itself with the character of doom. Hester next gathered up the heavy tresses of her hair and confined them beneath her cap. As if there were a withering spell in the sad letter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of her womanhood, departed like fading sunshine, and a gray shadow seemed to fall across her.
When the dreary change was wrought, she extended her hand to Pearl.
"Dost thou know thy mother now, child?" , asked she, reproachfully, but with a subdued tone. "Wilt thou come across the brook, and own thy mother, now that she has her shame upon her--now that she is sad?"
"Yes; now I will!" answered the child, bounding across the brook, and clasping Hester in her arms "Now thou art my mother indeed! and I am thy little Pearl!"
In a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her mother's head, and kissed her brow and both her cheeks. But then--by a kind of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever comfort she might chance to give with a throb of anguish--Pearl put up her mouth and kissed the scarlet letter, too.
"That was not kind!" said Hester. "When thou hast shown me a little love, thou mockest me!"
"Why doth the minister sit yonder?" asked Pearl.
"He waits to welcome thee," replied her mother. "Come thou, and entreat his blessing! He loves thee, my little Pearl, and loves thy mother, too. Wilt thou not love him? Come he longs to greet thee!"
"Doth he love us?" said Pearl, looking up with acute intelligence into her mother's face. "Will he go back with us, hand in hand, we three together, into the town?"
"Not now, my child," answered Hester. "But in days to come he will walk hand in hand with us. We will have a home and fireside of our own; and thou shalt sit upon his knee; and he will teach thee many things, and love thee dearly. Thou wilt love him--wilt thou not?"
"And will he always keep his hand over his heart?" inquired Pearl.
"Foolish child, what a question is that!" exclaimed her mother. "Come, and ask his blessing!"
But, whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with every petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice of her freakish nature, Pearl would show no favour to the clergyman. It was only by an exertion of force that her mother brought her up to him, hanging back, and manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces; of which, ever since her babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could transform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different aspects, with a new mischief in them, each and all. The minister--painfully embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss might prove a talisman to admit him into the child's kindlier regards--bent forward, and impressed one on her brow. Hereupon, Pearl broke away from her mother, and, running to the brook, stooped over it, and bathed her forehead, until the unwelcome kiss was quite washed off and diffused through a long lapse of the gliding water. She then remained apart, silently watching Hester and the clergyman; while they talked together and made such arrangements as were suggested by their new position and the purposes soon to be fulfilled.
And now this fateful interview had come to a close. The dell was to be left in solitude among its dark, old trees, which, with their multitudinous tongues, would whisper long of what had passed there, and no mortal be the wiser. And the melancholy brook would add this other tale to the mystery with which its little heart was already overburdened, and whereof it still kept up a murmuring babble, with not a whit more cheerfulness of tone than for ages heretofore.
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{
"id": "33"
}
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20
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THE MINISTER IN A MAZE
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As the minister departed, in advance of Hester Prynne and little Pearl, he threw a backward glance, half expecting that he should discover only some faintly traced features or outline of the mother and the child, slowly fading into the twilight of the woods. So great a vicissitude in his life could not at once be received as real. But there was Hester, clad in her gray robe, still standing beside the tree-trunk, which some blast had overthrown a long antiquity ago, and which time had ever since been covering with moss, so that these two fated ones, with earth's heaviest burden on them, might there sit down together, and find a single hour's rest and solace. And there was Pearl, too, lightly dancing from the margin of the brook--now that the intrusive third person was gone--and taking her old place by her mother's side. So the minister had not fallen asleep and dreamed!
In order to free his mind from this indistinctness and duplicity of impression, which vexed it with a strange disquietude, he recalled and more thoroughly defined the plans which Hester and himself had sketched for their departure. It had been determined between them that the Old World, with its crowds and cities, offered them a more eligible shelter and concealment than the wilds of New England or all America, with its alternatives of an Indian wigwam, or the few settlements of Europeans scattered thinly along the sea-board. Not to speak of the clergyman's health, so inadequate to sustain the hardships of a forest life, his native gifts, his culture, and his entire development would secure him a home only in the midst of civilization and refinement; the higher the state the more delicately adapted to it the man. In furtherance of this choice, it so happened that a ship lay in the harbour; one of those unquestionable cruisers, frequent at that day, which, without being absolutely outlaws of the deep, yet roamed over its surface with a remarkable irresponsibility of character. This vessel had recently arrived from the Spanish Main, and within three days' time would sail for Bristol. Hester Prynne--whose vocation, as a self-enlisted Sister of Charity, had brought her acquainted with the captain and crew--could take upon herself to secure the passage of two individuals and a child with all the secrecy which circumstances rendered more than desirable.
The minister had inquired of Hester, with no little interest, the precise time at which the vessel might be expected to depart. It would probably be on the fourth day from the present. "This is most fortunate!" he had then said to himself. Now, why the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale considered it so very fortunate we hesitate to reveal. Nevertheless--to hold nothing back from the reader--it was because, on the third day from the present, he was to preach the Election Sermon; and, as such an occasion formed an honourable epoch in the life of a New England Clergyman, he could not have chanced upon a more suitable mode and time of terminating his professional career. "At least, they shall say of me," thought this exemplary man, "that I leave no public duty unperformed or ill-performed!" Sad, indeed, that an introspection so profound and acute as this poor minister's should be so miserably deceived! We have had, and may still have, worse things to tell of him; but none, we apprehend, so pitiably weak; no evidence, at once so slight and irrefragable, of a subtle disease that had long since begun to eat into the real substance of his character. No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.
The excitement of Mr. Dimmesdale's feelings as he returned from his interview with Hester, lent him unaccustomed physical energy, and hurried him townward at a rapid pace. The pathway among the woods seemed wilder, more uncouth with its rude natural obstacles, and less trodden by the foot of man, than he remembered it on his outward journey. But he leaped across the plashy places, thrust himself through the clinging underbrush, climbed the ascent, plunged into the hollow, and overcame, in short, all the difficulties of the track, with an unweariable activity that astonished him. He could not but recall how feebly, and with what frequent pauses for breath he had toiled over the same ground, only two days before. As he drew near the town, he took an impression of change from the series of familiar objects that presented themselves. It seemed not yesterday, not one, not two, but many days, or even years ago, since he had quitted them. There, indeed, was each former trace of the street, as he remembered it, and all the peculiarities of the houses, with the due multitude of gable-peaks, and a weather-cock at every point where his memory suggested one. Not the less, however, came this importunately obtrusive sense of change. The same was true as regarded the acquaintances whom he met, and all the well-known shapes of human life, about the little town. They looked neither older nor younger now; the beards of the aged were no whiter, nor could the creeping babe of yesterday walk on his feet to-day; it was impossible to describe in what respect they differed from the individuals on whom he had so recently bestowed a parting glance; and yet the minister's deepest sense seemed to inform him of their mutability. A similar impression struck him most remarkably as he passed under the walls of his own church. The edifice had so very strange, and yet so familiar an aspect, that Mr. Dimmesdale's mind vibrated between two ideas; either that he had seen it only in a dream hitherto, or that he was merely dreaming about it now.
This phenomenon, in the various shapes which it assumed, indicated no external change, but so sudden and important a change in the spectator of the familiar scene, that the intervening space of a single day had operated on his consciousness like the lapse of years. The minister's own will, and Hester's will, and the fate that grew between them, had wrought this transformation. It was the same town as heretofore, but the same minister returned not from the forest. He might have said to the friends who greeted him--"I am not the man for whom you take me! I left him yonder in the forest, withdrawn into a secret dell, by a mossy tree trunk, and near a melancholy brook! Go, seek your minister, and see if his emaciated figure, his thin cheek, his white, heavy, pain-wrinkled brow, be not flung down there, like a cast-off garment!" His friends, no doubt, would still have insisted with him--"Thou art thyself the man!" but the error would have been their own, not his.
Before Mr. Dimmesdale reached home, his inner man gave him other evidences of a revolution in the sphere of thought and feeling. In truth, nothing short of a total change of dynasty and moral code, in that interior kingdom, was adequate to account for the impulses now communicated to the unfortunate and startled minister. At every step he was incited to do some strange, wild, wicked thing or other, with a sense that it would be at once involuntary and intentional, in spite of himself, yet growing out of a profounder self than that which opposed the impulse. For instance, he met one of his own deacons. The good old man addressed him with the paternal affection and patriarchal privilege which his venerable age, his upright and holy character, and his station in the church, entitled him to use and, conjoined with this, the deep, almost worshipping respect, which the minister's professional and private claims alike demanded. Never was there a more beautiful example of how the majesty of age and wisdom may comport with the obeisance and respect enjoined upon it, as from a lower social rank, and inferior order of endowment, towards a higher. Now, during a conversation of some two or three moments between the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale and this excellent and hoary-bearded deacon, it was only by the most careful self-control that the former could refrain from uttering certain blasphemous suggestions that rose into his mind, respecting the communion-supper. He absolutely trembled and turned pale as ashes, lest his tongue should wag itself in utterance of these horrible matters, and plead his own consent for so doing, without his having fairly given it. And, even with this terror in his heart, he could hardly avoid laughing, to imagine how the sanctified old patriarchal deacon would have been petrified by his minister's impiety.
Again, another incident of the same nature. Hurrying along the street, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale encountered the eldest female member of his church, a most pious and exemplary old dame, poor, widowed, lonely, and with a heart as full of reminiscences about her dead husband and children, and her dead friends of long ago, as a burial-ground is full of storied gravestones. Yet all this, which would else have been such heavy sorrow, was made almost a solemn joy to her devout old soul, by religious consolations and the truths of Scripture, wherewith she had fed herself continually for more than thirty years. And since Mr. Dimmesdale had taken her in charge, the good grandam's chief earthly comfort--which, unless it had been likewise a heavenly comfort, could have been none at all--was to meet her pastor, whether casually, or of set purpose, and be refreshed with a word of warm, fragrant, heaven-breathing Gospel truth, from his beloved lips, into her dulled, but rapturously attentive ear. But, on this occasion, up to the moment of putting his lips to the old woman's ear, Mr. Dimmesdale, as the great enemy of souls would have it, could recall no text of Scripture, nor aught else, except a brief, pithy, and, as it then appeared to him, unanswerable argument against the immortality of the human soul. The instilment thereof into her mind would probably have caused this aged sister to drop down dead, at once, as by the effect of an intensely poisonous infusion. What he really did whisper, the minister could never afterwards recollect. There was, perhaps, a fortunate disorder in his utterance, which failed to impart any distinct idea to the good widows comprehension, or which Providence interpreted after a method of its own. Assuredly, as the minister looked back, he beheld an expression of divine gratitude and ecstasy that seemed like the shine of the celestial city on her face, so wrinkled and ashy pale.
Again, a third instance. After parting from the old church member, he met the youngest sister of them all. It was a maiden newly-won--and won by the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale's own sermon, on the Sabbath after his vigil--to barter the transitory pleasures of the world for the heavenly hope that was to assume brighter substance as life grew dark around her, and which would gild the utter gloom with final glory. She was fair and pure as a lily that had bloomed in Paradise. The minister knew well that he was himself enshrined within the stainless sanctity of her heart, which hung its snowy curtains about his image, imparting to religion the warmth of love, and to love a religious purity. Satan, that afternoon, had surely led the poor young girl away from her mother's side, and thrown her into the pathway of this sorely tempted, or--shall we not rather say? --this lost and desperate man. As she drew nigh, the arch-fiend whispered him to condense into small compass, and drop into her tender bosom a germ of evil that would be sure to blossom darkly soon, and bear black fruit betimes. Such was his sense of power over this virgin soul, trusting him as she did, that the minister felt potent to blight all the field of innocence with but one wicked look, and develop all its opposite with but a word. So--with a mightier struggle than he had yet sustained--he held his Geneva cloak before his face, and hurried onward, making no sign of recognition, and leaving the young sister to digest his rudeness as she might. She ransacked her conscience--which was full of harmless little matters, like her pocket or her work-bag--and took herself to task, poor thing! for a thousand imaginary faults, and went about her household duties with swollen eyelids the next morning.
Before the minister had time to celebrate his victory over this last temptation, he was conscious of another impulse, more ludicrous, and almost as horrible. It was--we blush to tell it--it was to stop short in the road, and teach some very wicked words to a knot of little Puritan children who were playing there, and had but just begun to talk. Denying himself this freak, as unworthy of his cloth, he met a drunken seaman, one of the ship's crew from the Spanish Main. And here, since he had so valiantly forborne all other wickedness, poor Mr. Dimmesdale longed at least to shake hands with the tarry black-guard, and recreate himself with a few improper jests, such as dissolute sailors so abound with, and a volley of good, round, solid, satisfactory, and heaven-defying oaths! It was not so much a better principle, as partly his natural good taste, and still more his buckramed habit of clerical decorum, that carried him safely through the latter crisis.
"What is it that haunts and tempts me thus?" cried the minister to himself, at length, pausing in the street, and striking his hand against his forehead.
"Am I mad? or am I given over utterly to the fiend? Did I make a contract with him in the forest, and sign it with my blood? And does he now summon me to its fulfilment, by suggesting the performance of every wickedness which his most foul imagination can conceive?"
At the moment when the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale thus communed with himself, and struck his forehead with his hand, old Mistress Hibbins, the reputed witch-lady, is said to have been passing by. She made a very grand appearance, having on a high head-dress, a rich gown of velvet, and a ruff done up with the famous yellow starch, of which Anne Turner, her especial friend, had taught her the secret, before this last good lady had been hanged for Sir Thomas Overbury's murder. Whether the witch had read the minister's thoughts or no, she came to a full stop, looked shrewdly into his face, smiled craftily, and--though little given to converse with clergymen--began a conversation.
"So, reverend sir, you have made a visit into the forest," observed the witch-lady, nodding her high head-dress at him. "The next time I pray you to allow me only a fair warning, and I shall be proud to bear you company. Without taking overmuch upon myself my good word will go far towards gaining any strange gentleman a fair reception from yonder potentate you wot of."
"I profess, madam," answered the clergyman, with a grave obeisance, such as the lady's rank demanded, and his own good breeding made imperative--"I profess, on my conscience and character, that I am utterly bewildered as touching the purport of your words! I went not into the forest to seek a potentate, neither do I, at any future time, design a visit thither, with a view to gaining the favour of such personage. My one sufficient object was to greet that pious friend of mine, the Apostle Eliot, and rejoice with him over the many precious souls he hath won from heathendom!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" cackled the old witch-lady, still nodding her high head-dress at the minister. "Well, well! we must needs talk thus in the daytime! You carry it off like an old hand! But at midnight, and in the forest, we shall have other talk together!"
She passed on with her aged stateliness, but often turning back her head and smiling at him, like one willing to recognise a secret intimacy of connexion.
"Have I then sold myself," thought the minister, "to the fiend whom, if men say true, this yellow-starched and velveted old hag has chosen for her prince and master?"
The wretched minister! He had made a bargain very like it! Tempted by a dream of happiness, he had yielded himself with deliberate choice, as he had never done before, to what he knew was deadly sin. And the infectious poison of that sin had been thus rapidly diffused throughout his moral system. It had stupefied all blessed impulses, and awakened into vivid life the whole brotherhood of bad ones. Scorn, bitterness, unprovoked malignity, gratuitous desire of ill, ridicule of whatever was good and holy, all awoke to tempt, even while they frightened him. And his encounter with old Mistress Hibbins, if it were a real incident, did but show its sympathy and fellowship with wicked mortals, and the world of perverted spirits.
He had by this time reached his dwelling on the edge of the burial ground, and, hastening up the stairs, took refuge in his study. The minister was glad to have reached this shelter, without first betraying himself to the world by any of those strange and wicked eccentricities to which he had been continually impelled while passing through the streets. He entered the accustomed room, and looked around him on its books, its windows, its fireplace, and the tapestried comfort of the walls, with the same perception of strangeness that had haunted him throughout his walk from the forest dell into the town and thitherward. Here he had studied and written; here gone through fast and vigil, and come forth half alive; here striven to pray; here borne a hundred thousand agonies! There was the Bible, in its rich old Hebrew, with Moses and the Prophets speaking to him, and God's voice through all.
There on the table, with the inky pen beside it, was an unfinished sermon, with a sentence broken in the midst, where his thoughts had ceased to gush out upon the page two days before. He knew that it was himself, the thin and white-cheeked minister, who had done and suffered these things, and written thus far into the Election Sermon! But he seemed to stand apart, and eye this former self with scornful pitying, but half-envious curiosity. That self was gone. Another man had returned out of the forest--a wiser one--with a knowledge of hidden mysteries which the simplicity of the former never could have reached. A bitter kind of knowledge that!
While occupied with these reflections, a knock came at the door of the study, and the minister said, "Come in!" --not wholly devoid of an idea that he might behold an evil spirit. And so he did! It was old Roger Chillingworth that entered. The minister stood white and speechless, with one hand on the Hebrew Scriptures, and the other spread upon his breast.
"Welcome home, reverend sir," said the physician "And how found you that godly man, the Apostle Eliot? But methinks, dear sir, you look pale, as if the travel through the wilderness had been too sore for you. Will not my aid be requisite to put you in heart and strength to preach your Election Sermon?"
"Nay, I think not so," rejoined the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale. "My journey, and the sight of the holy Apostle yonder, and the free air which I have breathed have done me good, after so long confinement in my study. I think to need no more of your drugs, my kind physician, good though they be, and administered by a friendly hand."
All this time Roger Chillingworth was looking at the minister with the grave and intent regard of a physician towards his patient. But, in spite of this outward show, the latter was almost convinced of the old man's knowledge, or, at least, his confident suspicion, with respect to his own interview with Hester Prynne. The physician knew then that in the minister's regard he was no longer a trusted friend, but his bitterest enemy. So much being known, it would appear natural that a part of it should be expressed. It is singular, however, how long a time often passes before words embody things; and with what security two persons, who choose to avoid a certain subject, may approach its very verge, and retire without disturbing it. Thus the minister felt no apprehension that Roger Chillingworth would touch, in express words, upon the real position which they sustained towards one another. Yet did the physician, in his dark way, creep frightfully near the secret.
"Were it not better," said he, "that you use my poor skill tonight? Verily, dear sir, we must take pains to make you strong and vigorous for this occasion of the Election discourse. The people look for great things from you, apprehending that another year may come about and find their pastor gone."
"Yes, to another world," replied the minister with pious resignation. "Heaven grant it be a better one; for, in good sooth, I hardly think to tarry with my flock through the flitting seasons of another year! But touching your medicine, kind sir, in my present frame of body I need it not."
"I joy to hear it," answered the physician. "It may be that my remedies, so long administered in vain, begin now to take due effect. Happy man were I, and well deserving of New England's gratitude, could I achieve this cure!"
"I thank you from my heart, most watchful friend," said the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale with a solemn smile. "I thank you, and can but requite your good deeds with my prayers."
"A good man's prayers are golden recompense!" rejoined old Roger Chillingworth, as he took his leave. "Yea, they are the current gold coin of the New Jerusalem, with the King's own mint mark on them!"
Left alone, the minister summoned a servant of the house, and requested food, which, being set before him, he ate with ravenous appetite. Then flinging the already written pages of the Election Sermon into the fire, he forthwith began another, which he wrote with such an impulsive flow of thought and emotion, that he fancied himself inspired; and only wondered that Heaven should see fit to transmit the grand and solemn music of its oracles through so foul an organ pipe as he. However, leaving that mystery to solve itself, or go unsolved for ever, he drove his task onward with earnest haste and ecstasy.
Thus the night fled away, as if it were a winged steed, and he careering on it; morning came, and peeped, blushing, through the curtains; and at last sunrise threw a golden beam into the study, and laid it right across the minister's bedazzled eyes. There he was, with the pen still between his fingers, and a vast, immeasurable tract of written space behind him!
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{
"id": "33"
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21
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THE NEW ENGLAND HOLIDAY
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Betimes in the morning of the day on which the new Governor was to receive his office at the hands of the people, Hester Prynne and little Pearl came into the market-place. It was already thronged with the craftsmen and other plebeian inhabitants of the town, in considerable numbers, among whom, likewise, were many rough figures, whose attire of deer-skins marked them as belonging to some of the forest settlements, which surrounded the little metropolis of the colony.
On this public holiday, as on all other occasions for seven years past, Hester was clad in a garment of coarse gray cloth. Not more by its hue than by some indescribable peculiarity in its fashion, it had the effect of making her fade personally out of sight and outline; while again the scarlet letter brought her back from this twilight indistinctness, and revealed her under the moral aspect of its own illumination. Her face, so long familiar to the townspeople, showed the marble quietude which they were accustomed to behold there. It was like a mask; or, rather like the frozen calmness of a dead woman's features; owing this dreary resemblance to the fact that Hester was actually dead, in respect to any claim of sympathy, and had departed out of the world with which she still seemed to mingle.
It might be, on this one day, that there was an expression unseen before, nor, indeed, vivid enough to be detected now; unless some preternaturally gifted observer should have first read the heart, and have afterwards sought a corresponding development in the countenance and mien. Such a spiritual seer might have conceived, that, after sustaining the gaze of the multitude through several miserable years as a necessity, a penance, and something which it was a stern religion to endure, she now, for one last time more, encountered it freely and voluntarily, in order to convert what had so long been agony into a kind of triumph. "Look your last on the scarlet letter and its wearer!" --the people's victim and lifelong bond-slave, as they fancied her, might say to them. "Yet a little while, and she will be beyond your reach! A few hours longer and the deep, mysterious ocean will quench and hide for ever the symbol which ye have caused to burn on her bosom!" Nor were it an inconsistency too improbable to be assigned to human nature, should we suppose a feeling of regret in Hester's mind, at the moment when she was about to win her freedom from the pain which had been thus deeply incorporated with her being. Might there not be an irresistible desire to quaff a last, long, breathless draught of the cup of wormwood and aloes, with which nearly all her years of womanhood had been perpetually flavoured. The wine of life, henceforth to be presented to her lips, must be indeed rich, delicious, and exhilarating, in its chased and golden beaker, or else leave an inevitable and weary languor, after the lees of bitterness wherewith she had been drugged, as with a cordial of intensest potency.
Pearl was decked out with airy gaiety. It would have been impossible to guess that this bright and sunny apparition owed its existence to the shape of gloomy gray; or that a fancy, at once so gorgeous and so delicate as must have been requisite to contrive the child's apparel, was the same that had achieved a task perhaps more difficult, in imparting so distinct a peculiarity to Hester's simple robe. The dress, so proper was it to little Pearl, seemed an effluence, or inevitable development and outward manifestation of her character, no more to be separated from her than the many-hued brilliancy from a butterfly's wing, or the painted glory from the leaf of a bright flower. As with these, so with the child; her garb was all of one idea with her nature. On this eventful day, moreover, there was a certain singular inquietude and excitement in her mood, resembling nothing so much as the shimmer of a diamond, that sparkles and flashes with the varied throbbings of the breast on which it is displayed. Children have always a sympathy in the agitations of those connected with them: always, especially, a sense of any trouble or impending revolution, of whatever kind, in domestic circumstances; and therefore Pearl, who was the gem on her mother's unquiet bosom, betrayed, by the very dance of her spirits, the emotions which none could detect in the marble passiveness of Hester's brow.
This effervescence made her flit with a bird-like movement, rather than walk by her mother's side.
She broke continually into shouts of a wild, inarticulate, and sometimes piercing music. When they reached the market-place, she became still more restless, on perceiving the stir and bustle that enlivened the spot; for it was usually more like the broad and lonesome green before a village meeting-house, than the centre of a town's business.
"Why, what is this, mother?" cried she. "Wherefore have all the people left their work to-day? Is it a play-day for the whole world? See, there is the blacksmith! He has washed his sooty face, and put on his Sabbath-day clothes, and looks as if he would gladly be merry, if any kind body would only teach him how! And there is Master Brackett, the old jailer, nodding and smiling at me. Why does he do so, mother?"
"He remembers thee a little babe, my child," answered Hester.
"He should not nod and smile at me, for all that--the black, grim, ugly-eyed old man!" said Pearl. "He may nod at thee, if he will; for thou art clad in gray, and wearest the scarlet letter. But see, mother, how many faces of strange people, and Indians among them, and sailors! What have they all come to do, here in the market-place?"
"They wait to see the procession pass," said Hester. "For the Governor and the magistrates are to go by, and the ministers, and all the great people and good people, with the music and the soldiers marching before them."
"And will the minister be there?" asked Pearl. "And will he hold out both his hands to me, as when thou ledst me to him from the brook-side?"
"He will be there, child," answered her mother, "but he will not greet thee to-day, nor must thou greet him."
"What a strange, sad man is he!" said the child, as if speaking partly to herself. "In the dark nighttime he calls us to him, and holds thy hand and mine, as when we stood with him on the scaffold yonder! And in the deep forest, where only the old trees can hear, and the strip of sky see it, he talks with thee, sitting on a heap of moss! And he kisses my forehead, too, so that the little brook would hardly wash it off! But, here, in the sunny day, and among all the people, he knows us not; nor must we know him! A strange, sad man is he, with his hand always over his heart!"
"Be quiet, Pearl--thou understandest not these things," said her mother. "Think not now of the minister, but look about thee, and see how cheery is everybody's face to-day. The children have come from their schools, and the grown people from their workshops and their fields, on purpose to be happy, for, to-day, a new man is beginning to rule over them; and so--as has been the custom of mankind ever since a nation was first gathered--they make merry and rejoice: as if a good and golden year were at length to pass over the poor old world!"
It was as Hester said, in regard to the unwonted jollity that brightened the faces of the people. Into this festal season of the year--as it already was, and continued to be during the greater part of two centuries--the Puritans compressed whatever mirth and public joy they deemed allowable to human infirmity; thereby so far dispelling the customary cloud, that, for the space of a single holiday, they appeared scarcely more grave than most other communities at a period of general affliction.
But we perhaps exaggerate the gray or sable tinge, which undoubtedly characterized the mood and manners of the age. The persons now in the market-place of Boston had not been born to an inheritance of Puritanic gloom. They were native Englishmen, whose fathers had lived in the sunny richness of the Elizabethan epoch; a time when the life of England, viewed as one great mass, would appear to have been as stately, magnificent, and joyous, as the world has ever witnessed. Had they followed their hereditary taste, the New England settlers would have illustrated all events of public importance by bonfires, banquets, pageantries, and processions. Nor would it have been impracticable, in the observance of majestic ceremonies, to combine mirthful recreation with solemnity, and give, as it were, a grotesque and brilliant embroidery to the great robe of state, which a nation, at such festivals, puts on. There was some shadow of an attempt of this kind in the mode of celebrating the day on which the political year of the colony commenced. The dim reflection of a remembered splendour, a colourless and manifold diluted repetition of what they had beheld in proud old London--we will not say at a royal coronation, but at a Lord Mayor's show--might be traced in the customs which our forefathers instituted, with reference to the annual installation of magistrates. The fathers and founders of the commonwealth--the statesman, the priest, and the soldier--seemed it a duty then to assume the outward state and majesty, which, in accordance with antique style, was looked upon as the proper garb of public and social eminence. All came forth to move in procession before the people's eye, and thus impart a needed dignity to the simple framework of a government so newly constructed.
Then, too, the people were countenanced, if not encouraged, in relaxing the severe and close application to their various modes of rugged industry, which at all other times, seemed of the same piece and material with their religion. Here, it is true, were none of the appliances which popular merriment would so readily have found in the England of Elizabeth's time, or that of James--no rude shows of a theatrical kind; no minstrel, with his harp and legendary ballad, nor gleeman with an ape dancing to his music; no juggler, with his tricks of mimic witchcraft; no Merry Andrew, to stir up the multitude with jests, perhaps a hundred years old, but still effective, by their appeals to the very broadest sources of mirthful sympathy. All such professors of the several branches of jocularity would have been sternly repressed, not only by the rigid discipline of law, but by the general sentiment which give law its vitality. Not the less, however, the great, honest face of the people smiled--grimly, perhaps, but widely too. Nor were sports wanting, such as the colonists had witnessed, and shared in, long ago, at the country fairs and on the village-greens of England; and which it was thought well to keep alive on this new soil, for the sake of the courage and manliness that were essential in them. Wrestling matches, in the different fashions of Cornwall and Devonshire, were seen here and there about the market-place; in one corner, there was a friendly bout at quarterstaff; and--what attracted most interest of all--on the platform of the pillory, already so noted in our pages, two masters of defence were commencing an exhibition with the buckler and broadsword. But, much to the disappointment of the crowd, this latter business was broken off by the interposition of the town beadle, who had no idea of permitting the majesty of the law to be violated by such an abuse of one of its consecrated places.
It may not be too much to affirm, on the whole, (the people being then in the first stages of joyless deportment, and the offspring of sires who had known how to be merry, in their day), that they would compare favourably, in point of holiday keeping, with their descendants, even at so long an interval as ourselves. Their immediate posterity, the generation next to the early emigrants, wore the blackest shade of Puritanism, and so darkened the national visage with it, that all the subsequent years have not sufficed to clear it up. We have yet to learn again the forgotten art of gaiety.
The picture of human life in the market-place, though its general tint was the sad gray, brown, or black of the English emigrants, was yet enlivened by some diversity of hue. A party of Indians--in their savage finery of curiously embroidered deerskin robes, wampum-belts, red and yellow ochre, and feathers, and armed with the bow and arrow and stone-headed spear--stood apart with countenances of inflexible gravity, beyond what even the Puritan aspect could attain. Nor, wild as were these painted barbarians, were they the wildest feature of the scene. This distinction could more justly be claimed by some mariners--a part of the crew of the vessel from the Spanish Main--who had come ashore to see the humours of Election Day. They were rough-looking desperadoes, with sun-blackened faces, and an immensity of beard; their wide short trousers were confined about the waist by belts, often clasped with a rough plate of gold, and sustaining always a long knife, and in some instances, a sword. From beneath their broad-brimmed hats of palm-leaf, gleamed eyes which, even in good-nature and merriment, had a kind of animal ferocity. They transgressed without fear or scruple, the rules of behaviour that were binding on all others: smoking tobacco under the beadle's very nose, although each whiff would have cost a townsman a shilling; and quaffing at their pleasure, draughts of wine or aqua-vitae from pocket flasks, which they freely tendered to the gaping crowd around them. It remarkably characterised the incomplete morality of the age, rigid as we call it, that a licence was allowed the seafaring class, not merely for their freaks on shore, but for far more desperate deeds on their proper element. The sailor of that day would go near to be arraigned as a pirate in our own. There could be little doubt, for instance, that this very ship's crew, though no unfavourable specimens of the nautical brotherhood, had been guilty, as we should phrase it, of depredations on the Spanish commerce, such as would have perilled all their necks in a modern court of justice.
But the sea in those old times heaved, swelled, and foamed very much at its own will, or subject only to the tempestuous wind, with hardly any attempts at regulation by human law. The buccaneer on the wave might relinquish his calling and become at once if he chose, a man of probity and piety on land; nor, even in the full career of his reckless life, was he regarded as a personage with whom it was disreputable to traffic or casually associate. Thus the Puritan elders in their black cloaks, starched bands, and steeple-crowned hats, smiled not unbenignantly at the clamour and rude deportment of these jolly seafaring men; and it excited neither surprise nor animadversion when so reputable a citizen as old Roger Chillingworth, the physician, was seen to enter the market-place in close and familiar talk with the commander of the questionable vessel.
The latter was by far the most showy and gallant figure, so far as apparel went, anywhere to be seen among the multitude. He wore a profusion of ribbons on his garment, and gold lace on his hat, which was also encircled by a gold chain, and surmounted with a feather. There was a sword at his side and a sword-cut on his forehead, which, by the arrangement of his hair, he seemed anxious rather to display than hide. A landsman could hardly have worn this garb and shown this face, and worn and shown them both with such a galliard air, without undergoing stern question before a magistrate, and probably incurring a fine or imprisonment, or perhaps an exhibition in the stocks. As regarded the shipmaster, however, all was looked upon as pertaining to the character, as to a fish his glistening scales.
After parting from the physician, the commander of the Bristol ship strolled idly through the market-place; until happening to approach the spot where Hester Prynne was standing, he appeared to recognise, and did not hesitate to address her. As was usually the case wherever Hester stood, a small vacant area--a sort of magic circle--had formed itself about her, into which, though the people were elbowing one another at a little distance, none ventured or felt disposed to intrude. It was a forcible type of the moral solitude in which the scarlet letter enveloped its fated wearer; partly by her own reserve, and partly by the instinctive, though no longer so unkindly, withdrawal of her fellow-creatures. Now, if never before, it answered a good purpose by enabling Hester and the seaman to speak together without risk of being overheard; and so changed was Hester Prynne's repute before the public, that the matron in town, most eminent for rigid morality, could not have held such intercourse with less result of scandal than herself.
"So, mistress," said the mariner, "I must bid the steward make ready one more berth than you bargained for! No fear of scurvy or ship fever this voyage. What with the ship's surgeon and this other doctor, our only danger will be from drug or pill; more by token, as there is a lot of apothecary's stuff aboard, which I traded for with a Spanish vessel."
"What mean you?" inquired Hester, startled more than she permitted to appear. "Have you another passenger?"
"Why, know you not," cried the shipmaster, "that this physician here--Chillingworth he calls himself--is minded to try my cabin-fare with you? Ay, ay, you must have known it; for he tells me he is of your party, and a close friend to the gentleman you spoke of--he that is in peril from these sour old Puritan rulers."
"They know each other well, indeed," replied Hester, with a mien of calmness, though in the utmost consternation. "They have long dwelt together."
Nothing further passed between the mariner and Hester Prynne. But at that instant she beheld old Roger Chillingworth himself, standing in the remotest corner of the market-place and smiling on her; a smile which--across the wide and bustling square, and through all the talk and laughter, and various thoughts, moods, and interests of the crowd--conveyed secret and fearful meaning.
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{
"id": "33"
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22
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THE PROCESSION
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Before Hester Prynne could call together her thoughts, and consider what was practicable to be done in this new and startling aspect of affairs, the sound of military music was heard approaching along a contiguous street. It denoted the advance of the procession of magistrates and citizens on its way towards the meeting-house: where, in compliance with a custom thus early established, and ever since observed, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale was to deliver an Election Sermon.
Soon the head of the procession showed itself, with a slow and stately march, turning a corner, and making its way across the market-place. First came the music. It comprised a variety of instruments, perhaps imperfectly adapted to one another, and played with no great skill; but yet attaining the great object for which the harmony of drum and clarion addresses itself to the multitude--that of imparting a higher and more heroic air to the scene of life that passes before the eye. Little Pearl at first clapped her hands, but then lost for an instant the restless agitation that had kept her in a continual effervescence throughout the morning; she gazed silently, and seemed to be borne upward like a floating sea-bird on the long heaves and swells of sound. But she was brought back to her former mood by the shimmer of the sunshine on the weapons and bright armour of the military company, which followed after the music, and formed the honorary escort of the procession. This body of soldiery--which still sustains a corporate existence, and marches down from past ages with an ancient and honourable fame--was composed of no mercenary materials. Its ranks were filled with gentlemen who felt the stirrings of martial impulse, and sought to establish a kind of College of Arms, where, as in an association of Knights Templars, they might learn the science, and, so far as peaceful exercise would teach them, the practices of war. The high estimation then placed upon the military character might be seen in the lofty port of each individual member of the company. Some of them, indeed, by their services in the Low Countries and on other fields of European warfare, had fairly won their title to assume the name and pomp of soldiership. The entire array, moreover, clad in burnished steel, and with plumage nodding over their bright morions, had a brilliancy of effect which no modern display can aspire to equal.
And yet the men of civil eminence, who came immediately behind the military escort, were better worth a thoughtful observer's eye. Even in outward demeanour they showed a stamp of majesty that made the warrior's haughty stride look vulgar, if not absurd. It was an age when what we call talent had far less consideration than now, but the massive materials which produce stability and dignity of character a great deal more. The people possessed by hereditary right the quality of reverence, which, in their descendants, if it survive at all, exists in smaller proportion, and with a vastly diminished force in the selection and estimate of public men. The change may be for good or ill, and is partly, perhaps, for both. In that old day the English settler on these rude shores--having left king, nobles, and all degrees of awful rank behind, while still the faculty and necessity of reverence was strong in him--bestowed it on the white hair and venerable brow of age--on long-tried integrity--on solid wisdom and sad-coloured experience--on endowments of that grave and weighty order which gave the idea of permanence, and comes under the general definition of respectability. These primitive statesmen, therefore--Bradstreet, Endicott, Dudley, Bellingham, and their compeers--who were elevated to power by the early choice of the people, seem to have been not often brilliant, but distinguished by a ponderous sobriety, rather than activity of intellect. They had fortitude and self-reliance, and in time of difficulty or peril stood up for the welfare of the state like a line of cliffs against a tempestuous tide. The traits of character here indicated were well represented in the square cast of countenance and large physical development of the new colonial magistrates. So far as a demeanour of natural authority was concerned, the mother country need not have been ashamed to see these foremost men of an actual democracy adopted into the House of Peers, or make the Privy Council of the Sovereign.
Next in order to the magistrates came the young and eminently distinguished divine, from whose lips the religious discourse of the anniversary was expected. His was the profession at that era in which intellectual ability displayed itself far more than in political life; for--leaving a higher motive out of the question it offered inducements powerful enough in the almost worshipping respect of the community, to win the most aspiring ambition into its service. Even political power--as in the case of Increase Mather--was within the grasp of a successful priest.
It was the observation of those who beheld him now, that never, since Mr. Dimmesdale first set his foot on the New England shore, had he exhibited such energy as was seen in the gait and air with which he kept his pace in the procession. There was no feebleness of step as at other times; his frame was not bent, nor did his hand rest ominously upon his heart. Yet, if the clergyman were rightly viewed, his strength seemed not of the body. It might be spiritual and imparted to him by angelical ministrations. It might be the exhilaration of that potent cordial which is distilled only in the furnace-glow of earnest and long-continued thought. Or perchance his sensitive temperament was invigorated by the loud and piercing music that swelled heaven-ward, and uplifted him on its ascending wave. Nevertheless, so abstracted was his look, it might be questioned whether Mr. Dimmesdale even heard the music. There was his body, moving onward, and with an unaccustomed force. But where was his mind? Far and deep in its own region, busying itself, with preternatural activity, to marshal a procession of stately thoughts that were soon to issue thence; and so he saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing of what was around him; but the spiritual element took up the feeble frame and carried it along, unconscious of the burden, and converting it to spirit like itself. Men of uncommon intellect, who have grown morbid, possess this occasional power of mighty effort, into which they throw the life of many days and then are lifeless for as many more.
Hester Prynne, gazing steadfastly at the clergyman, felt a dreary influence come over her, but wherefore or whence she knew not, unless that he seemed so remote from her own sphere, and utterly beyond her reach. One glance of recognition she had imagined must needs pass between them. She thought of the dim forest, with its little dell of solitude, and love, and anguish, and the mossy tree-trunk, where, sitting hand-in-hand, they had mingled their sad and passionate talk with the melancholy murmur of the brook. How deeply had they known each other then! And was this the man? She hardly knew him now! He, moving proudly past, enveloped as it were, in the rich music, with the procession of majestic and venerable fathers; he, so unattainable in his worldly position, and still more so in that far vista of his unsympathizing thoughts, through which she now beheld him! Her spirit sank with the idea that all must have been a delusion, and that, vividly as she had dreamed it, there could be no real bond betwixt the clergyman and herself. And thus much of woman was there in Hester, that she could scarcely forgive him--least of all now, when the heavy footstep of their approaching Fate might be heard, nearer, nearer, nearer! --for being able so completely to withdraw himself from their mutual world--while she groped darkly, and stretched forth her cold hands, and found him not.
Pearl either saw and responded to her mother's feelings, or herself felt the remoteness and intangibility that had fallen around the minister. While the procession passed, the child was uneasy, fluttering up and down, like a bird on the point of taking flight. When the whole had gone by, she looked up into Hester's face-- "Mother," said she, "was that the same minister that kissed me by the brook?"
"Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl!" whispered her mother. "We must not always talk in the marketplace of what happens to us in the forest."
"I could not be sure that it was he--so strange he looked," continued the child. "Else I would have run to him, and bid him kiss me now, before all the people, even as he did yonder among the dark old trees. What would the minister have said, mother? Would he have clapped his hand over his heart, and scowled on me, and bid me begone?"
"What should he say, Pearl," answered Hester, "save that it was no time to kiss, and that kisses are not to be given in the market-place? Well for thee, foolish child, that thou didst not speak to him!"
Another shade of the same sentiment, in reference to Mr. Dimmesdale, was expressed by a person whose eccentricities--insanity, as we should term it--led her to do what few of the townspeople would have ventured on--to begin a conversation with the wearer of the scarlet letter in public. It was Mistress Hibbins, who, arrayed in great magnificence, with a triple ruff, a broidered stomacher, a gown of rich velvet, and a gold-headed cane, had come forth to see the procession. As this ancient lady had the renown (which subsequently cost her no less a price than her life) of being a principal actor in all the works of necromancy that were continually going forward, the crowd gave way before her, and seemed to fear the touch of her garment, as if it carried the plague among its gorgeous folds. Seen in conjunction with Hester Prynne--kindly as so many now felt towards the latter--the dread inspired by Mistress Hibbins had doubled, and caused a general movement from that part of the market-place in which the two women stood.
"Now, what mortal imagination could conceive it?" whispered the old lady confidentially to Hester. "Yonder divine man! That saint on earth, as the people uphold him to be, and as--I must needs say--he really looks! Who, now, that saw him pass in the procession, would think how little while it is since he went forth out of his study--chewing a Hebrew text of Scripture in his mouth, I warrant--to take an airing in the forest! Aha! we know what that means, Hester Prynne! But truly, forsooth, I find it hard to believe him the same man. Many a church member saw I, walking behind the music, that has danced in the same measure with me, when Somebody was fiddler, and, it might be, an Indian powwow or a Lapland wizard changing hands with us! That is but a trifle, when a woman knows the world. But this minister. Couldst thou surely tell, Hester, whether he was the same man that encountered thee on the forest path?"
"Madam, I know not of what you speak," answered Hester Prynne, feeling Mistress Hibbins to be of infirm mind; yet strangely startled and awe-stricken by the confidence with which she affirmed a personal connexion between so many persons (herself among them) and the Evil One. "It is not for me to talk lightly of a learned and pious minister of the Word, like the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale."
"Fie, woman--fie!" cried the old lady, shaking her finger at Hester. "Dost thou think I have been to the forest so many times, and have yet no skill to judge who else has been there? Yea, though no leaf of the wild garlands which they wore while they danced be left in their hair! I know thee, Hester, for I behold the token. We may all see it in the sunshine! and it glows like a red flame in the dark. Thou wearest it openly, so there need be no question about that. But this minister! Let me tell thee in thine ear! When the Black Man sees one of his own servants, signed and sealed, so shy of owning to the bond as is the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, he hath a way of ordering matters so that the mark shall be disclosed, in open daylight, to the eyes of all the world! What is that the minister seeks to hide, with his hand always over his heart? Ha, Hester Prynne?"
"What is it, good Mistress Hibbins?" eagerly asked little Pearl. "Hast thou seen it?"
"No matter, darling!" responded Mistress Hibbins, making Pearl a profound reverence. "Thou thyself wilt see it, one time or another. They say, child, thou art of the lineage of the Prince of Air! Wilt thou ride with me some fine night to see thy father? Then thou shalt know wherefore the minister keeps his hand over his heart!"
Laughing so shrilly that all the market-place could hear her, the weird old gentlewoman took her departure.
By this time the preliminary prayer had been offered in the meeting-house, and the accents of the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale were heard commencing his discourse. An irresistible feeling kept Hester near the spot. As the sacred edifice was too much thronged to admit another auditor, she took up her position close beside the scaffold of the pillory. It was in sufficient proximity to bring the whole sermon to her ears, in the shape of an indistinct but varied murmur and flow of the minister's very peculiar voice.
This vocal organ was in itself a rich endowment, insomuch that a listener, comprehending nothing of the language in which the preacher spoke, might still have been swayed to and fro by the mere tone and cadence. Like all other music, it breathed passion and pathos, and emotions high or tender, in a tongue native to the human heart, wherever educated. Muffled as the sound was by its passage through the church walls, Hester Prynne listened with such intenseness, and sympathized so intimately, that the sermon had throughout a meaning for her, entirely apart from its indistinguishable words. These, perhaps, if more distinctly heard, might have been only a grosser medium, and have clogged the spiritual sense. Now she caught the low undertone, as of the wind sinking down to repose itself; then ascended with it, as it rose through progressive gradations of sweetness and power, until its volume seemed to envelop her with an atmosphere of awe and solemn grandeur. And yet, majestic as the voice sometimes became, there was for ever in it an essential character of plaintiveness. A loud or low expression of anguish--the whisper, or the shriek, as it might be conceived, of suffering humanity, that touched a sensibility in every bosom! At times this deep strain of pathos was all that could be heard, and scarcely heard sighing amid a desolate silence. But even when the minister's voice grew high and commanding--when it gushed irrepressibly upward--when it assumed its utmost breadth and power, so overfilling the church as to burst its way through the solid walls, and diffuse itself in the open air--still, if the auditor listened intently, and for the purpose, he could detect the same cry of pain. What was it? The complaint of a human heart, sorrow-laden, perchance guilty, telling its secret, whether of guilt or sorrow, to the great heart of mankind; beseeching its sympathy or forgiveness,--at every moment,--in each accent,--and never in vain! It was this profound and continual undertone that gave the clergyman his most appropriate power.
During all this time, Hester stood, statue-like, at the foot of the scaffold. If the minister's voice had not kept her there, there would, nevertheless, have been an inevitable magnetism in that spot, whence she dated the first hour of her life of ignominy. There was a sense within her--too ill-defined to be made a thought, but weighing heavily on her mind--that her whole orb of life, both before and after, was connected with this spot, as with the one point that gave it unity.
Little Pearl, meanwhile, had quitted her mother's side, and was playing at her own will about the market-place. She made the sombre crowd cheerful by her erratic and glistening ray, even as a bird of bright plumage illuminates a whole tree of dusky foliage by darting to and fro, half seen and half concealed amid the twilight of the clustering leaves. She had an undulating, but oftentimes a sharp and irregular movement. It indicated the restless vivacity of her spirit, which to-day was doubly indefatigable in its tip-toe dance, because it was played upon and vibrated with her mother's disquietude. Whenever Pearl saw anything to excite her ever active and wandering curiosity, she flew thitherward, and, as we might say, seized upon that man or thing as her own property, so far as she desired it, but without yielding the minutest degree of control over her motions in requital. The Puritans looked on, and, if they smiled, were none the less inclined to pronounce the child a demon offspring, from the indescribable charm of beauty and eccentricity that shone through her little figure, and sparkled with its activity. She ran and looked the wild Indian in the face, and he grew conscious of a nature wilder than his own. Thence, with native audacity, but still with a reserve as characteristic, she flew into the midst of a group of mariners, the swarthy-cheeked wild men of the ocean, as the Indians were of the land; and they gazed wonderingly and admiringly at Pearl, as if a flake of the sea-foam had taken the shape of a little maid, and were gifted with a soul of the sea-fire, that flashes beneath the prow in the night-time.
One of these seafaring men the shipmaster, indeed, who had spoken to Hester Prynne was so smitten with Pearl's aspect, that he attempted to lay hands upon her, with purpose to snatch a kiss. Finding it as impossible to touch her as to catch a humming-bird in the air, he took from his hat the gold chain that was twisted about it, and threw it to the child. Pearl immediately twined it around her neck and waist with such happy skill, that, once seen there, it became a part of her, and it was difficult to imagine her without it.
"Thy mother is yonder woman with the scarlet letter," said the seaman, "Wilt thou carry her a message from me?"
"If the message pleases me, I will," answered Pearl.
"Then tell her," rejoined he, "that I spake again with the black-a-visaged, hump shouldered old doctor, and he engages to bring his friend, the gentleman she wots of, aboard with him. So let thy mother take no thought, save for herself and thee. Wilt thou tell her this, thou witch-baby?"
"Mistress Hibbins says my father is the Prince of the Air!" cried Pearl, with a naughty smile. "If thou callest me that ill-name, I shall tell him of thee, and he will chase thy ship with a tempest!"
Pursuing a zigzag course across the marketplace, the child returned to her mother, and communicated what the mariner had said. Hester's strong, calm steadfastly-enduring spirit almost sank, at last, on beholding this dark and grim countenance of an inevitable doom, which at the moment when a passage seemed to open for the minister and herself out of their labyrinth of misery--showed itself with an unrelenting smile, right in the midst of their path.
With her mind harassed by the terrible perplexity in which the shipmaster's intelligence involved her, she was also subjected to another trial. There were many people present from the country round about, who had often heard of the scarlet letter, and to whom it had been made terrific by a hundred false or exaggerated rumours, but who had never beheld it with their own bodily eyes. These, after exhausting other modes of amusement, now thronged about Hester Prynne with rude and boorish intrusiveness. Unscrupulous as it was, however, it could not bring them nearer than a circuit of several yards. At that distance they accordingly stood, fixed there by the centrifugal force of the repugnance which the mystic symbol inspired. The whole gang of sailors, likewise, observing the press of spectators, and learning the purport of the scarlet letter, came and thrust their sunburnt and desperado-looking faces into the ring. Even the Indians were affected by a sort of cold shadow of the white man's curiosity and, gliding through the crowd, fastened their snake-like black eyes on Hester's bosom, conceiving, perhaps, that the wearer of this brilliantly embroidered badge must needs be a personage of high dignity among her people. Lastly, the inhabitants of the town (their own interest in this worn-out subject languidly reviving itself, by sympathy with what they saw others feel) lounged idly to the same quarter, and tormented Hester Prynne, perhaps more than all the rest, with their cool, well-acquainted gaze at her familiar shame. Hester saw and recognized the selfsame faces of that group of matrons, who had awaited her forthcoming from the prison-door seven years ago; all save one, the youngest and only compassionate among them, whose burial-robe she had since made. At the final hour, when she was so soon to fling aside the burning letter, it had strangely become the centre of more remark and excitement, and was thus made to sear her breast more painfully, than at any time since the first day she put it on.
While Hester stood in that magic circle of ignominy, where the cunning cruelty of her sentence seemed to have fixed her for ever, the admirable preacher was looking down from the sacred pulpit upon an audience whose very inmost spirits had yielded to his control. The sainted minister in the church! The woman of the scarlet letter in the marketplace! What imagination would have been irreverent enough to surmise that the same scorching stigma was on them both!
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{
"id": "33"
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23
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THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER
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The eloquent voice, on which the souls of the listening audience had been borne aloft as on the swelling waves of the sea, at length came to a pause. There was a momentary silence, profound as what should follow the utterance of oracles. Then ensued a murmur and half-hushed tumult, as if the auditors, released from the high spell that had transported them into the region of another's mind, were returning into themselves, with all their awe and wonder still heavy on them. In a moment more the crowd began to gush forth from the doors of the church. Now that there was an end, they needed more breath, more fit to support the gross and earthly life into which they relapsed, than that atmosphere which the preacher had converted into words of flame, and had burdened with the rich fragrance of his thought.
In the open air their rapture broke into speech. The street and the market-place absolutely babbled, from side to side, with applauses of the minister. His hearers could not rest until they had told one another of what each knew better than he could tell or hear.
According to their united testimony, never had man spoken in so wise, so high, and so holy a spirit, as he that spake this day; nor had inspiration ever breathed through mortal lips more evidently than it did through his. Its influence could be seen, as it were, descending upon him, and possessing him, and continually lifting him out of the written discourse that lay before him, and filling him with ideas that must have been as marvellous to himself as to his audience. His subject, it appeared, had been the relation between the Deity and the communities of mankind, with a special reference to the New England which they were here planting in the wilderness. And, as he drew towards the close, a spirit as of prophecy had come upon him, constraining him to its purpose as mightily as the old prophets of Israel were constrained, only with this difference, that, whereas the Jewish seers had denounced judgments and ruin on their country, it was his mission to foretell a high and glorious destiny for the newly gathered people of the Lord. But, throughout it all, and through the whole discourse, there had been a certain deep, sad undertone of pathos, which could not be interpreted otherwise than as the natural regret of one soon to pass away. Yes; their minister whom they so loved--and who so loved them all, that he could not depart heavenward without a sigh--had the foreboding of untimely death upon him, and would soon leave them in their tears. This idea of his transitory stay on earth gave the last emphasis to the effect which the preacher had produced; it was as if an angel, in his passage to the skies, had shaken his bright wings over the people for an instant--at once a shadow and a splendour--and had shed down a shower of golden truths upon them.
Thus, there had come to the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale--as to most men, in their various spheres, though seldom recognised until they see it far behind them--an epoch of life more brilliant and full of triumph than any previous one, or than any which could hereafter be. He stood, at this moment, on the very proudest eminence of superiority, to which the gifts or intellect, rich lore, prevailing eloquence, and a reputation of whitest sanctity, could exalt a clergyman in New England's earliest days, when the professional character was of itself a lofty pedestal. Such was the position which the minister occupied, as he bowed his head forward on the cushions of the pulpit at the close of his Election Sermon. Meanwhile Hester Prynne was standing beside the scaffold of the pillory, with the scarlet letter still burning on her breast!
Now was heard again the clamour of the music, and the measured tramp of the military escort issuing from the church door. The procession was to be marshalled thence to the town hall, where a solemn banquet would complete the ceremonies of the day.
Once more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers were seen moving through a broad pathway of the people, who drew back reverently, on either side, as the Governor and magistrates, the old and wise men, the holy ministers, and all that were eminent and renowned, advanced into the midst of them. When they were fairly in the marketplace, their presence was greeted by a shout. This--though doubtless it might acquire additional force and volume from the child-like loyalty which the age awarded to its rulers--was felt to be an irrepressible outburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by that high strain of eloquence which was yet reverberating in their ears. Each felt the impulse in himself, and in the same breath, caught it from his neighbour. Within the church, it had hardly been kept down; beneath the sky it pealed upward to the zenith. There were human beings enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious feeling to produce that more impressive sound than the organ tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea; even that mighty swell of many voices, blended into one great voice by the universal impulse which makes likewise one vast heart out of the many. Never, from the soil of New England had gone up such a shout! Never, on New England soil had stood the man so honoured by his mortal brethren as the preacher!
How fared it with him, then? Were there not the brilliant particles of a halo in the air about his head? So etherealised by spirit as he was, and so apotheosised by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the procession, really tread upon the dust of earth?
As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes were turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach among them. The shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another obtained a glimpse of him. How feeble and pale he looked, amid all his triumph! The energy--or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up, until he should have delivered the sacred message that had brought its own strength along with it from heaven--was withdrawn, now that it had so faithfully performed its office. The glow, which they had just before beheld burning on his cheek, was extinguished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly among the late decaying embers. It seemed hardly the face of a man alive, with such a death-like hue: it was hardly a man with life in him, that tottered on his path so nervously, yet tottered, and did not fall!
One of his clerical brethren--it was the venerable John Wilson--observing the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the retiring wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to offer his support. The minister tremulously, but decidedly, repelled the old man's arm. He still walked onward, if that movement could be so described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of an infant, with its mother's arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward. And now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he had come opposite the well-remembered and weather-darkened scaffold, where, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time between, Hester Prynne had encountered the world's ignominious stare. There stood Hester, holding little Pearl by the hand! And there was the scarlet letter on her breast! The minister here made a pause; although the music still played the stately and rejoicing march to which the procession moved. It summoned him onward--inward to the festival! --but here he made a pause.
Bellingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye upon him. He now left his own place in the procession, and advanced to give assistance judging, from Mr. Dimmesdale's aspect that he must otherwise inevitably fall. But there was something in the latter's expression that warned back the magistrate, although a man not readily obeying the vague intimations that pass from one spirit to another. The crowd, meanwhile, looked on with awe and wonder. This earthly faintness, was, in their view, only another phase of the minister's celestial strength; nor would it have seemed a miracle too high to be wrought for one so holy, had he ascended before their eyes, waxing dimmer and brighter, and fading at last into the light of heaven!
He turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms.
"Hester," said he, "come hither! Come, my little Pearl!"
It was a ghastly look with which he regarded them; but there was something at once tender and strangely triumphant in it. The child, with the bird-like motion, which was one of her characteristics, flew to him, and clasped her arms about his knees. Hester Prynne--slowly, as if impelled by inevitable fate, and against her strongest will--likewise drew near, but paused before she reached him. At this instant old Roger Chillingworth thrust himself through the crowd--or, perhaps, so dark, disturbed, and evil was his look, he rose up out of some nether region--to snatch back his victim from what he sought to do! Be that as it might, the old man rushed forward, and caught the minister by the arm.
"Madman, hold! what is your purpose?" whispered he. "Wave back that woman! Cast off this child! All shall be well! Do not blacken your fame, and perish in dishonour! I can yet save you! Would you bring infamy on your sacred profession?"
"Ha, tempter! Methinks thou art too late!" answered the minister, encountering his eye, fearfully, but firmly. "Thy power is not what it was! With God's help, I shall escape thee now!"
He again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter.
"Hester Prynne," cried he, with a piercing earnestness, "in the name of Him, so terrible and so merciful, who gives me grace, at this last moment, to do what--for my own heavy sin and miserable agony--I withheld myself from doing seven years ago, come hither now, and twine thy strength about me! Thy strength, Hester; but let it be guided by the will which God hath granted me! This wretched and wronged old man is opposing it with all his might! --with all his own might, and the fiend's! Come, Hester--come! Support me up yonder scaffold."
The crowd was in a tumult. The men of rank and dignity, who stood more immediately around the clergyman, were so taken by surprise, and so perplexed as to the purport of what they saw--unable to receive the explanation which most readily presented itself, or to imagine any other--that they remained silent and inactive spectators of the judgement which Providence seemed about to work. They beheld the minister, leaning on Hester's shoulder, and supported by her arm around him, approach the scaffold, and ascend its steps; while still the little hand of the sin-born child was clasped in his. Old Roger Chillingworth followed, as one intimately connected with the drama of guilt and sorrow in which they had all been actors, and well entitled, therefore to be present at its closing scene.
"Hadst thou sought the whole earth over," said he looking darkly at the clergyman, "there was no one place so secret--no high place nor lowly place, where thou couldst have escaped me--save on this very scaffold!"
"Thanks be to Him who hath led me hither!" answered the minister.
Yet he trembled, and turned to Hester, with an expression of doubt and anxiety in his eyes, not the less evidently betrayed, that there was a feeble smile upon his lips.
"Is not this better," murmured he, "than what we dreamed of in the forest?"
"I know not! I know not!" she hurriedly replied. "Better? Yea; so we may both die, and little Pearl die with us!"
"For thee and Pearl, be it as God shall order," said the minister; "and God is merciful! Let me now do the will which He hath made plain before my sight. For, Hester, I am a dying man. So let me make haste to take my shame upon me!"
Partly supported by Hester Prynne, and holding one hand of little Pearl's, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale turned to the dignified and venerable rulers; to the holy ministers, who were his brethren; to the people, whose great heart was thoroughly appalled yet overflowing with tearful sympathy, as knowing that some deep life-matter--which, if full of sin, was full of anguish and repentance likewise--was now to be laid open to them. The sun, but little past its meridian, shone down upon the clergyman, and gave a distinctness to his figure, as he stood out from all the earth, to put in his plea of guilty at the bar of Eternal Justice.
"People of New England!" cried he, with a voice that rose over them, high, solemn, and majestic--yet had always a tremor through it, and sometimes a shriek, struggling up out of a fathomless depth of remorse and woe--"ye, that have loved me! --ye, that have deemed me holy! --behold me here, the one sinner of the world! At last--at last! --I stand upon the spot where, seven years since, I should have stood, here, with this woman, whose arm, more than the little strength wherewith I have crept hitherward, sustains me at this dreadful moment, from grovelling down upon my face! Lo, the scarlet letter which Hester wears! Ye have all shuddered at it! Wherever her walk hath been--wherever, so miserably burdened, she may have hoped to find repose--it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and horrible repugnance round about her. But there stood one in the midst of you, at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have not shuddered!"
It seemed, at this point, as if the minister must leave the remainder of his secret undisclosed. But he fought back the bodily weakness--and, still more, the faintness of heart--that was striving for the mastery with him. He threw off all assistance, and stepped passionately forward a pace before the woman and the children.
"It was on him!" he continued, with a kind of fierceness; so determined was he to speak out the whole. "God's eye beheld it! The angels were for ever pointing at it! (The Devil knew it well, and fretted it continually with the touch of his burning finger!) But he hid it cunningly from men, and walked among you with the mien of a spirit, mournful, because so pure in a sinful world! --and sad, because he missed his heavenly kindred! Now, at the death-hour, he stands up before you! He bids you look again at Hester's scarlet letter! He tells you, that, with all its mysterious horror, it is but the shadow of what he bears on his own breast, and that even this, his own red stigma, is no more than the type of what has seared his inmost heart! Stand any here that question God's judgment on a sinner! Behold! Behold, a dreadful witness of it!"
With a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from before his breast. It was revealed! But it were irreverent to describe that revelation. For an instant, the gaze of the horror-stricken multitude was concentrated on the ghastly miracle; while the minister stood, with a flush of triumph in his face, as one who, in the crisis of acutest pain, had won a victory. Then, down he sank upon the scaffold! Hester partly raised him, and supported his head against her bosom. Old Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank, dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed.
"Thou hast escaped me!" he repeated more than once. "Thou hast escaped me!"
"May God forgive thee!" said the minister. "Thou, too, hast deeply sinned!"
He withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on the woman and the child.
"My little Pearl," said he, feebly and there was a sweet and gentle smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now that the burden was removed, it seemed almost as if he would be sportive with the child--"dear little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? Thou wouldst not, yonder, in the forest! But now thou wilt?"
Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief, in which the wild infant bore a part had developed all her sympathies; and as her tears fell upon her father's cheek, they were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a woman in it. Towards her mother, too, Pearl's errand as a messenger of anguish was fulfilled.
"Hester," said the clergyman, "farewell!"
"Shall we not meet again?" whispered she, bending her face down close to his. "Shall we not spend our immortal life together? Surely, surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe! Thou lookest far into eternity, with those bright dying eyes! Then tell me what thou seest!"
"Hush, Hester--hush!" said he, with tremulous solemnity. "The law we broke! --the sin here awfully revealed! --let these alone be in thy thoughts! I fear! I fear! It may be, that, when we forgot our God--when we violated our reverence each for the other's soul--it was thenceforth vain to hope that we could meet hereafter, in an everlasting and pure reunion. God knows; and He is merciful! He hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. By giving me this burning torture to bear upon my breast! By sending yonder dark and terrible old man, to keep the torture always at red-heat! By bringing me hither, to die this death of triumphant ignominy before the people! Had either of these agonies been wanting, I had been lost for ever! Praised be His name! His will be done! Farewell!"
That final word came forth with the minister's expiring breath. The multitude, silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe and wonder, which could not as yet find utterance, save in this murmur that rolled so heavily after the departed spirit.
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{
"id": "33"
}
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24
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CONCLUSION
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After many days, when time sufficed for the people to arrange their thoughts in reference to the foregoing scene, there was more than one account of what had been witnessed on the scaffold.
Most of the spectators testified to having seen, on the breast of the unhappy minister, a SCARLET LETTER--the very semblance of that worn by Hester Prynne--imprinted in the flesh. As regarded its origin there were various explanations, all of which must necessarily have been conjectural. Some affirmed that the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, on the very day when Hester Prynne first wore her ignominious badge, had begun a course of penance--which he afterwards, in so many futile methods, followed out--by inflicting a hideous torture on himself. Others contended that the stigma had not been produced until a long time subsequent, when old Roger Chillingworth, being a potent necromancer, had caused it to appear, through the agency of magic and poisonous drugs. Others, again and those best able to appreciate the minister's peculiar sensibility, and the wonderful operation of his spirit upon the body--whispered their belief, that the awful symbol was the effect of the ever-active tooth of remorse, gnawing from the inmost heart outwardly, and at last manifesting Heaven's dreadful judgment by the visible presence of the letter. The reader may choose among these theories. We have thrown all the light we could acquire upon the portent, and would gladly, now that it has done its office, erase its deep print out of our own brain, where long meditation has fixed it in very undesirable distinctness.
It is singular, nevertheless, that certain persons, who were spectators of the whole scene, and professed never once to have removed their eyes from the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale, denied that there was any mark whatever on his breast, more than on a new-born infant's. Neither, by their report, had his dying words acknowledged, nor even remotely implied, any--the slightest--connexion on his part, with the guilt for which Hester Prynne had so long worn the scarlet letter. According to these highly-respectable witnesses, the minister, conscious that he was dying--conscious, also, that the reverence of the multitude placed him already among saints and angels--had desired, by yielding up his breath in the arms of that fallen woman, to express to the world how utterly nugatory is the choicest of man's own righteousness. After exhausting life in his efforts for mankind's spiritual good, he had made the manner of his death a parable, in order to impress on his admirers the mighty and mournful lesson, that, in the view of Infinite Purity, we are sinners all alike. It was to teach them, that the holiest amongst us has but attained so far above his fellows as to discern more clearly the Mercy which looks down, and repudiate more utterly the phantom of human merit, which would look aspiringly upward. Without disputing a truth so momentous, we must be allowed to consider this version of Mr. Dimmesdale's story as only an instance of that stubborn fidelity with which a man's friends--and especially a clergyman's--will sometimes uphold his character, when proofs, clear as the mid-day sunshine on the scarlet letter, establish him a false and sin-stained creature of the dust.
The authority which we have chiefly followed--a manuscript of old date, drawn up from the verbal testimony of individuals, some of whom had known Hester Prynne, while others had heard the tale from contemporary witnesses fully confirms the view taken in the foregoing pages. Among many morals which press upon us from the poor minister's miserable experience, we put only this into a sentence:--"Be true! Be true! Be true! Show freely to the world, if not your worst, yet some trait whereby the worst may be inferred!"
Nothing was more remarkable than the change which took place, almost immediately after Mr. Dimmesdale's death, in the appearance and demeanour of the old man known as Roger Chillingworth. All his strength and energy--all his vital and intellectual force--seemed at once to desert him, insomuch that he positively withered up, shrivelled away and almost vanished from mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies wilting in the sun. This unhappy man had made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of revenge; and when, by its completest triumph consummation that evil principle was left with no further material to support it--when, in short, there was no more Devil's work on earth for him to do, it only remained for the unhumanised mortal to betake himself whither his master would find him tasks enough, and pay him his wages duly. But, to all these shadowy beings, so long our near acquaintances--as well Roger Chillingworth as his companions we would fain be merciful. It is a curious subject of observation and inquiry, whether hatred and love be not the same thing at bottom. Each, in its utmost development, supposes a high degree of intimacy and heart-knowledge; each renders one individual dependent for the food of his affections and spiritual fife upon another: each leaves the passionate lover, or the no less passionate hater, forlorn and desolate by the withdrawal of his subject. Philosophically considered, therefore, the two passions seem essentially the same, except that one happens to be seen in a celestial radiance, and the other in a dusky and lurid glow. In the spiritual world, the old physician and the minister--mutual victims as they have been--may, unawares, have found their earthly stock of hatred and antipathy transmuted into golden love.
Leaving this discussion apart, we have a matter of business to communicate to the reader. At old Roger Chillingworth's decease, (which took place within the year), and by his last will and testament, of which Governor Bellingham and the Reverend Mr. Wilson were executors, he bequeathed a very considerable amount of property, both here and in England to little Pearl, the daughter of Hester Prynne.
So Pearl--the elf child--the demon offspring, as some people up to that epoch persisted in considering her--became the richest heiress of her day in the New World. Not improbably this circumstance wrought a very material change in the public estimation; and had the mother and child remained here, little Pearl at a marriageable period of life might have mingled her wild blood with the lineage of the devoutest Puritan among them all. But, in no long time after the physician's death, the wearer of the scarlet letter disappeared, and Pearl along with her. For many years, though a vague report would now and then find its way across the sea--like a shapeless piece of driftwood tossed ashore with the initials of a name upon it--yet no tidings of them unquestionably authentic were received. The story of the scarlet letter grew into a legend. Its spell, however, was still potent, and kept the scaffold awful where the poor minister had died, and likewise the cottage by the sea-shore where Hester Prynne had dwelt. Near this latter spot, one afternoon some children were at play, when they beheld a tall woman in a gray robe approach the cottage-door. In all those years it had never once been opened; but either she unlocked it or the decaying wood and iron yielded to her hand, or she glided shadow-like through these impediments--and, at all events, went in.
On the threshold she paused--turned partly round--for perchance the idea of entering alone and all so changed, the home of so intense a former life, was more dreary and desolate than even she could bear. But her hesitation was only for an instant, though long enough to display a scarlet letter on her breast.
And Hester Prynne had returned, and taken up her long-forsaken shame! But where was little Pearl? If still alive she must now have been in the flush and bloom of early womanhood. None knew--nor ever learned with the fulness of perfect certainty--whether the elf-child had gone thus untimely to a maiden grave; or whether her wild, rich nature had been softened and subdued and made capable of a woman's gentle happiness. But through the remainder of Hester's life there were indications that the recluse of the scarlet letter was the object of love and interest with some inhabitant of another land. Letters came, with armorial seals upon them, though of bearings unknown to English heraldry. In the cottage there were articles of comfort and luxury such as Hester never cared to use, but which only wealth could have purchased and affection have imagined for her. There were trifles too, little ornaments, beautiful tokens of a continual remembrance, that must have been wrought by delicate fingers at the impulse of a fond heart. And once Hester was seen embroidering a baby-garment with such a lavish richness of golden fancy as would have raised a public tumult had any infant thus apparelled, been shown to our sober-hued community.
In fine, the gossips of that day believed--and Mr. Surveyor Pue, who made investigations a century later, believed--and one of his recent successors in office, moreover, faithfully believes--that Pearl was not only alive, but married, and happy, and mindful of her mother; and that she would most joyfully have entertained that sad and lonely mother at her fireside.
But there was a more real life for Hester Prynne, here, in New England, than in that unknown region where Pearl had found a home. Here had been her sin; here, her sorrow; and here was yet to be her penitence. She had returned, therefore, and resumed--of her own free will, for not the sternest magistrate of that iron period would have imposed it--resumed the symbol of which we have related so dark a tale. Never afterwards did it quit her bosom. But, in the lapse of the toilsome, thoughtful, and self-devoted years that made up Hester's life, the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the world's scorn and bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed over, and looked upon with awe, yet with reverence too. And, as Hester Prynne had no selfish ends, nor lived in any measure for her own profit and enjoyment, people brought all their sorrows and perplexities, and besought her counsel, as one who had herself gone through a mighty trouble. Women, more especially--in the continually recurring trials of wounded, wasted, wronged, misplaced, or erring and sinful passion--or with the dreary burden of a heart unyielded, because unvalued and unsought came to Hester's cottage, demanding why they were so wretched, and what the remedy! Hester comforted and counselled them, as best she might. She assured them, too, of her firm belief that, at some brighter period, when the world should have grown ripe for it, in Heaven's own time, a new truth would be revealed, in order to establish the whole relation between man and woman on a surer ground of mutual happiness. Earlier in life, Hester had vainly imagined that she herself might be the destined prophetess, but had long since recognised the impossibility that any mission of divine and mysterious truth should be confided to a woman stained with sin, bowed down with shame, or even burdened with a life-long sorrow. The angel and apostle of the coming revelation must be a woman, indeed, but lofty, pure, and beautiful, and wise; moreover, not through dusky grief, but the ethereal medium of joy; and showing how sacred love should make us happy, by the truest test of a life successful to such an end.
So said Hester Prynne, and glanced her sad eyes downward at the scarlet letter. And, after many, many years, a new grave was delved, near an old and sunken one, in that burial-ground beside which King's Chapel has since been built. It was near that old and sunken grave, yet with a space between, as if the dust of the two sleepers had no right to mingle. Yet one tomb-stone served for both. All around, there were monuments carved with armorial bearings; and on this simple slab of slate--as the curious investigator may still discern, and perplex himself with the purport--there appeared the semblance of an engraved escutcheon. It bore a device, a herald's wording of which may serve for a motto and brief description of our now concluded legend; so sombre is it, and relieved only by one ever-glowing point of light gloomier than the shadow:-- "ON A FIELD, SABLE, THE LETTER A, GULES"
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{
"id": "33"
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1
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WHY THE PRINCESS HAS A STORY ABOUT HER
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THERE was once a little princess who-- "_But, Mr. Author, why do you always write about princesses? _" "_Because every little girl is a princess. _" "_You will make them vain if you tell them that. _" "_Not if they understand what I mean. _" "_Then what do you mean? _" "_What_ do you _mean by a princess? _" "_The daughter of a king. _" "_Very well, then every little girl is a princess, and there would be no need to say anything about it, except that she is always in danger of forgetting her rank, and behaving as if she had grown out of the mud. I have seen little princesses behave like the children of thieves and lying beggars, and that is why they need to be told they are princesses. And that is why, when I tell a story of this kind, I like to tell it about a princess. Then I can say better what I mean, because I can then give her every beautiful thing I want her to have. _" "_Please go on. _" There was once a little princess whose father was king over a great country full of mountains and valleys. His palace was built upon one of the mountains, and was very grand and beautiful. The princess, whose name was Irene, was born there, but she was sent soon after her birth, because her mother was not very strong, to be brought up by country people in a large house, half castle, half farm-house, on the side of another mountain, about halfway between its base and its peak.
The princess was a sweet little creature, and at the time my story begins was about eight years old. I think, but she got older very fast. Her face was fair and pretty, with eyes like two bits of night-sky, each with a star dissolved in the blue. Those eyes you would have thought must have known they came from there, so often were they turned up in that direction. The ceiling of her nursery was blue, with stars in it, as like the sky as they could make it. But I doubt if ever she saw the real sky with the stars in it, for a reason which I had better mention at once.
These mountains were full of hollow places underneath; huge caverns, and winding ways, some with water running through them, and some shining with all colors of the rainbow when a light was taken in. There would not have been much known about them, had there not been mines there, great deep pits, with long galleries and passages running off from them, which had been dug to get at the ore of which the mountains were full. In the course of digging, the miners came upon many of these natural caverns. A few of them had far-off openings out on the side of a mountain, or into a ravine.
Now in these subterranean caverns lived a strange race of beings, called by some gnomes, by some kobolds, by some goblins. There was a legend current in the country that at one time they lived above ground, and were very like other people. But for some reason or other, concerning which there were different legendary theories, the king had laid what they thought too severe taxes upon them, or had required observances of them they did not like, or had begun to treat them with more severity in some way or other, and impose stricter laws; and the consequence was that they had all disappeared from the face of the country. According to the legend, however, instead of going to some other country, they had all taken refuge in the subterranean caverns, whence they never came out but at night, and then seldom showed themselves in any numbers, and never to many people at once. It was only in the least frequented and most difficult parts of the mountains that they were said to gather even at night in the open air. Those who had caught sight of any of them said that they had greatly altered in the course of generations; and no wonder, seeing they lived away from the sun, in cold and wet and dark places. They were now, not ordinarily ugly, but either absolutely hideous, or ludicrously grotesque both in face and form. There was no invention, they said, of the most lawless imagination expressed by pen or pencil, that could surpass the extravagance of their appearance. And as they grew mis-shapen in body, they had grown in knowledge and cleverness, and now were able to do things no mortal could see the possibility of. But as they grew in cunning, they grew in mischief, and their great delight was in every way they could think of to annoy the people who lived in the open-air-story above them. They had enough of affection left for each other, to preserve them from being absolutely cruel for cruelty's sake to those that came in their way; but still they so heartily cherished the ancestral grudge against those who occupied their former possession, and especially against the descendants of the king who had caused their expulsion, that they sought every opportunity of tormenting them in ways that were as odd as their inventors; and although dwarfed and mis-shapen, they had strength equal to their cunning. In the process of time they had got a king, and a government of their own, whose chief business, beyond their own simple affairs, was to devise trouble for their neighbors. It will now be pretty evident why the little princess had never seen the sky at night. They were much too afraid of the goblins to let her out of the house then, even in company with ever so many attendants; and they had good reason, as we shall see by-and-by.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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2
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THE PRINCESS LOSES HERSELF
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I HAVE said the Princess Irene was about eight years old when my story begins. And this is how it begins.
One very wet day, when the mountain was covered with mist which was constantly gathering itself together into rain-drops, and pouring down on the roofs of the great old house, whence it fell in a fringe of water from the eaves all round about it, the princess could not of course go out. She got very tired, so tired that even her toys could no longer amuse her. You would wonder at that if I had time to describe to you one half of the toys she had. But then you wouldn't have the toys themselves, and that makes all the difference: you can't get tired of a thing before you have it. It was a picture, though, worth seeing--the princess sitting in the nursery with the sky-ceiling over her head, at a great table covered with her toys. If the artist would like to draw this, I should advise him not to meddle with the toys. I am afraid of attempting to describe them, and I think he had better not try to draw them. He had better not. He can do a thousand things I can't, but I don't think he could draw those toys. No man could better make the princess herself than he could, though--leaning with her back bowed into the back of the chair, her head hanging down, and her hands in her lap, very miserable as she would say herself, not even knowing what she would like, except to go out and get very wet, catch a particularly nice cold, and have to go to bed and take gruel. The next moment after you see her sitting there, her nurse goes out of the room.
[Illustration: She ran for some distance, turned several times, and then began to be afraid.]
Even that is a change, and the princess wakes up a little, and looks about her. Then she tumbles off her chair, and runs out of the door, not the same door the nurse went out of, but one which opened at the foot of a curious old stair of worm-eaten oak, which looked as if never any one had set foot upon it. She had once before been up six steps, and that was sufficient reason, in such a day, for trying to find out what was at the top of it.
Up and up she ran--such a long way it seemed to her! until she came to the top of the third flight. There she found the landing was the end of a long passage. Into this she ran. It was full of doors on each side. There were so many that she did not care to open any, but ran on to the end, where she turned into another passage, also full of doors. When she had turned twice more, and still saw doors and only doors about her, she began to get frightened. It was so silent! And all those doors must hide rooms with nobody in them! That was dreadful. Also the rain made a great trampling noise on the roof. She turned and started at full speed, her little footsteps echoing through the sounds of the rain--back for the stairs and her safe nursery. So she thought, but she had lost herself long ago. It doesn't follow that she _was_ lost, because she had lost herself though.
She ran for some distance, turned several times, and then began to be afraid. Very soon she was sure that she had lost the way back. Rooms everywhere, and no stair! Her little heart beat as fast as her little feet ran, and a lump of tears was growing in her throat. But she was too eager and perhaps too frightened to cry for some time. At last her hope failed her. Nothing but passages and doors everywhere! She threw herself on the floor, and began to wail and cry.
She did not cry long, however, for she was as brave as could be expected of a princess of her age. After a good cry, she got up, and brushed the dust from her frock. Oh what old dust it was! Then she wiped her eyes with her hands, for princesses don't always have their handkerchiefs in their pockets any more than some other little girls I know of. Next, like a true princess, she resolved on going wisely to work to find her way back: she would walk through the passages, and look in every direction for the stair. This she did, but without success. She went over the same ground again and again without knowing it, for the passages and doors were all alike. At last, in a corner, through a half-open door, she did see a stair. But alas! it went the wrong way: instead of going down, it went up. Frightened as she was, however, she could not help wishing to see where yet further the stair could lead. It was very narrow, and so steep that she went up like a four-legged creature on her hands and feet.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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3
|
THE PRINCESS AND--WE SHALL SEE WHO
|
WHEN she came to the top, she found herself in a little square place, with three doors, two opposite each other, and one opposite the top of the stair. She stood for a moment, without an idea in her little head what to do next. But as she stood, she began to hear a curious humming sound. Could it be the rain? No. It was much more gentle, and even monotonous than the sound of the rain, which now she scarcely heard. The low sweet humming sound went on, sometimes stopping for a little while and then beginning again. It was more like the hum of a very happy bee that had found a rich well of honey in some globular flower, than anything else I can think of at this moment. Where could it come from? She laid her ear first to one of the doors to hearken if it was there--then to another. When she laid her ear against the third door, there could be no doubt where it came from: it must be from something in that room. What could it be? She was rather afraid, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear, and she opened the door very gently and peeped in. What do you think she saw? A very old lady who sat spinning. " _Oh, Mr. Editor! I know the story you are going to tell: it's The Sleeping Beauty; only you're spinning too, and making it longer. _" "_No, indeed, it is not that story. Why should I tell one that every properly educated child knows already? More old ladies than one have sat spinning in a garret. Besides, the old lady in that story was only spinning with a spindle, and this one was spinning with a spinning wheel, else how could the princess have heard the sweet noise through the door? Do you know the difference? Did you ever see a spindle or a spinning wheel? I daresay you never did. Well, ask your mamma to explain to you the difference. Between ourselves, however, I shouldn't wonder if she didn't know much better than you. Another thing is, that this is not a fairy story; but a goblin story. And one thing more, this old lady spinning was not an old nurse--but--you shall see who. I think I have now made it quite plain that this is not that lovely story of The Sleeping Beauty. It is quite a new one, I assure you, and I will try to tell it as prettily as I can. _" Perhaps you will wonder how the princess could tell that the old lady was an old lady, when I inform you that not only was she beautiful, but her skin was smooth and white. I will tell you more. Her hair was combed back from her forehead and face, and hung loose far down and all over her back. That is not much like an old lady--is it? Ah! but it was white almost as snow. And although her face was so smooth, her eyes looked so wise that you could not have helped seeing she must be old. The princess, though she could not have told you why, did think her very old indeed--quite fifty--she said to herself. But she was rather older than that, as you shall hear.
While the princess stared bewildered, with her head just inside the door, the old lady lifted hers, and said in a sweet, but old and rather shaky voice, which mingled very pleasantly with the continued hum of her wheel: "Come in, my dear; come in. I am glad to see you."
That the princess was a real princess, you might see now quite plainly; for she didn't hang on to the handle of the door, and stare without moving, as I have known some do who ought to have been princesses, but were only rather vulgar little girls. She did as she was told, stepped inside the door at once, and shut it gently behind her.
"Come to me, my dear," said the old lady.
And again the princess did as she was told. She approached the old lady--rather slowly, I confess, but did not stop until she stood by her side, and looked up in her face with her blue eyes and the two melted stars in them.
"Why, what have you been doing with your eyes, child?" asked the old lady.
"Crying," answered the princess.
"Why, child?"
"Because I couldn't find my way down again."
"But you could find your way up."
"Not at first--not for a long time."
"But your face is streaked like the back of a zebra. Hadn't you a handkerchief to wipe your eyes with?"
"No."
"Then why didn't you come to me to wipe them for you?"
"Please I didn't know you were here. I will next time."
"There's a good child!" said the old lady.
Then she stopped her wheel, and rose, and, going out of the room, returned with a little silver basin and a soft white towel, with which she washed and wiped the bright little face. And the princess thought her hands were so smooth and nice!
When she carried away the basin and towel, the little princess wondered to see how straight and tall she was, for, although she was so old, she didn't stoop a bit. She was dressed in black velvet with thick white heavy-looking lace about it; and on the black dress her hair shone like silver. There was hardly any more furniture in the room than there might have been in that of the poorest old woman who made her bread by her spinning. There was no carpet on the floor--no table anywhere--nothing but the spinning-wheel and the chair beside it. When she came back, she sat down again, and without a word began her spinning once more, while Irene, who had never seen a spinning-wheel, stood by her side and looked on. When the old lady had succeeded in getting her thread fairly in operation again, she said to the princess, but without looking at her: "Do you know my name, child?"
"No, I don't know it," answered the princess.
"My name is Irene."
"That's _my_ name!" cried the princess.
"I know that. I let you have mine. I haven't got your name. You've got mine."
"How can that be?" asked the princess, bewildered. "I've always had my name."
"Your papa, the king, asked me if I had any objection to your having it; and of course I hadn't. I let you have it with pleasure."
"It was very kind of you to give me your name--and such a pretty one," said the princess.
"Oh, not so _very_ kind!" said the old lady. "A name is one of those things one can give away and keep all the same. I have a good many such things. Wouldn't you like to know who I am, child?"
"Yes, that I should--very much."
"I'm your great-great-grandmother," said the lady.
"What's that?" asked the princess.
"I'm your father's mother's father's mother."
"Oh, dear! I can't understand that," said the princess.
"I daresay not. I didn't expect you would. But that's no reason why I shouldn't say it."
"Oh no!" answered the princess.
"I will explain it all to you when you are older," the lady went on. "But you will be able to understand this much now: I came here to take care of you."
"Is it long since you came? Was it yesterday? Or was it to-day, because it was so wet that I couldn't get out?"
"I've been here ever since you came yourself."
"What a long time!" said the princess. "I don't remember it at all."
"No. I suppose not."
"But I never saw you before."
"No. But you shall see me again."
"Do you live in this room always?"
"I don't sleep in it. I sleep on the opposite side of the landing. I sit here most of the day."
"I shouldn't like it. My nursery is much prettier. You must be a queen too, if you are my great big grandmother."
"Yes, I am a queen."
"Where is your crown then?"
"In my bedroom."
"I _should_ like to see it."
"You shall some day--not to-day."
"I wonder why nursie never told me."
"Nursie doesn't know. She never saw me."
"But somebody knows that you are in the house?"
"No; nobody."
"How do you get your dinner then?"
"I keep poultry--of a sort."
"Where do you keep them?"
"I will show you."
"And who makes the chicken broth for you?"
"I never kill any of my chickens."
"Then I can't understand."
"What did you have for breakfast this morning?"
"Oh! I had bread and milk, and an egg. --I daresay you eat their eggs."
"Yes, that's it. I eat their eggs."
"Is that what makes your hair so white?"
"No, my dear. It's old age. I am very old."
"I thought so. Are you fifty?"
"Yes--more than that."
"Are you a hundred?"
"Yes--more than that. I am too old for you to guess. Come and see my chickens."
[Illustration: She clapped her hands with delight, and up rose such a flapping of wings.]
Again she stopped her spinning. She rose, took the princess by the hand, led her out of the room, and opened the door opposite the stair. The princess expected to see a lot of hens and chickens, but instead of that, she saw the blue sky first, and then the roofs of the house, with a multitude of the loveliest pigeons, mostly white, but of all colors, walking about, making bows to each other, and talking a language she could not understand. She clapped her hands with delight, and up rose such a flapping of wings, that she in her turn was startled.
"You've frightened my poultry," said the old lady, smiling.
"And they've frightened me," said the princess, smiling too. "But what very nice poultry! Are the eggs nice?"
"Yes, very nice."
"What a small egg-spoon you must have! Wouldn't it be better to keep hens, and get bigger eggs?"
"How should I feed them, though?"
"I see," said the princess. "The pigeons feed themselves. They've got wings."
"Just so. If they couldn't fly, I couldn't eat their eggs."
"But how do you get at the eggs? Where are their nests?"
The lady took hold of a little loop of string in the wall at the side of the door, and lifting a shutter showed a great many pigeon-holes with nests, some with young ones and some with eggs in them. The birds came in at the other side, and she took out the eggs on this side. She closed it again quickly, lest the young ones should be frightened.
"Oh what a nice way!" cried the princess. "Will you give me an egg to eat? I'm rather hungry."
"I will some day, but now you must go back, or nursie will be miserable about you. I daresay she's looking for you everywhere."
"Except here," answered the princess. "Oh how surprised she _will_ be when I tell her about my great big grand-grandmother!"
"Yes, that she will!" said the old lady with a curious smile. "Mind you tell her all about it exactly."
"That I will. Please will you take me back to her?"
"I can't go all the way, but I will take you to the top of the stair, and then you must run down quite fast into your own room."
The little princess put her hand in the old lady's, who, looking this way and that, brought her to the top of the first stair, and thence to the bottom of the second, and did not leave her till she saw her half way down the third. When she heard the cry of her nurse's pleasure at finding her, she turned and walked up the stairs again, very fast indeed for such a very great grandmother, and sat down to her spinning with another strange smile on her sweet old face.
About this spinning of hers I will tell you more next time.
Guess what she was spinning.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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4
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WHAT THE NURSE THOUGHT OF IT
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"WHY, where can you have been, princess?" asked the nurse, taking her in her arms. "It's very unkind of you to hide away so long. I began to be afraid--" Here she checked herself.
"What were you afraid of, nursie?" asked the princess.
"Never mind," she answered. "Perhaps I will tell you another day. Now tell me where you have been?"
"I've been up a long way to see my very great, huge, old grandmother," said the princess.
"What do you mean by that?" asked the nurse, who thought she was making fun.
"I mean that I've been a long way up and up to see my great grandmother. Ah, nursie, you don't know what a beautiful mother of grandmothers I've got upstairs. She is _such_ an old lady! with such lovely white hair! --as white as my silver cup. Now, when I think of it, I think her hair must be silver."
"What nonsense you are talking, princess!" said the nurse.
"I'm not talking nonsense," returned Irene, rather offended. "I will tell you all about her. She's much taller than you, and much prettier."
"Oh, I daresay!" remarked the nurse.
"And she lives upon pigeon's eggs."
"Most likely," said the nurse.
"And she sits in an empty room, spin-spinning all day long."
"Not a doubt of it," said the nurse.
"And she keeps her crown in her bedroom."
"Of course--quite the proper place to keep her crown in. She wears it in bed, I'll be bound."
"She didn't say that. And I don't think she does. That wouldn't be comfortable--would it? I don't think my papa wears his crown for a night-cap. Does he, nursie?"
"I never asked him. I daresay he does."
"And she's been there ever since I came here--ever so many years."
"Anybody could have told you that," said the nurse, who did not believe a word Irene was saying.
"Why didn't you tell me then?"
"There was no necessity. You could make it all up for yourself."
"You don't believe me then!" exclaimed the princess, astonished and angry, as well she might be.
"Did you expect me to believe you, princess?" asked the nurse coldly. "I know princesses are in the habit of telling make-believes, but you are the first I ever heard of who expected to have them believed," she added, seeing that the child was strangely in earnest.
The princess burst into tears.
"Well, I must say," remarked the nurse, now thoroughly vexed with her for crying, "it is not at all becoming in a princess to tell stories _and_ expect to be believed just because she is a princess."
"But it's quite true, I tell you, nursie."
"You've dreamt it, then, child."
"No, I didn't dream it. I went up-stairs, and I lost myself, and if I hadn't found the beautiful lady, I should never have found myself."
"Oh, I daresay!"
"Well, you just come up with me, and see if I'm not telling the truth."
"Indeed I have other work to do. It's your dinner-time, and I won't have any more such nonsense."
The princess wiped her eyes, and her face grew so hot that they were soon quite dry. She sat down to her dinner, but ate next to nothing. Not to be believed does not at all agree with princesses; for a real princess cannot tell a lie. So all the afternoon she did not speak a word. Only when the nurse spoke to her, she answered her, for a real princess is never rude--even when she does well to be offended.
Of course the nurse was not comfortable in her mind--not that she suspected the least truth in Irene's story, but that she loved her dearly, and was vexed with herself for having been cross to her. She thought her crossness was the cause of the princess' unhappiness, and had no idea that she was really and deeply hurt at not being believed. But, as it became more and more plain during the evening in every motion and look, that, although she tried to amuse herself with her toys, her heart was too vexed and troubled to enjoy them, her nurse's discomfort grew and grew. When bedtime came, she undressed and laid her down, but the child, instead of holding up her little mouth to be kissed, turned away from her and lay still. Then nursie's heart gave way altogether, and she began to cry. At the sound of her first sob, the princess turned again, and held her face to kiss her as usual. But the nurse had her handkerchief to her eyes, and did not see the movement.
"Nursie," said the princess, "why won't you believe me?"
"Because I can't believe you," said the nurse, getting angry again.
"Ah! then you can't help it," said Irene, "and I will not be vexed with you any more. I will give you a kiss and go to sleep."
"You little angel!" cried the nurse, and caught her out of bed, and walked about the room with her in her arms, kissing and hugging her.
"You _will_ let me take you to see my dear old great big grandmother, won't you?" said the princess, as she laid her down again.
"And _you_ won't say I'm ugly, any more--will you, princess?"
"Nursie! I never said you were ugly. What can you mean?"
"Well, if you didn't say it, you meant it."
"Indeed, I never did."
"You said I wasn't so pretty as that--" "As my beautiful grandmother--yes, I did say that; and I say it again, for it's quite true."
"Then I _do_ think you _are_ unkind!" said the nurse, and put her handkerchief to her eyes again.
"Nursie, dear, everybody can't be as beautiful as every other body, you know. You are _very_ nice-looking, but if you had been as beautiful as my grandmother--" "Bother your grandmother!" said the nurse.
"Nurse, that's very rude. You are not fit to be spoken to--till you can behave better."
The princess turned away once more, and again the nurse was ashamed of herself.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon, princess," she said, though still in an offended tone. But the princess let the tone pass, and heeded only the words.
"You won't say it again, I am sure," she answered, once more turning toward her nurse. "I was only going to say that if you had been twice as nice-looking as you are, some king or other would have married you, and then what would have become of me?"
"You are an angel!" repeated the nurse, again embracing her.
"Now," insisted Irene, "you _will_ come and see my grandmother--won't you?"
"I will go with you anywhere you like, my cherub," she answered; and in two minutes the weary little princess was fast asleep.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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5
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THE PRINCESS LETS WELL ALONE
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WHEN she woke the next morning, the first thing she heard was the rain still falling. Indeed, this day was so like the last, that it would have been difficult to tell where was the use of it. The first thing she thought of, however, was not the rain, but the lady in the tower; and the first question that occupied her thoughts was whether she should not ask the nurse to fulfill her promise this very morning, and go with her to find her grandmother as soon as she had had her breakfast. But she came to the conclusion that perhaps the lady would not be pleased if she took anyone to see her without first asking leave; especially as it was pretty evident, seeing she lived on pigeons' eggs, and cooked them herself, that she did not want the household to know she was there. So the princess resolved to take the first opportunity of running up alone and asking whether she might bring her nurse. She believed the fact that she could not otherwise convince her she was telling the truth, would have much weight with her grandmother.
The princess and her nurse were the best of friends all dressing time, and the princess in consequence ate an enormous little breakfast.
"I wonder, Lootie"--that was her pet-name for her nurse--"what pigeons' eggs taste like?" she said, as she was eating her egg--not quite a common one, for they always picked out the pinky ones for her.
"We'll get you a pigeon's egg, and you shall judge for yourself," said the nurse.
"Oh, no, no!" returned Irene, suddenly reflecting they might disturb the old lady in getting it, and that even if they did not, she would have one less in consequence.
"What a strange creature you are," said the nurse--"first to want a thing and then to refuse it!"
But she did not say it crossly, and the princess never minded any remarks that were not unfriendly.
"Well, you see, Lootie, there are reasons," she returned, and said no more, for she did not want to bring up the subject of their former strife, lest her nurse should offer to go before she had had her grandmother's permission to bring her. Of course she could refuse to take her, but then she would believe her less than ever.
Now the nurse, as she said herself afterward, could not be every moment in the room, and as never before yesterday had the princess given her the smallest reason for anxiety, it had not yet come into her head to watch her more closely. So she soon gave her a chance, and the very first that offered, Irene was off and up the stairs again.
This day's adventure, however, did not turn out like yesterday's, although it began like it; and indeed to-day is very seldom like yesterday, if people would note the differences--even when it rains. The princess ran through passage after passage, and could not find the stair of the tower. My own suspicion is that she had not gone up high enough, and was searching on the second instead of the third floor. When she turned to go back, she failed equally in her search after the stair. She was lost once more.
Something made it even worse to bear this time, and it was no wonder that she cried again. Suddenly it occurred to her that it was after having cried before that she had found her grandmother's stair. She got up at once, wiped her eyes, and started upon a fresh quest. This time, although she did not find what she hoped, she found what was next best: she did not come on a stair that went up, but she came upon one that went down. It was evidently not the stair she had come up, yet it was a good deal better than none; so down she went, and was singing merrily before she reached the bottom. There, to her surprise, she found herself in the kitchen. Although she was not allowed to go there alone, her nurse had often taken her, and she was a great favorite with the servants. So there was a general rush at her the moment she appeared, for every one wanted to have her; and the report of where she was soon reached the nurse's ears. She came at once to fetch her; but she never suspected how she had got there, and the princess kept her own counsel.
Her failure to find the old lady not only disappointed her, but made her very thoughtful. Sometimes she came almost to the nurse's opinion that she had dreamed all about her; but that fancy never lasted very long. She wondered much whether she should ever see her again, and thought it very sad not to have been able to find her when she particularly wanted her. She resolved to say nothing more to her nurse on the subject, seeing it was so little in her power to prove her words.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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6
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THE LITTLE MINER
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THE next day the great cloud still hung over the mountain, and the rain poured like water from a full sponge. The princess was very fond of being out of doors, and she nearly cried when she saw that the weather was no better. But the mist was not of such a dark dingy gray; there was light in it; and as the hours went on, it grew brighter and brighter, until it was almost too brilliant to look at; and late in the afternoon, the sun broke out so gloriously that Irene clapped her hands, crying, "See, see, Lootie! The sun has had his face washed. Look how bright he is! Do get my hat, and let us go out for a walk. Oh dear! oh dear! how happy I am!"
Lootie was very glad to please the princess. She got her hat and cloak, and they set out together for a walk up the mountain; for the road was so hard and steep that the water could not rest upon it, and it was always dry enough for walking a few minutes after the rain ceased. The clouds were rolling away in broken pieces, like great, overwoolly sheep, whose wool the sun had bleached till it was almost too white for the eyes to bear. Between them the sky shone with a deeper and purer blue, because of the rain. The trees on the road-side were hung all over with drops, which sparkled in the sun like jewels. The only things that were no brighter for the rain, were the brooks that ran down the mountain; they had changed from the clearness of crystal to a muddy brown; but what they lost in color they gained in sound--or at least in noise, for a brook when it is swollen is not so musical as before. But Irene was in raptures with the great brown streams tumbling down everywhere; and Lootie shared in her delight, for she too had been confined to the house for three days. At length she observed that the sun was getting low, and said it was time to be going back. She made the remark again and again, but, every time, the princess begged her to go on just a little farther and a little farther; reminding her that it was much easier to go down hill, and saying that when they did turn, they would be at home in a moment. So on and on they did go, now to look at a group of ferns over whose tops a stream was pouring in a watery arch, now to pick a shining stone from a rock by the wayside, now to watch the flight of some bird. Suddenly the shadow of a great mountain peak came up from behind, and shot in front of them. When the nurse saw it, she started and shook, and tremulously grasping the hand of the princess turned and began to run down the hill.
"What's all the haste, nursie?" asked Irene, running alongside of her.
"We must not be out a moment longer."
"But we can't help being out a good many moments longer."
It was too true. The nurse almost cried. They were much too far from home. It was against express orders to be out with the princess one moment after the sun was down; and they were nearly a mile up the mountain! If his Majesty, Irene's papa, were to hear of it, Lootie would certainly be dismissed; and to leave the princess would break her heart. It was no wonder she ran. But Irene was not in the least frightened, not knowing anything to be frightened at. She kept on chattering as well as she could, but it was not easy.
"Lootie! Lootie! why do you run so fast? It shakes my teeth when I talk."
"Then don't talk," said Lootie.
But the princess went on talking. She was always saying, "Look, look, Lootie," but Lootie paid no more heed to anything she said, only ran on.
"Look, look, Lootie! Don't you see that funny man peeping over the rock?"
Lootie only ran the faster. They had to pass the rock and when they came nearer, the princess clearly saw that it was only a large fragment of the rock itself that she had mistaken for a man.
"Look, look, Lootie! There's _such_ a curious creature at the foot of that old tree. Look at it, Lootie! It's making faces at us, I do think."
Lootie gave a stifled cry, and ran faster still--so fast, that Irene's little legs could not keep up with her, and she fell with a clash. It was a hard down-hill road, and she had been running very fast--so it was no wonder she began to cry. This put the nurse nearly beside herself; but all she could do was to run on, the moment she got the princess on her feet again.
"Who's that laughing at me?" said the princess, trying to keep in her sobs, and running too fast for her grazed knees.
"Nobody, child," said the nurse, almost angrily.
But that instant there came a burst of coarse tittering from somewhere near, and a hoarse indistinct voice that seemed to say, "Lies! lies! lies!"
"Oh!" cried the nurse with a sigh that was almost a scream, and ran on faster than ever.
"Nursie! Lootie! I can't run any more. Do let us walk a bit."
"What _am_ I to do?" said the nurse. "Here, I will carry you."
She caught her up; but found her much too heavy to run with, and had to set her down again. Then she looked wildly about her, gave a great cry, and said-- "We've taken the wrong turning somewhere, and I don't know where we are. We are lost, lost!"
The terror she was in had quite bewildered her. It was true enough they had lost the way. They had been running down into a little valley in which there was no house to be seen.
Now Irene did not know what good reason there was for her nurse's terror, for the servants had all strict orders never to mention the goblins to her, but it was very discomposing to see her nurse in such a fright. Before, however, she had time to grow thoroughly alarmed like her, she heard the sound of whistling, and that revived her. Presently she saw a boy coming up the road from the valley to meet them. He was the whistler; but before they met, his whistling changed to singing. And this is something like what he sang: "Ring! dod! bang! Go the hammers' clang! Hit and turn and bore! Whizz and puff and roar! Thus we rive the rocks. Force the goblin locks. See the shining ore! One, two, three-- Bright as gold can be! Four, five, six-- Shovels, mattocks, picks! Seven, eight, nine-- Light your lamp at mine. Ten, eleven, twelve-- Loosely hold the helve. We're the merry miner-boys, Make the goblins hold their noise."
"I wish you would hold _your_ noise," said the nurse rudely, for the very word goblin at such a time and in such a place made her tremble. It would bring the goblins upon them to a certainty, she thought, to defy them in that way. But whether the boy heard her or not, he did not stop his singing.
"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen-- This is worth the siftin'; Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen-- There's the match, and lay't in. Nineteen, twenty-- Goblins in a plenty."
"Do be quiet," cried the nurse, in a whispered shriek. But the boy, who was now close at hand, still went on.
"Hush! scush! scurry! There you go in a hurry! Gobble! gobble! gobblin'! There you go a wobblin'; Hobble, hobble, hobblin'! Cobble! cobble! cobblin'! Hob-bob-goblin--Huuuuuh!"
"There!" said the boy, as he stood still opposite them. "There! that'll do for them. They can't bear singing, and they can't stand that song. They can't sing themselves, for they have no more voice than a crow; and they don't like other people to sing."
The boy was dressed in a miner's dress, with a curious cap on his head. He was a very nice-looking boy, with eyes as dark as the mines in which he worked, and as sparkling as the crystals in their rocks. He was about twelve years old. His face was almost too pale for beauty, which came of his being so little in the open air and the sunlight--for even vegetables grown in the dark are white; but he looked happy, merry indeed--perhaps at the thought of having routed the goblins; and his bearing as he stood before them had nothing clownish or rude about it.
"I saw them," he went on, "as I came up; and I'm very glad I did. I knew they were after somebody, but I couldn't see who it was. They won't touch you so long as I'm with you."
"Why, who are you?" asked the nurse, offended at the freedom with which he spoke to them.
"I'm Peter's son."
"Who's Peter?"
"Peter the miner."
"I don't know him."
"I'm his son, though."
"And why should the goblins mind _you_, pray?"
"Because I don't mind them. I'm used to them."
"What difference does that make?"
"If you're not afraid of them, they're afraid of you. I'm not afraid of them. That's all. But it's all that's wanted--up here, that is. It's a different thing down there. They won't always mind that song even, down there. And if anyone sings it, they stand grinning at him awfully; and if he gets frightened, and misses a word, or says a wrong one, they--oh! don't they give it him!"
"What do they do to him?" asked Irene, with a trembling voice.
"Don't go frightening the princess," said the nurse.
"The princess!" repeated the little miner, taking off his curious cap. "I beg your pardon; but you oughtn't to be out so late. Everybody knows that's against the law."
"Yes, indeed it is!" said the nurse, beginning to cry again. "And I shall have to suffer for it."
"What does that matter?" said the boy. "It must be your fault. It is the princess who will suffer for it. I hope they didn't hear you call her the princess. If they did, they're sure to know her again: they're awfully sharp."
"Lootie! Lootie!" cried the princess. "Take me home."
"Don't go on like that," said the nurse to the boy, almost fiercely. "How could I help it? I lost my way."
"You shouldn't have been out so late. You wouldn't have lost your way if you hadn't been frightened," said the boy. "Come along. I'll soon set you right again. Shall I carry your little Highness?"
"Impertinence!" murmured the nurse, but she did not say it aloud, for she thought if she made him angry, he might take his revenge by telling some one belonging to the house, and then it would be sure to come to the king's ears.
"No, thank you," said Irene. "I can walk very well, though I can't run so fast as nursie. If you will give me one hand, Lootie will give me another, and then I shall get on famously."
They soon had her between them, holding a hand of each.
"Now let's run," said the nurse.
"No, no," said the little miner. "That's the worst thing you can do. If you hadn't run before, you would not have lost your way. And if you run now, they will be after you in a moment."
"I don't want to run," said Irene.
"You don't think of _me_," said the nurse.
"Yes, I do, Lootie. The boy says they won't touch us if we don't run."
"Yes; but if they know at the house that I've kept you out so late, I shall be turned away, and that would break my heart."
"Turned away, Lootie. Who would turn you away?"
"Your papa, child."
"But I'll tell him it was all my fault. And you know it was, Lootie."
"He won't mind that. I'm sure he won't."
"Then I'll cry, and go down on my knees to him, and beg him not to take away my own dear Lootie."
The nurse was comforted at hearing this, and said no more. They went on, walking pretty fast, but taking care not to run a step.
"I want to talk to you," said Irene to the little miner; "but it's so awkward! I don't know your name."
"My name's Curdie, little princess."
"What a funny name! Curdie! What more?"
"Curdie Peterson. What's your name, please?"
"Irene."
"What more?"
"I don't know what more. --What more is my name, Lootie?"
"Princesses haven't got more than one name. They don't want it."
"Oh then, Curdie, you must call me just Irene, and no more."
"No, indeed," said the nurse indignantly. "He shall do no such thing."
"What shall he call me, then, Lootie?"
"Your royal Highness."
"My royal Highness! What's that? No, no, Lootie, I will not be called names. I don't like them. You said to me once yourself that it's only rude children that call names; and I'm sure Curdie wouldn't be rude. --Curdie, my name's Irene."
"Well, Irene," said Curdie, with a glance at the nurse which showed he enjoyed teasing her, "it's very kind of you to let me call you anything. I like your name very much."
He expected the nurse to interfere again; but he soon saw that she was too frightened to speak. She was staring at something a few yards before them, in the middle of the path, where it narrowed between rocks so that only one could pass at a time.
"It's very much kinder of you to go out of your way to take us home," said Irene.
"I'm not going out of my way yet," said Curdie. "It's on the other side those rocks the path turns off to my father's."
"You wouldn't think of leaving us till we're safe home, I'm sure," gasped the nurse.
"Of course not," said Curdie.
"You dear, good, kind Curdie! I'll give you a kiss when we get home," said the princess.
The nurse gave her a great pull by the hand she held. But at that instant the something in the middle of the way, which had looked like a great lump of earth brought down by the rain, began to move. One after another it shot out four long things, like two arms and two legs, but it was now too dark to tell what they were. The nurse began to tremble from head to foot. Irene clasped Curdie's hand yet faster, and Curdie began to sing again.
"One, two-- Hit and hew! Three, four-- Blast and bore! Five, six-- There's a fix! Seven, eight-- Hold it straight. Nine, ten-- Hit again! Hurry! scurry! Bother! smother! There's a toad In the road! Smash it! Squash it! Fry it! Dry it! You're another! Up and off! There's enough! --Huuuuuh!"
As he uttered the last words, Curdie let go his hold of his companion, and rushed at the thing in the road, as if he would trample it under his feet. It gave a great spring, and ran straight up one of the rocks like a huge spider. Curdie turned back laughing, and took Irene's hand again. She grasped his very tight, but said nothing till they had passed the rocks. A few yards more and she found herself on a part of the road she knew, and was able to speak again.
[Illustration: "Never mind, Princess Irene," he said. "You mustn't kiss me to-night. But you sha'n't break your word. I will come another time."]
"Do you know, Curdie, I don't quite like your song; it sounds to me rather rude," she said.
"Well, perhaps it is," answered Curdie. "I never thought of that; it's a way we have. We do it because they don't like it."
"Who don't like it?"
"The cobs, as we call them."
"Don't!" said the nurse.
"Why not?" said Curdie.
"I beg you won't. Please don't."
"Oh, if you ask me that way, of course I won't; though I don't a bit know why. Look! there are the lights of your great house down below. You'll be at home in five minutes now."
Nothing more happened. They reached home in safety. Nobody had missed them, or even known they had gone out; and they arrived at the door belonging to their part of the house without anyone seeing them. The nurse was rushing in with a hurried and not over-gracious good-night to Curdie; but the princess pulled her hand from hers, and was just throwing her arms around Curdie's neck, when she caught her again and dragged her away.
"Lootie, Lootie, I promised Curdie a kiss," cried Irene.
"A princess mustn't give kisses. It's not at all proper," said Lootie.
"But I promised," said the princess.
"There's no occasion; he's only a miner-boy."
"He is a good boy, and a brave boy, and he has been very kind to us. Lootie! Lootie! I promised."
"Then you shouldn't have promised."
"Lootie, I promised him a kiss."
"Your royal Highness," said Lootie, suddenly growing very respectful, "must come in directly."
"Nurse, a princess must _not_ break her word," said Irene, drawing herself up and standing stockstill.
Lootie did not know which the king might count the worst--to let the princess be out after sunset, or to let her kiss a miner-boy. She did not know that, being a gentleman, as many kings have been, he would have counted neither of them the worse. However much he might have disliked his daughter to kiss the miner-boy, he would not have had her break her word for all the goblins in creation. But, as I say, the nurse was not lady enough to understand this, and so she was in a great difficulty, for, if she insisted, some one might hear the princess cry and run to see, and then all would come out. But here Curdie came again to the rescue.
"Never mind, Princess Irene," he said. "You mustn't kiss me to-night. But you sha'n't break your word. I will come another time. You may be sure I will."
"Oh, thank you, Curdie!" said the princess, and stopped crying.
"Good night, Irene; good night, Lootie," said Curdie, and turned and was out of sight in a moment.
"I should like to see him!" muttered the nurse, as she carried the princess to the nursery.
"You _will_ see him," said Irene. "You may be sure Curdie will keep his word. He's _sure_ to come again."
"I should like to see him!" repeated the nurse, and said no more. She did not want to open a new cause of strife with the princess by saying more plainly what she meant. Glad enough that she had succeeded both in getting home unseen, and in keeping the princess from kissing the miner's boy, she resolved to watch her far better in future. Her carelessness had already doubled the danger she was in. Formerly the goblins were her only fear; now she had to protect her charge from Curdie as well.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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7
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THE MINES
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CURDIE went home whistling. He resolved to say nothing about the princess for fear of getting the nurse into trouble, for while he enjoyed teasing her because of her absurdity, he was careful not to do her any harm. He saw no more of the goblins, and was soon fast asleep in his bed.
He woke in the middle of the night, and thought he heard curious noises outside. He sat up and listened; then got up, and, opening the door very quietly, went out. When he peeped round the corner, he saw, under his own window, a group of stumpy creatures, whom he at once recognized by their shape. Hardly, however, had he begun his "One, two, three!" when they broke asunder, scurried away, and were out of sight. He returned laughing, got into bed again, and was fast asleep in a moment.
Reflecting a little over the matter in the morning, he came to the conclusion that, as nothing of the kind had ever happened before, they must be annoyed with him for interfering to protect the princess. By the time he was dressed, however, he was thinking of something quite different, for he did not value the enmity of the goblins in the least.
As soon as they had had breakfast, he set off with his father for the mine.
They entered the hill by a natural opening under a huge rock, where a little stream rushed out. They followed its course for a few yards, when the passage took a turn, and sloped steeply into the heart of the hill. With many angles and windings and branchings off, and sometimes with steps where it came upon a natural gulf, it led them deep into the hill before they arrived at the place where they were at present digging out the precious ore. This was of various kinds, for the mountain was very rich with the better sorts of metals. With flint and steel, and tinder box, they lighted their lamps, then fixed them on their heads, and were soon hard at work with their pickaxes and shovels and hammers. Father and son were at work near each other, but not in the same _gang_--the passages out of which the ore was dug, they called _gangs_--for when the _lode_, or vein of ore, was small, one miner would have to dig away alone in a passage no bigger than gave him just room to work--sometimes in uncomfortable cramped positions. If they stopped for a moment they could hear everywhere around them, some nearer, some farther off, the sounds of their companions burrowing away in all directions in the inside of the great mountain--some boring holes in the rock in order to blow it up with gunpowder, others shoveling the broken ore into baskets to be carried to the mouth of the mine, others hitting away with their pickaxes. Sometimes, if the miner was in a very lonely part, he would hear only a tap-tapping, no louder than that of a woodpecker, for the sound would come from a great distance off through the solid mountain rock.
The work was hard at best, for it is very warm underground; but it was not particularly unpleasant, and some of the miners, when they wanted to earn a little more money for a particular purpose, would stop behind the rest, and work all night. But you could not tell night from day down there, except from feeling tired and sleepy; for no light of the sun ever came into those gloomy regions. Some who had thus remained behind during the night, although certain there were none of their companions at work, would declare the next morning that they heard, every time they halted for a moment to take breath, a tap-tapping all about them, as if the mountain were then more full of miners than ever it was during the day; and some in consequence would never stay over night, for all knew those were the sounds of the goblins. They worked only at night, for the miners' night was the goblins' day. Indeed, the greater number of the miners were afraid of the goblins: for there were strange stories well known amongst them of the treatment some had received whom the goblins had surprised at their work during the night. The more courageous of them, however, amongst them Peter Peterson and Curdie, who in this took after his father, had stayed in the mine all night again and again, and although they had several times encountered a few stray goblins, had never yet failed in driving them away. As I have indicated already, the chief defence against them was verse, for they hated verse of every kind, and some kinds they could not endure at all. I suspect they could not make any themselves, and that was why they disliked it so much. At all events, those who were most afraid of them were those who could neither make verses themselves, nor remember the verses that other people made for them; while those who were never afraid were those who could make verses for themselves; for although there were certain old rhymes which were very effectual, yet it was well known that a new rhyme, if of the right sort, was even more distasteful to them, and therefore more effectual in putting them to flight.
Perhaps my readers may be wondering what the goblins could be about, working all night long, seeing they never carried up the ore and sold it; but when I have informed them concerning what Curdie learned the very next night, they will be able to understand.
For Curdie had determined, if his father would permit him, to remain there alone this night--and that for two reasons: first, he wanted to get extra wages in order that he might buy a very warm red petticoat for his mother, who had begun to complain of the cold of the mountain air sooner than usual this autumn; and second, he had just a faint glimmering of hope of finding out what the goblins were about under his window the night before.
When he told his father, he made no objection, for he had great confidence in his boy's courage and resources.
"I'm sorry I can't stay with you," said Peter; "but I want to go and pay the parson a visit this evening, and besides I've had a bit of a headache all day."
"I'm sorry for that, father," said Curdie.
"Oh! it's not much. You'll be sure to take care of yourself, won't you?"
"Yes, father; I will. I'll keep a sharp lookout, I promise you."
Curdie was the only one who remained in the mine. About six o'clock the rest went away, every one bidding him good night, and telling him to take care of himself; for he was a great favorite with them all.
"Don't forget your rhymes," said one.
"No, no," answered Curdie.
"It's no matter if he does," said another, "for he'll only have to make a new one."
"Yes, but he mightn't be able to make it fast enough," said another; "and while it was cooking in his head, they might take a mean advantage and set upon him."
"I'll do my best," said Curdie. "I'm not afraid."
"We all know that," they returned, and left him.
|
{
"id": "34339"
}
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8
|
THE GOBLINS
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FOR some time Curdie worked away briskly, throwing all the ore he had disengaged on one side behind him, to be ready for carrying out in the morning. He heard a good deal of goblin-tapping, but it all sounded far away in the hill, and he paid it little heed. Toward midnight he began to feel rather hungry; so he dropped his pickaxe, got a lump of bread which in the morning he had laid in a damp hole in the rock, sat down on a heap of ore and ate his supper. Then he leaned back for five minutes' rest before beginning his work again, and laid his head against the rock. He had not kept the position for one minute before he heard something which made him sharpen his ears. It sounded like a voice inside the rock. After a while he heard it again. It was a goblin-voice--there could be no doubt about that--and this time he could make out the words.
"Hadn't we better be moving?" it said.
A rougher and deeper voice replied: "There's no hurry. That wretched little mole won't be through to-night, if he work ever so hard. He's by no means at the thinnest place."
"But you still think the lode does come through into our house?" said the first voice.
"Yes, but a good bit farther on than he has got to yet. If he had struck a stroke more to the side just here," said the goblin, tapping the very stone, as it seemed to Curdie, against which his head lay, "he would have been through; but he's a couple of yards past it now, and if he follow the lode it will be a week before it leads him in. You see it back there--a long way. Still, perhaps, in case of accident, it would be as well to be getting out of this. Helfer, you'll take the great chest. That's your business, you know."
"Yes, dad," said a third voice. "But you must help me to get it on my back. It's awfully heavy, you know."
"Well, it isn't just a bag of smoke, I admit. But you're as strong as a mountain, Helfer."
"You say so, dad. I think myself I'm all right. But I could carry ten times as much if it wasn't for my feet."
"That is your weak point, I confess, my boy."
"Ain't it yours, too, father?"
"Well, to be honest, it is a goblin-weakness. Why they come so soft, I declare I haven't an idea."
"Specially when your head's so hard, you know, father."
"Yes, my boy. The goblin's glory is his head. To think how the fellows up above there have to put on helmets and things when they go fighting. Ha! ha!"
"But why don't we wear shoes like them, father? I should like it--specially when I've got a chest like that on my head."
"Well, you see, it's not the fashion. The king never wears shoes."
"The queen does."
"Yes; but that's for distinction. The first queen, you see--I mean the king's first wife--wore shoes of course, because she came from upstairs; and so, when she died, the next queen would not be inferior to her as she called it, and would wear shoes too. It was all pride. She is the hardest in forbidding them to the rest of the women."
"I'm sure I wouldn't wear them--no, not for--that I wouldn't!" said the first voice, which was evidently that of the mother of the family. "I can't think why either of them should."
"Didn't I tell you the first was from upstairs?" said the other. "That was the only silly thing I ever knew his Majesty guilty of. Why should he marry an outlandish woman like that--one of our natural enemies too?"
"I suppose he fell in love with her."
"Pooh! pooh! He's just as happy now with one of his own people."
"Did she die _very_ soon? They didn't tease her to death, did they?"
"Oh dear no! The king worshipped her very footmarks."
"What made her die, then? Didn't the air agree with her?"
"She died when the young prince was born."
"How silly of her! _We_ never do that. It must have been because she wore shoes."
"I don't know that."
"Why do they wear shoes up there?"
"Ah! now that's a sensible question, and I will answer it. But in order to do so, I must first tell you a secret. I once saw the queen's feet."
"Without her shoes?"
"Yes--without her shoes."
"No! Did you? How was it?"
"Never you mind how it was. _She_ didn't know I saw them. And what do you think! --they had _toes_!"
"Toes! What's that?"
"You may well ask! I should never have known if I had not seen the queen's feet. Just imagine! the ends of her feet were split up into five or six thin pieces!"
"Oh, horrid! How _could_ the king have fallen in love with her?"
"You forget that she wore shoes. That is just why she wore them. That is why all the men, and women too, upstairs wear shoes. They can't bear the sight of their own feet without them."
"Ah! now I understand. If ever you wish for shoes again, Helfer, I'll hit your feet--I will."
"No, no, mother; pray don't."
"Then don't you."
"But with such a big box on my head--" A horrid scream followed, which Curdie interpreted as in reply to a blow from his mother upon the feet of her eldest goblin.
"Well, I never knew so much before!" remarked a fourth voice.
"Your knowledge is not universal quite yet," said the father. "You were only fifty last month. Mind you see to the bed and bedding. As soon as we've finished our supper, we'll be up and going. Ha! ha! ha!"
"What are you laughing at, husband?"
"I'm laughing to think what a mess the miners will find themselves in--somewhere before this day ten years."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing."
"Oh yes, you do mean something. You always do mean something."
"It's more than you do, then, wife."
"That may be; but it's not more than I find out, you know."
"Ha! ha! You're a sharp one. What a mother you've got, Helfer!"
"Yes, father."
"Well, I suppose I must tell you. They're all at the palace consulting about it to-night; and as soon as we've got away from this thin place, I'm going there to hear what night they fix upon. I should like to see that young ruffian there on the other side, struggling in the agonies of--" He dropped his voice so low that Curdie could hear only a growl. The growl went on in a low bass for a good while, as inarticulate as if the goblin's tongue had been a sausage; and it was not until his wife spoke again that it rose to its former pitch.
"But what shall we do when you are at the palace?" she asked.
"I will see you safe in the new house I've been digging for you for the last two months. Podge, you mind the table and chairs. I commit them to your care. The table has seven legs--each chair three. I shall require them all at your hands."
After this arose a confused conversation about the various household goods and their transport; and Curdie heard nothing more that was of any importance.
He now knew at least one of the reasons for the constant sound of the goblin hammers and pickaxes at night. They were making new houses for themselves, to which they might retreat when the miners should threaten to break into their dwellings. But he had learned two things of far greater importance. The first was, that some grievous calamity was preparing, and almost ready to fall upon the heads of the miners; the second was--the one weak point of a goblin's body: he had not known that their feet were so tender as he had now reason to suspect. He had heard it said that they had no toes: he had never had opportunity of inspecting them closely enough in the dusk in which they always appeared, to satisfy himself whether it was a correct report. Indeed, he had not been able even to satisfy himself as to whether they had no fingers, although that also was commonly said to be the fact. One of the miners, indeed, who had had more schooling than the rest, was wont to argue that such must have been the primordial condition of humanity, and that education and handicraft had developed both toes and fingers--with which proposition Curdie had once heard his father sarcastically agree, alleging in support of it the probability that babies' gloves were a traditional remnant of the old state of things; while the stockings of all ages, no regard being paid in them to the toes, pointed in the same direction. But what was of importance was the fact concerning the softness of the goblin-feet, which he foresaw might be useful to all miners. What he had to do in the mean time, however, was to discover, if possible, the special evil design the goblins had now in their heads.
Although he knew all the gangs and all the natural galleries with which they communicated in the mined part of the mountain, he had not the least idea where the palace of the king of the gnomes was; otherwise he would have set out at once on the enterprise of discovering what the said design was. He judged, and rightly, that it must lie in a farther part of the mountain, between which and the mine there was as yet no communication. There must be one nearly completed, however; for it could be but a thin partition which now separated them. If only he could get through in time to follow the goblins as they retreated! A few blows would doubtless be sufficient--just where his ear now lay; but if he attempted to strike there with his pickaxe, he would only hasten the departure of the family, put them on their guard, and perhaps lose their involuntary guidance. He therefore began to feel the wall with his hands, and soon found that some of the stones were loose enough to be drawn out with little noise.
Laying hold of a large one with both his hands, he drew it gently out, and let it down softly.
"What was that noise?" said the goblin father.
Curdie blew out his light, lest it should shine through.
"It must be that one miner that stayed behind the rest," said the mother.
"No; he's been gone a good while. I haven't heard a blow for an hour. Besides, it wasn't like that."
"Then I suppose it must have been a stone carried down the brook inside."
"Perhaps. It will have more room by and by."
Curdie kept quite still. After a little while, hearing nothing but the sounds of their preparations for departure, mingled with an occasional word of direction, and anxious to know whether the removal of the stone had made an opening into the goblins' house, he put in his hand to feel. It went in a good way, and then came in contact with something soft. He had but a moment to feel it over, it was so quickly withdrawn: it was one of the toeless goblin-feet. The owner of it gave a cry of fright.
"What's the matter, Helfer?" asked his mother.
"A beast came out of the wall, and licked my foot."
"Nonsense! There are no wild beasts in our country," said his father.
"But it was, father. I felt it."
"Nonsense, I say. Will you malign your native realms and reduce them to a level with the country up-stairs? That is swarming with wild beasts of every description."
"But I did feel it, father."
"I tell you to hold your tongue. You are no patriot."
Curdie suppressed his laughter, and lay still as a mouse--but no stiller, for every moment he kept nibbling away with his fingers at the edges of the hole. He was slowly making it bigger, for here the rock had been very much shattered with the blasting.
There seemed to be a good many in the family, to judge from the mass of confused talk which now and then came through the hole; but when all were speaking together, and just as if they had bottle-brushes--each at least one--in their throats, it was not easy to make out much that was said. At length he heard once more what the father-goblin was saying.
"Now then," he said, "get your bundles on your backs. Here, Helfer, I'll help you up with your chest."
"I wish it _was_ my chest, father."
"Your turn will come in good time enough! Make haste. I _must_ go to the meeting at the palace to-night. When that's over, we can come back and clear out the last of the things before our enemies return in the morning. Now light your torches, and come along. What a distinction it is to provide our own light, instead of being dependent on a thing hung up in the air--a most disagreeable contrivance--intended no doubt to blind us when we venture out under its baleful influence! Quite glaring and vulgar, I call it, though no doubt useful to poor creatures who haven't the wit to make light for themselves!"
Curdie could hardly keep himself from calling through to know whether they made the fire to light their torches by. But a moment's reflection showed him that they would have said they did, inasmuch as they struck two stones together, and the fire came.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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9
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THE HALL OF THE GOBLIN PALACE
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A SOUND of many soft feet followed, but soon ceased. Then Curdie flew at the hole like a tiger, and tore and pulled. The sides gave way, and it was soon large enough for him to crawl through. He would not betray himself by rekindling his lamp, but the torches of the retreating company, departing in a straight line up a long avenue from the door of their cave, threw back light enough to afford him a glance round the deserted home of the goblins. To his surprise, he could discover nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary cave in the rock, upon many of which he had come with the rest of the miners in the progress of their excavations. The goblins had talked of coming back for the rest of their household gear: he saw nothing that would have made him suspect a family had taken shelter there for a single night. The floor was rough and stony; the walls full of projecting corners; the roof in one place twenty feet high, in another endangering his forehead; while on one side a stream, no thicker than a needle, it is true, but still sufficient to spread a wide dampness over the wall, flowed down the face of the rock. But the troop in front of him was toiling under heavy burdens. He could distinguish Helfer now and then, in the flickering light and shade, with his heavy chest on his bending shoulders; while the second brother was almost buried in what looked like a great feather-bed. "Where do they get the feathers?" thought Curdie; but in a moment the troop disappeared at a turn of the way, and it was now both safe and necessary for Curdie to follow them, lest they should be round the next turning before he saw them again, for so he might lose them altogether. He darted after them like a grayhound. When he reached the corner and looked cautiously round, he saw them again at some distance down another long passage. None of the galleries he saw that night bore signs of the work of man--or of goblin either. Stalactites far older than the mines hung from their roofs; and their floors were rough with boulders and large round stones, showing that there water must have once run. He waited again at this corner till they had disappeared round the next, and so followed them a long way through one passage after another. The passages grew more and more lofty, and were more and more covered in the roof with shining stalactites.
It was a strange enough procession which he followed. But the strangest part of it was the household animals which crowded amongst the feet of the goblins. It was true they had no wild animals down there--at least they did not know of any; but they had a wonderful number of tame ones. I must, however, reserve any contributions toward the natural history of these for a later position in my story.
At length, turning a corner too abruptly, he had almost rushed into the middle of the goblin family; for there they had already set down all their burdens on the floor of a cave considerably larger than that which they had left. They were as yet too breathless to speak, else he would have had warning of their arrest. He started back, however, before any one saw him, and retreating a good way, stood watching till the father should come out to go to the palace. Before very long, both he and his son Helfer appeared and kept on in the same direction as before, while Curdie followed them again with renewed precaution. For a long time he heard no sound except something like the rush of a river inside the rock; but at length what seemed the far-off noise of a great shouting reached his ears, which however presently ceased. After advancing a good way farther, he thought he heard a single voice. It sounded clearer and clearer as he went on, until at last he could almost distinguish the words. In a moment or two, keeping after the goblins round another corner, he once more started back--this time in amazement.
He was at the entrance of a magnificent cavern, of an oval shape, once probably a huge natural reservoir of water, now the great palace hall of the goblins. It rose to a tremendous height, but the roof was composed of such shining materials, and the multitude of torches carried by the goblins who crowded the floor lighted up the place so brilliantly, that Curdie could see to the top quite well. But he had no idea how immense the place was, until his eyes had got accustomed to it, which was not for a good many minutes. The rough projections on the walls, and the shadows thrown upward from them by the torches, made the sides of the chamber look as if they were crowded with statues upon brackets and pedestals, reaching in irregular tiers from floor to roof. The walls themselves were, in many parts, of gloriously shining substances, some of them gorgeously colored besides, which powerfully contrasted with the shadows. Curdie could not help wondering whether his rhymes would be of any use against such a multitude of goblins as filled the floor of the hall, and indeed felt considerably tempted to begin his shout of _One, two, three! _ but as there was no reason for routing them, and much for endeavoring to discover their designs, he kept himself perfectly quiet, and peeping round the edge of the doorway, listened with both his sharp ears.
At the other end of the hall, high above the heads of the multitude, was a terrace-like ledge of considerable height, caused by the receding of the upper part of the cavern wall. Upon this sat the king and his court, the king on a throne hollowed out of a huge block of green copper ore, and his court upon lower seats around it. The king had been making them a speech, and the applause which followed it was what Curdie had heard. One of the court was now addressing the multitude. What he heard him say was to the following effect: "Hence it appears that two plans have been for some time together working in the strong head of his Majesty for the deliverance of his people. Regardless of the fact that we were the first possessors of the regions they now inhabit, regardless equally of the fact that we abandoned that region from the loftiest motives; regardless also of the self-evident fact that we excel them as far in mental ability as they excel us in stature, they look upon us as a degraded race, and make a mockery of all our finer feelings. But the time has almost arrived when--thanks to his Majesty's inventive genius--it will be in our power to take a thorough revenge upon them once for all, in respect of their unfriendly behavior."
"May it please your Majesty--" cried a voice close by the door, which Curdie recognized as that of the goblin he had followed.
"Who is he that interrupts the Chancellor?" cried another from near the throne.
"Glump," answered several voices.
"He is our trusty subject," said the king himself, in a slow and stately voice: "let him come forward and speak."
A lane was parted through the crowd, and Glump having ascended the platform and bowed to the king, spoke as follows: "Sire, I would have held my peace, had I not known that I only knew how near was the moment to which the Chancellor had just referred. In all probability, before another day is past, the enemy will have broken through into my house--the partition between being even now not more than a foot in thickness."
"Not quite so much," thought Curdie to himself.
"This very evening I have had to remove my household effects; therefore the sooner we are ready to carry out the plan, for the execution of which his Majesty has been making such magnificent preparations, the better. I may just add, that within the last few days I have perceived a small outbreak in my dining-room, which combined with observations upon the course of the river escaping where the evil men enter, has convinced me that close to the spot must lie a deep gulf in its channel. This discovery will, I trust, add considerably to the otherwise immense forces at his Majesty's disposal."
He ceased, and the king graciously acknowledged his speech with a bend of his head; whereupon Glump, after a bow to his Majesty, slid down amongst the rest of the undistinguished multitude. Then the Chancellor rose and resumed.
"The information which the worthy Glump has given us," he said, "might have been of considerable import at the present moment, but for that other design already referred to, which naturally takes precedence. His Majesty, unwilling to proceed to extremities, and well aware that such measures sooner or later result in violent reactions, has excogitated a more fundamental and comprehensive measure, of which I need say no more. Should his Majesty be successful--as who dares to doubt? --then a peace, all to the advantage of the goblin kingdom, will be established for a generation at least, rendered absolutely secure by the pledge which his royal Highness the prince will have and hold for the good behavior of his relatives. Should his Majesty fail--which who shall dare even to imagine in his most secret thoughts? --then will be the time for carrying out with rigor the design to which Glump referred, and for which our preparations are even now all but completed. The failure of the former will render the latter imperative."
Curdie perceiving that the assembly was drawing to a close, and that there was little chance of either plan being more fully discovered, now thought it prudent to make his escape before the goblins began to disperse, and slipped quietly away.
There was not much danger of meeting any goblins, for all the men at least were left behind him in the palace; but there was considerable danger of his taking a wrong turning, for he had now no light, and had therefore to depend upon his memory and his hands. After he had left behind him the glow that issued from the door of Glump's new abode, he was utterly without guide, so far as his eyes were concerned.
He was most anxious to get back through the hole before the goblins should return to fetch the remains of their furniture. It was not that he was in the least afraid of them, but, as it was of the utmost importance that he should thoroughly discover what the plans they were cherishing were, he must not occasion the slightest suspicion that they were watched by a miner.
He hurried on, feeling his way along the walls of rock. Had he not been very courageous, he must have been very anxious, for he could not but know that if he lost his way it would be the most difficult thing in the world to find it again. Morning would bring no light into these regions; and toward him least of all, who was known as a special rhymster and persecutor, could goblins be expected to exercise courtesy? Well might he wish that he had brought his lamp and tinder-box with him, of which he had not thought when he crept so eagerly after the goblins! He wished it all the more when, after a while, he found his way blocked up, and could get no farther. It was of no use to turn back, for he had not the least idea where he had begun to go wrong. Mechanically, however, he kept feeling about the walls that hemmed him in. His hand came upon a place where a tiny stream of water was running down the face of the rock. "What a stupid I am!" he said to himself. "I am actually at the end of my journey! --and there are the goblins coming back to fetch their things!" he added, as the red glimmer of their torches appeared at the end of the long avenue that led up to the cave. In a moment he had thrown himself on the floor, and wriggled backward through the hole. The floor on the other side was several feet lower, which made it easier to get back. It was all he could do to lift the largest stone he had taken out of the hole, but he did manage to shove it in again. He sat down on the ore-heap and thought.
He was pretty sure that the latter plan of the goblins was to inundate the mine by breaking outlets for the water accumulated in the natural reservoirs of the mountain, as well as running through portions of it. While the part hollowed by the miners remained shut off from that inhabited by the goblins, they had had no opportunity of injuring them thus; but now that a passage was broken through, and the goblins' part proved the higher in the mountain, it was clear to Curdie that the mine could be destroyed in an hour. Water was always the chief danger to which the miners were exposed. They met with a little choke-damp sometimes, but never with the explosive fire-damp so common in coal mines. Hence they were careful as soon as they saw any appearance of water.
As the result of his reflections while the goblins were busy in their old home, it seemed to Curdie that it would be best to build up the whole of this gang, filling it with stone, and clay or lime, so that there should be no smallest channel for the water to get into. There was not, however, any immediate danger, for the execution of the goblins' plan was contingent upon the failure of that unknown design which was to take precedence of it; and he was most anxious to keep the door of communication open, that he might if possible discover what that former plan was. At the same time they could not then resume their intermitted labors for the inundation without his finding it out; when by putting all hands to the work, the one existing outlet might in a single night be rendered impenetrable to any weight of water; for by filling the gang entirely up, their embankment would be buttressed by the sides of the mountain itself.
As soon as he found that the goblins had again retired, he lighted his lamp, and proceeded to fill the hole he had made with such stones as he could withdraw when he pleased. He then thought it better, as he might have occasion to be up a good many nights after this, to go home and have some sleep.
How pleasant the night-air felt upon the outside of the mountain after what he had gone through in the inside of it! He hurried up the hill, without meeting a single goblin on the way, and called and tapped at the window until he woke his father, who soon rose and let him in. He told him the whole story, and, just as he had expected, his father thought it best to work that lode no farther, but at the same time to pretend occasionally to be at work there still, in order that the goblins might have no suspicions. Both father and son then went to bed, and slept soundly until the morning.
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{
"id": "34339"
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10
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THE PRINCESS'S KING-PAPA
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THE weather continued fine for weeks, and the little princess went out every day. So long a period of fine weather had indeed never been known upon that mountain. The only uncomfortable thing was that her nurse was so nervous and particular about being in before the sun was down, that often she would take to her heels when nothing worse than a fleecy cloud crossing the sun threw a shadow on the hillside; and many an evening they were home a full hour before the sunlight had left the weathercock on the stables. If it had not been for such behavior, Irene would by this time have almost forgotten the goblins. She never forgot Curdie, but him she remembered for his own sake, and indeed would have remembered him if only because a princess never forgets her debts until they are paid.
[Illustration: In an instant she was on the saddle, and clasped in his great strong arms.]
One splendid sunshiny day, about an hour after noon, Irene, who was playing on a lawn in the garden, heard the distant blast of a bugle. She jumped up with a cry of joy, for she knew by that particular blast that her father was on his way to see her. This part of the garden lay on the slope of the hill, and allowed a full view of the country below. So she shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked far away to catch the first glimpse of shining armor. In a few moments a little troop came glittering round the shoulder of a hill. Spears and helmets were sparkling and gleaming, banners were flying, horses prancing, and again came the bugle-blast, which was to her like the voice of her father calling across the distance, "Irene, I'm coming." On and on they came, until she could clearly distinguish the king. He rode a white horse, and was taller than any of the men with him. He wore a narrow circle of gold set with jewels around his helmet, and as he came still nearer, Irene could discern the flashing of the stones in the sun. It was a long time since he had been to see her, and her little heart beat faster and faster as the shining troop approached, for she loved her king-papa very dearly, and was nowhere so happy as in his arms. When they reached a certain point, after which she could see them no more from the garden, she ran to the gate, and there stood till up they came clanging and stamping, with one more bright bugle-blast which said, "Irene, I am come."
By this time the people of the house were all gathered at the gate, but Irene stood alone in front of them. When the horseman pulled up, she ran to the side of the white horse, and held up her arms. The king stooped, and took her hands. In an instant she was on the saddle, and clasped in his great strong arms. I wish I could describe the king, so that you could see him in your mind. He had gentle blue eyes, but a nose that made him look like an eagle. A long dark beard, streaked with silvery lines, flowed from his mouth almost to his waist, and as Irene sat on the saddle and hid her glad face upon his bosom, it mingled with the golden hair which her mother had given her, and the two together were like a cloud with streaks of the sun woven through it. After he had held her to his heart for a minute, he spoke to his white horse, and the great beautiful creature, which had been prancing so proudly a little while before, walked as gently as a lady--for he knew he had a little lady on his back--through the gate and up to the door of the house. Then the king set her on the ground, and, dismounting, took her hand and walked with her into the great hall, which was hardly ever entered except when he came to see his little princess. There he sat down with two of his councillors who had accompanied him, to have some refreshment, and Irene bestowed herself on his right hand, and drank her milk out of a wooden bowl curiously carved.
After the king had eaten and drunk, he turned to the princess and said, stroking her hair-- "Now, my child, what shall we do next?"
This was the question he almost always put to her first after their meal together; and Irene had been waiting for it with some impatience, for now, she thought, she should be able to settle a question which constantly perplexed her.
"I should like you to take me to see my great old grandmother."
The king looked grave, and said-- "What does my little daughter mean?"
"I mean the Queen Irene that lives up in the tower--the very old lady, you know, with the long hair of silver."
The king only gazed at his little princess with a look which she could not understand.
"She's got her crown in her bedroom," she went on; "but I've not been in there yet. You know she's here, don't you?"
"No," said the king very quietly.
"Then it must be all a dream," said Irene. "I half thought it was; but I couldn't be sure. Now I _am_ sure of it. Besides, I couldn't find her the next time I went up."
At that moment a snow-white pigeon flew in at an open window and, with a flutter, settled upon Irene's head. She broke into a merry laugh, cowered a little and put up her hands to her head, saying-- "Dear dovey, don't peck me. You'll pull out my hair with your long claws, if you don't have a care."
The king stretched out his hand to take the pigeon, but it spread its wings and flew again through the open window, when its whiteness made one flash in the sun and vanished. The king laid his hand on the princess's head, held it back a little, gazed in her face, smiled half a smile and sighed half a sigh.
"Come, my child; we'll have a walk in the garden together," he said.
"You won't come up and see my huge, great, beautiful grandmother, then, king-papa?" said the princess.
"Not this time," said the king very gently. "She has not invited me, you know, and great old ladies like her do not choose to be visited without leave asked and given."
The garden was a very lovely place. Being upon a mountain side, there were parts in it where the rocks came through in great masses, and all immediately about them remained quite wild. Tufts of heather grew upon them, and other hardy mountain plants and flowers, while near them would be lovely roses and lilies, and all pleasant garden flowers. This mingling of the wild mountain with the civilized garden was very quaint, and it was impossible for any number of gardeners to make such a garden look formal and stiff.
Against one of these rocks was a garden-seat, shadowed, from the afternoon sun by the overhanging of the rock itself. There was a little winding path up to the top of the rock, and on the top another seat; but they sat on the seat at its foot, because the sun was hot; and there they talked together of many things. At length the king said: "You were out late one evening, Irene."
"Yes, papa. It was my fault; and Lootie was very sorry."
"I must talk to Lootie about it," said the king.
"Don't speak loud to her, please, papa," said Irene. "She's been so afraid of being late ever since! Indeed she has not been naughty. It was only a mistake for once."
"Once might be too often," murmured the king to himself, as he stroked his child's head.
I cannot tell you how he had come to know. I am sure Curdie had not told him. Some one about the palace must have seen them, after all. He sat for a good while thinking. There was no sound to be heard except that of a little stream which ran merrily out of an opening in the rock by where they sat, and sped away down the hill through the garden. Then he rose, and leaving Irene where she was, went into the house and sent for Lootie, with whom he had a talk that made her cry.
When in the evening he rode away upon his great white horse, he left six of his attendants behind him, with orders that three of them should watch outside the house every night, walking round and round it from sunset to sunrise. It was clear he was not quite comfortable about the princess.
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{
"id": "34339"
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11
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THE OLD LADY'S BEDROOM
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NOTHING more happened worth telling for some time. The autumn came and went by. There were no more flowers in the garden. The winds blew strong, and howled among the rocks. The rain fell, and drenched the few yellow and red leaves that could not get off the bare branches. Again and again there would be a glorious morning followed by a pouring afternoon, and sometimes, for a week together, there would be rain, nothing but rain, all day, and then the most lovely cloudless night, with the sky all out in full-blown stars--not one missing. But the princess could not see much of them, for she went to bed early. The winter drew on, and she found things growing dreary. When it was too stormy to go out, and she had got tired of her toys, Lootie would take her about the house, sometimes to the housekeeper's room, where the housekeeper, who was a good, kind old woman, made much of her--sometimes to the servants' hall or the kitchen, where she was not princess merely, but absolute queen, and ran a great risk of being spoiled. Sometimes she would run of herself to the room where the men-at-arms whom the king had left, sat, and they showed her their arms and accoutrements, and did what they could to amuse her. Still at times she found it very dreary, and often and often wished that her huge great grandmother had not been a dream.
One morning the nurse left her with the housekeeper for a while. To amuse her, she turned out the contents of an old cabinet upon the table. The little princess found her treasures, queer ancient ornaments and many things the uses of which she could not imagine, far more interesting than her own toys, and sat playing with them for two hours or more. But at length, in handling a curious old-fashioned brooch, she ran the pin of it into her thumb, and gave a little scream with the sharpness of the pain, but would have thought little more of it, had not the pain increased and her thumb begun to swell. This alarmed the housekeeper greatly. The nurse was fetched; the doctor was sent for; her hand was poulticed, and long before her usual time she was put to bed. The pain still continued, and although she fell asleep and dreamed a good many dreams, there was the pain always in every dream. At last it woke her up.
The moon was shining brightly into the room. The poultice had fallen off her hand, and it was burning hot. She fancied if she could hold it into the moonlight, that would cool it. So she got out of bed, without waking the nurse who lay at the other end of the room, and went to the window. When she looked out, she saw one of the men-at-arms walking in the garden, with the moonlight glancing on his armor. She was just going to tap on the window and call him, for she wanted to tell him all about it, when she bethought herself that that might wake Lootie, and she would put her into bed again. So she resolved to go to the window of another room, and call him from there. It was so much nicer to have somebody to talk to than to lie awake in bed with the burning pain in her hand. She opened the door very gently and went through the nursery, which did not look into the garden, to go to the other window. But when she came to the foot of the old staircase, there was the moon shining down from some window high up, and making the worm-eaten oak look very strange and delicate and lovely. In a moment she was putting her little feet one after the other in the silvery path up the stair, looking behind as she went, to see the shadow they made in the middle of the silver. Some little girls would have been afraid to find themselves thus alone in the middle of the night, but Irene was a princess.
As she went slowly up the stairs, not quite sure that she was not dreaming, suddenly a great longing woke up in her heart to try once more whether she could not find the old, old lady with the silvery hair.
"If she is a dream," she said to herself, "then I am the likelier to find her, if I am dreaming."
So up and up she went, stair after stair, until she came to the many rooms--all just as she had seen them before. Through passage after passage she softly sped, comforting herself that if she should lose her way it would not matter much, because when she woke she would find herself in her own bed, with Lootie not far off. But as if she had known every step of the way, she walked straight to the door at the foot of the narrow stair that led to the tower.
"What if I should realliality-really find my beautiful old grandmother up there!" she said to herself, as she crept up the steep steps.
When she reached the top, she stood a moment listening in the dark, for there was no moon there. Yes! it was! it was the hum of the spinning-wheel! What a diligent grandmother to work both day and night!
She tapped gently at the door.
"Come in, Irene," said the sweet voice.
The princess opened the door, and entered. There was the moonlight streaming in at the window, and in the middle of the moonlight sat the old lady in her black dress with the white lace, and her silvery hair mingling with the moonlight, so that you could not have distinguished one from the other.
"Come in, Irene," she said again. "Can you tell me what I am spinning?"
"She speaks," thought Irene, "just as if she had seen me five minutes ago, or yesterday at the farthest. --No," she answered; "I don't know what you are spinning. Please, I thought you were a dream. Why couldn't I find you before, great-great-grandmother?"
"That you are hardly old enough to understand. But you would have found me sooner if you hadn't come to think I was a dream. I will give you one reason, though, why you couldn't find me. I didn't want you to find me."
"Why, please?"
"Because I did not want Lootie to know I was here."
"But you told me to tell Lootie."
"Yes. But I knew Lootie would not believe you. If she were to see me sitting spinning here, she wouldn't believe me either."
"Why."
"Because she couldn't. She would rub her eyes, and go away and say she felt queer, and forget half of it and more, and then say it had been all a dream."
"Just like me," said Irene, feeling very much ashamed of herself.
"Yes, a good deal like you, but not just like you; for you've come again; and Lootie wouldn't have come again. She would have said, No, no--she had had enough of such nonsense."
"Is it naughty of Lootie then?"
"It would be naughty of you. I've never done anything for Lootie."
"And you did wash my face and hands for me," said Irene, beginning to cry.
The old lady smiled a sweet smile and said-- "I'm not vexed with you, my child--nor with Lootie either. But I don't want you to say anything more to Lootie about me. If she should ask you, you must just be silent. But I do not think she will ask you."
All the time they talked, the old lady kept on spinning.
"You haven't told me yet what I am spinning," she said.
"Because I don't know. It's very pretty stuff."
It was indeed very pretty stuff. There was a good bunch of it on the distaff attached to the spinning-wheel, and in the moonlight it shone like--what shall I say it was like? It was not white enough for silver--yes, it was like silver, but shone gray rather than white, and glittered only a little. And the thread the old lady drew out from it was so fine that Irene could hardly see it.
"I am spinning this for you, my child."
"For me! What am I to do with it, please?"
"I will tell you by and by. But first I will tell you what it is. It is spider-webs--of a particular kind. My pigeons bring it me from over the great sea. There is only one forest where the spiders live who make this particular kind--the finest and strongest of any. I have nearly finished my present job. What is on the rock now will be quite sufficient. I have a week's work there yet, though," she added, looking at the bunch.
"Do you work all day and night too, great-great-great-great grandmother?" said the princess, thinking to be very polite with so many _greats_.
"I am not quite so great as all that," she answered, smiling almost merrily. "If you call me grandmother, that will do. --No. I don't work every night--only moonlit nights, and then no longer than the moon shines upon my wheel. I sha'n't work much longer to-night."
"And what will you do next, grandmother?"
"Go to bed. Would you like to see my bedroom?"
"Yes, that I should."
"Then I think I won't work any longer to-night. I shall be in good time."
The old lady rose, and left her wheel standing just as it was. You see there was no good in putting it away, for where there was not any furniture, there was no danger of being untidy.
Then she took Irene by the hand, but it was her bad hand, and Irene gave a little cry of pain.
"My child!" said, her grandmother, "what is the matter?"
Irene held her hand into the moonlight, that the old lady might see it, and told her all about it, at which she looked grave. But she only said--"Give me your other hand"; and, having led her out upon the little dark landing, opened the door on the opposite side of it. What was Irene's surprise to see the loveliest room she had ever seen in her life! It was large and lofty, and dome-shaped. From the centre hung a lamp as round as a ball, shining as if with the brightest moonlight, which made everything visible in the room, though not so clearly that the princess could tell what many of the things were. A large oval bed stood in the middle, with a coverlid of rose-color, and velvet curtains all round it of a lovely pale blue. The walls were also blue--spangled all over with what looked like stars of silver.
The old lady left her, and going to a strange-looking cabinet, opened it and took out a curious silver casket. Then she sat down on a low chair, and calling Irene, made her kneel before her, while she looked at her hand. Having examined it, she opened the casket, and took from it a little ointment. The sweetest odor filled the room--like that of roses and lilies--as she rubbed the ointment gently all over the hot swollen hand. Her touch was so pleasant and cool, that it seemed to drive away the pain and heat wherever it came.
"Oh, grandmother! it is _so_ nice!" said Irene. "Thank you; thank you."
Then the old lady went to a chest of drawers, and took out a large handkerchief of gossamer-like cambric, which she tied around her hand.
"I don't think that I can let you go away to-night," she said. "Do you think you would like to sleep with me?"
"Oh, yes, yes, dear grandmother!" said Irene, and would have clapped her hands, forgetting that she could not.
"You won't be afraid then to go to bed with such an old woman?"
"No. You are so beautiful, grandmother."
"But I am _very_ old."
"And I suppose I am very young. You won't mind sleeping with such a _very_ young woman, grandmother?"
"You sweet little pertness!" said the old lady, and drew her toward her, and kissed her on the forehead and the cheek and the mouth.
Then she got a large silver basin, and having poured some water into it, made Irene sit on the chair, and washed her feet. This done, she was ready for bed. And oh, what a delicious bed it was into which her grandmother laid her! She hardly could have told she was lying upon anything: she felt nothing but the softness. The old lady having undressed herself, lay down beside her.
"Why don't you put out your moon?" asked the princess.
"That never goes out, night or day," she answered. "In the darkest night, if any of my pigeons are out on a message, they always see my moon, and know where to fly to."
"But if somebody besides the pigeons were to see it--somebody about the house, I mean--they would come to look what it was, and find you."
"The better for them then," said the old lady. "But it does not happen above five times in a hundred years that any one does see it. The greater part of those who do, take it for a meteor, wink their eyes, and forget it again. Besides, nobody could find the room except I pleased. Besides again--I will tell you a secret--if that light were to go out, you would fancy yourself lying in a bare garret, on a heap of old straw, and would not see one of the pleasant things round about you all the time."
"I hope it will never go out," said the princess.
"I hope not. But it is time we both went to sleep. Shall I take you in my arms?"
The little princess nestled close up to the old lady, who took her in both her arms, and held her close to her bosom.
"Oh dear! this is so nice!" said the princess. "I didn't know anything in the whole world could be so comfortable. I should like to lie here for ever."
"You may if you will," said the old lady. "But I must put you to one trial--not a very hard one, I hope. --This night week you must come back to me. If you don't, I do not know when you may find me again, and you will soon want me very much."
"Oh! please, don't let me forget."
"You shall not forget. The only question is whether you will believe I am anywhere--whether you will believe I am anything but a dream. You may be sure I will do all I can to help you to come. But it will rest with yourself after all. On the night of next Friday, you must come to me. Mind now."
"I will try," said the princess.
"Then good night," said the old lady, and kissed the forehead which lay in her bosom.
In a moment more the little princess was dreaming in the midst of the loveliest dreams--of summer seas and moonlight and mossy springs and great murmuring trees, and beds of wild flowers with such odors as she had never smelled before. But after all, no dream could be more lovely than what she had left behind when she fell asleep.
In the morning she found herself in her own bed. There was no handkerchief or anything else on her hand, only a sweet odor lingering about it. The swelling had all gone down; the prick of the brooch had vanished:--in fact her hand was perfectly well.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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12
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A SHORT CHAPTER ABOUT CURDIE
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CURDIE spent many nights in the mine. His father and he had taken Mrs. Peterson into the secret, for they knew mother could hold her tongue, which was more than could be said of all the miners' wives. But Curdie did not tell her that every night he spent in the mine, part of it went in earning a new red petticoat for her.
Mrs. Peterson was such a nice good mother! All mothers are more or less, but Mrs. Peterson was nice and good all _more_ and no _less_. She made a little heaven in that poor cottage on the hillside--for her husband and son to go home to out of the dreary earth in which they worked. I doubt if the princess was very much happier even in the arms of her huge great-grandmother than Peter and Curdie were in the arms of Mrs. Peterson. True, her hands were hard, and chapped, and large, but it was with work for them; and therefore in the sight of the angels, her hands were so much the more beautiful. And if Curdie worked hard to get her a petticoat, she worked hard every day to get him comforts which he would have missed much more than she would a new petticoat even in winter. Not that she and Curdie ever thought of how much they worked for each other: that would have spoiled everything.
When left alone in the mine, Curdie always worked on for an hour or two first, following the lode which, according to Glump, would lead at last into the deserted habitation. After that, he would set out on a reconnoitering expedition. In order to manage this, or rather the return from it, better than the first time, he had bought a huge ball of fine string, having learned the trick from Hop-o'-my-Thumb, whose history his mother had often told him. Not that Hop-o'-my-Thumb had ever used a ball of string--I should be sorry to be supposed so far out in my classics--but the principle was the same as that of the pebbles. The end of this string he fastened to his pickaxe, which figured no bad anchor, and then, with the ball in his hand, unrolling as he went, set out in the dark through the natural gangs of the goblins' territory. The first night or two he came upon nothing worth remembering; saw only a little of the home-life of the _cobs_ in the various caves they called houses; failed in coming upon anything to cast light upon the foregoing design which kept the inundation for the present in the background. But at length, I think on the third or fourth night, he found, partly guided by the noise of their implements, a company of evidently the best sappers and miners amongst them, hard at work. What were they about? It could not well be the inundation, seeing that had in the meantime been postponed to something else. Then what was it? He lurked and watched, every now and then in the greatest risk of being detected, but without success. He had again and again to retreat in haste, a proceeding rendered the more difficult that he had to gather up his string as he returned upon its course. It was not that he was afraid of the goblins, but that he was afraid of their finding out that they were watched, which might have prevented the discovery at which he aimed. Sometimes his haste had to be such that, when he reached home toward morning, his string for lack of time to wind it up as he "dodged the cobs," would be in what seemed the most hopeless entanglement; but after a good sleep though a short one, he always found his mother had got it right again. There it was, wound in a most respectable ball, ready for use the moment he should want it!
"I can't think how you do it, mother," he would say.
"I follow the thread," she would answer--"just as you do in the mine."
She never had more to say about it; but the less clever she was with her words, the more clever she was with her hands; and the less his mother said, the more, Curdie believed, she had to say.
But still he had made no discovery as to what the goblin miners were about.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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13
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THE COBS' CREATURES
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ABOUT this time, the gentlemen whom the king had left behind him to watch over the princess, had each occasion to doubt the testimony of his own eyes, for more than strange were the objects to which they would bear witness. They were of one sort--creatures--but so grotesque and misshapen as to be more like a child's drawings upon his slate than anything natural. They saw them only at night, while on guard about the house. The testimony of the man who first reported having seen one of them was that, as he was walking slowly round the house, while yet in the shadow, he caught sight of a creature standing on its hind legs in the moonlight, with its fore feet upon a window-ledge, staring in at the window. Its body might have been that of a dog or wolf--he thought, but he declared on his honor that its head was twice the size it ought to have been for the size of its body, and as round as a ball, while the face, which it turned upon him as it fled, was more like one carved by a boy upon the turnip inside which he is going to put a candle, than anything else he could think of. It rushed into the garden. He sent an arrow after it, and thought he must have struck it; for it gave an unearthly howl, and he could not find his arrow any more than the beast, although he searched all about the place where it vanished. They laughed at him until he was driven to hold his tongue; and said he must have taken too long a pull at the ale-jug. But before two nights were over, he had one to side with him; for he too had seen something strange, only quite different from that reported by the other. The description the second man gave of the creature he had seen was yet more grotesque and unlikely. They were both laughed at by the rest; but night after night another came over to their side, until at last there was only one left to laugh at all his companions. Two nights more passed, and he saw nothing; but on the third, he came rushing from the garden to the other two before the house, in such an agitation that they declared--for it was their turn now--that the band of his helmet was cracking under his chin with the rising of his hair inside it. Running with him into that part of the garden which I have already described, they saw a score of creatures, to not one of which they could give a name, and not one of which was like another, hideous and ludicrous at once, gamboling on the lawn in the moonlight. The supernatural or rather subnatural ugliness of their faces, the length of legs and necks in some, and the apparent absence of both or either in others, made the spectators, although in one consent as to what they saw, yet doubtful, as I have said, of the evidence of their own eyes--and ears as well; for the noises they made, although not loud, were as uncouth and varied as their forms, and could be described neither as grunts nor squeaks nor roars nor howls nor barks nor yells nor screams nor croaks nor hisses nor mews nor shrieks, but only as something like all of them mingled in one horrible dissonance. Keeping in the shade, the watchers had a few moments to recover themselves before the hideous assembly suspected their presence; but all at once, as if by common consent, they scampered off in the direction of a great rock, and vanished before the men had come to sufficiently to think of following them.
My readers will suspect what these were; but I will now give them full information concerning them. They were of course household animals belonging to the goblins, whose ancestors had taken their ancestors many centuries before from the upper regions of light into the lower regions of darkness. The original stocks of these horrible creatures were very much the same as the animals now seen about farms and homes in the country, with the exception of a few of them, which had been wild creatures, such as foxes, and indeed wolves and small bears, which the goblins, from their proclivity toward the animal creation, had caught when cubs and tamed. But in the course of time, all had undergone even greater changes than had passed upon their owners. They had altered--that is, their descendants had altered--into such creatures as I have not attempted to describe except in the vaguest manner--the various parts of their bodies assuming, in an apparently arbitrary and self-willed manner, the most abnormal developments. Indeed, so little did any distinct type predominate in some of the bewildering results, that you could only have guessed at any known animal as the original, and even then, what likeness remained would be more one of general expression than of definable conformation. But what increased the gruesomeness tenfold, was that, from constant domestic, or indeed rather family association with the goblins, their countenances had grown in grotesque resemblance to the human. No one understands animals who does not see that every one of them, even amongst the fishes, it may be with a dimness and vagueness infinitely remote, yet shadows the human: in the case of these the human resemblance had greatly increased: while their owners had sunk toward them, they hod risen toward their owners. But the conditions of subterranean life being equally unnatural for both, while the goblins were worse, the creatures had not improved by the approximation, and its result would have appeared far more ludicrous than consoling to the warmest lover of animal nature. I shall now explain how it was that just then these animals began to show themselves about the king's country house.
The goblins, as Curdie had discovered, were mining on--at work both day and night, in divisions, urging the scheme after which he lay in wait. In the course of their tunneling, they had broken into the channel of a small stream, but the break being in the top of it, no water had escaped to interfere with their work. Some of the creatures, hovering as they often did about their masters, had found the hole, and had, with the curiosity which had grown to a passion from the restraints of their unnatural circumstances, proceeded to explore the channel. The stream was the same which ran out by the seat on which Irene and her king-papa had sat as I have told, and the goblin-creatures found it jolly fun to get out for a romp on a smooth lawn such as they had never seen in all their poor miserable lives. But although they had partaken enough of the nature of their owners to delight in annoying and alarming any of the people whom they met on the mountain, they were of course incapable of designs of their own, or of intentionally furthering those of their masters.
For several nights after the men-at-arms were at length of one mind as to the facts of the visits of some horrible creatures, whether bodily or spectral they could not yet say, they watched with special attention that part of the garden where they had last seen them. Perhaps indeed they gave in consequence too little attention to the house. But the creatures were too cunning to be easily caught; nor were the watchers quick-eyed enough to descry the head, or the keen eyes in it, which, from the opening whence the stream issued, would watch them in turn, ready, the moment they left the lawn to report the place clear.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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14
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THAT NIGHT WEEK
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DURING the whole of the week, Irene had been thinking every other moment of her promise to the old lady, although even now she could not feel quite sure that she had not been dreaming. Could it really be that an old lady lived up in the top of the house with pigeons and a spinning-wheel, and a lamp that never went out? She was, however, none the less determined, on the coming Friday, to ascend the three stairs, walk through the passages with the many doors, and try to find the tower in which she had either seen or dreamed her grandmother.
Her nurse could not help wondering what had come to the child--she would sit so thoughtfully silent, and even in the midst of a game with her, would so suddenly fall into a dreamy mood. But Irene took care to betray nothing, whatever efforts Lootie might make to get at her thoughts. And Lootie had to say to herself, "What an odd child she is!" and give it up.
At length the long looked-for Friday arrived, and lest Lootie should be moved to watch her, Irene endeavored to keep herself as quiet as possible. In the afternoon she asked for her doll's house, and went on arranging and rearranging the various rooms and their inhabitants for a whole hour. Then she gave a sigh and threw herself back in her chair. One of the dolls would not sit, and another would not stand, and they were all very tiresome. Indeed there was one that would not even lie down, which was too bad. But it was now getting dark, and the darker it got the more exited Irene became, and the more she felt it necessary to be composed.
"I see you want your tea, princess," said the nurse: "I will go and get it. The room feels close: I will open the window a little. The evening is mild: it won't hurt you."
"There's no fear of that, Lootie," said Irene, wishing she had put off going for the tea till it was darker, when she might have made her attempt with every advantage.
I fancy Lootie was longer in returning than she had intended; for when Irene, who had been lost in thought, looked up, she saw it was nearly dark, and at the same moment caught sight of a pair of eyes, bright with a green light, glowering at her through the open window. The next instant something leaped into the room. It was like a cat, with legs as long as a horse's, Irene said, but its body no bigger and its legs no thicker than those of a cat. She was too frightened to cry out, but not too frightened to jump from her chair and run from the room.
It is plain enough to every one of my readers what she ought to have done--and indeed Irene thought of it herself; but when she came to the foot of the old stair, just outside the nursery door, she imagined the creature running up those long ascents after her, and pursuing her through the dark passages--_which, after all, might lead to no tower! _ That thought was too much. Her heart failed her, and turning from the stair, she rushed along to the hall, whence, finding the front-door open, she darted into the court, pursued--at least she thought so--by the creature. No one happening to see her, on she ran, unable to think for fear, and ready to run anywhere to elude the awful creature with the stilt-legs. Not daring to look behind her, she rushed straight out of the gate, and up the mountain. It was foolish indeed--thus to run farther and farther from all who could help her, as if she had been seeking a fit spot for the goblin-creature to eat her in at his leisure; but that is the way fear serves us: it always takes the side of the thing that we are afraid of.
The princess was soon out of breath with running up hill; but she ran on, for she fancied the horrible creature just behind her, forgetting that, had it been after her, such legs as those must have overtaken her long ago. At last she could run no longer, and fell, unable even to scream, by the roadside, where she lay for sometime, half dead with terror. But finding nothing lay hold of her, and her breath beginning to come back, she ventured at length to get half up, and peer anxiously about her. It was now so dark that she could see nothing. Not a single star was out. She could not even tell in what direction the house lay, and between her and home she fancied the dreadful creature lying ready to pounce upon her. She saw now that she ought to have run up the stairs at once. It was well she did not scream; for, although very few of the goblins had come out for weeks, a stray idler or two might have heard her. She sat down upon a stone, and nobody but one who had done something wrong could have been more miserable. She had quite forgotten her promise to visit her grandmother. A rain-drop fell on her face. She looked up, and for a moment her terror was lost in astonishment. At first she thought the rising moon had left her place, and drawn nigh to see what could be the matter with the little girl, sitting alone, without hat or cloak, on the dark bare mountain; but she soon saw she was mistaken, for there was no light on the ground at her feet, and no shadow anywhere. But a great silvery globe was hanging in the air; and as she gazed at the lovely thing, her courage revived. If she were but indoors again she would fear nothing, not even the terrible creature with the long legs! But how was she to find her way back? What could that light be? Could it be--? No, it couldn't. But what if it should be--yes--it must be--her great-great-grandmother's lamp, which guided her pigeons home through the darkest night! She jumped up: she had but to keep that light in view, and she must find the house.
Her heart grew strong. Speedily, yet softly, she walked down the hill, hoping to pass the watching creature unseen. Dark as it was, there was little danger now of choosing the wrong road. And--which was most strange--the light that filled her eyes from the lamp, instead of blinding them for a moment to the object upon which they next fell, enabled her for a moment to see it, despite the darkness. By looking at the lamp and then dropping her eyes, she could see the road for a yard or two in front of her, and this saved her from several falls, for the road was very rough. But all at once, to her dismay, it vanished, and the terror of the beast, which had left her the moment she began to return, again laid hold of her heart. The same instant, however, she caught the light of the windows, and knew exactly where she was. It was too dark to run, but she made what haste she could, and reached the gate in safety. She found the house door still open, ran through the hall, and, without even looking into the nursery, bounded straight up the stair, and the next, and the next; then turning to the right, ran through the long avenue of silent rooms, and found her way at once to the door at the foot of the tower stair.
When first the nurse missed her, she fancied she was playing her a trick, and for some time took no trouble about her; but at last, getting frightened, she had begun to search; and when the princess entered, the whole household was hither and thither, over the house, hunting for her. A few seconds after she reached the stair of the tower, they had even begun to search the neglected rooms, in which they would never have thought of looking had they not already searched every other place they could think of in vain. But by this time she was knocking at the old lady's door.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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15
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WOVEN AND THEN SPUN
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"COME in, Irene," said the silvery voice of her grandmother.
The princess opened the door, and peeped in. But the room was quite dark, and there was no sound of the spinning-wheel. She grew frightened once more, thinking that, although the room was there, the old lady might be a dream after all. Every little girl knows how dreadful it is to find a room empty where she thought somebody was; but Irene had to fancy for a moment that the person she came to find was nowhere at all. She remembered however that at night she spun only in the moonlight, and concluded that must be why there was no sweet, bee-like humming: the old lady might be somewhere in the darkness. Before she had time to think another thought, she heard her voice again, saying as before-- "Come in, Irene."
From the sound, she understood at once that she was not in the room beside her. Perhaps she was in her bedroom. She turned across the passage, feeling her way to the other door. When her hand fell on the lock, again the old lady spoke-- "Shut the other door behind you, Irene. I always close the door of my workroom when I go to my chamber."
Irene wondered to hear her voice so plainly through the door; having shut the other, she opened it and went in. Oh, what a lovely haven to reach from the darkness and fear through which she had come! The soft light made her feel as if she were going into the heart of the milkiest pearl; while the blue walls and their silver stars for a moment perplexed her with the fancy that they were in reality the sky which she had left outside a minute ago covered with rainclouds.
[Illustration: "Come," and she still held out her arms.]
"I've lighted a fire for you, Irene: you're cold and wet," said her grandmother.
Then Irene looked again, and saw that what she had taken for a huge bouquet of red roses on a low stand against the wall, was in fact a fire which burned in the shapes of the loveliest and reddest roses, glowing gorgeously between the heads and wings of two cherubs of shining silver. And when she came nearer, she found that the smell of roses with which the room was filled, came from the fire-roses on the hearth. Her grandmother was dressed in the loveliest pale-blue velvet, over which her hair, no longer white, but of a rich gold color, streamed like a cataract, here falling in dull gathered heaps, there rushing away in smooth shining falls. And even as she looked, the hair seemed pouring down from her head, and vanishing in a golden mist ere it reached the floor. It flowed from under the edge of a circle of shining silver, set with alternated pearls and opals. On her dress was no ornament whatever, neither was there a ring on her hand, or a necklace or carcanet about her neck. But her slippers glimmered with the light of the Milky-way, for they were covered with seed-pearls and opals in one mass. Her face was that of a woman of three-and-twenty.
The princess was so bewildered with astonishment and admiration that she could hardly thank her, and drew nigh with timidity, feeling dirty and uncomfortable. The lady was seated on a low chair by the side of the fire, with hands outstretched to take her, but the princess hung back with a troubled smile.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked her grandmother. "You haven't been doing anything wrong--I know that by your face, though it _is_ rather miserable. What's the matter, my dear?"
And still she held out her arms.
"Dear grandmother," said Irene, "I'm not so sure that I haven't done something wrong. I ought to have run up to you at once when the long-legged cat came in at the window, instead of running out on the mountain, and making myself such a fright."
"You were taken by surprise, my child, and are not so likely to do it again. It is when people do wrong things willfully that they are the more likely to do them again. Come."
And still she held out her arms.
"But, grandmother, you're so beautiful and grand with your crown on! and I am so dirty with mud and rain! --I should quite spoil your beautiful blue dress."
With a merry little laugh, the lady sprang from her chair, more lightly far than Irene herself could, caught the child to her bosom, and kissing the tear-stained face over and over, sat down with her in her lap.
"Oh, grandmother! you'll make yourself such a mess!" cried Irene, clinging to her.
"You darling! do you think I care more for my dress than for my little girl? Beside--look here!"
As she spoke she set her down, and Irene saw to her dismay that the lovely dress was covered with the mud of her fall on the mountain road. But the lady stooped to the fire, and taking from it, by the stalk in her fingers, one of the burning roses, passed it once and again and a third time over the front of her dress; and when Irene looked, not a single stain was to be discovered.
"There!" said her grandmother, "you won't mind coming to me now?"
But Irene again hung back, eyeing the flaming rose which the lady held in her hand.
"You're not afraid of the rose--are you?" she said, and she was about to throw it on the hearth again.
"Oh! don't, please!" cried Irene. "Won't you hold it to my frock and my hands and my face? And I'm afraid my feet and my knees want it too!"
"No," answered her grandmother, smiling a little sadly, as she threw the rose from her; "it is too hot for you yet. It would set your frock in a flame. Besides, I don't want to make you clean to-night. I want your nurse and the rest of the people to see you as you are, for you will have to tell them how you ran away for fear of the long-legged cat. I should like to wash you, but they would not believe you then. Do you see that bath behind you?"
The princess looked, and saw a large oval tub of silver, shining brilliantly in the light of the wonderful lamp.
"Go and look into it," said the lady.
Irene went, and came back very silently, with her eyes shining.
"What did you see?" asked her grandmother.
"The sky and the moon and the stars," she answered. "It looked as if there was no bottom to it."
The lady smiled a pleased, satisfied smile, and was silent also for a few moments. Then she said-- "Any time you want a bath, come to me. I know you have a bath every morning, but sometimes you want one at night too."
"Thank you, grandmother; I will--I will indeed," answered Irene, and was again silent for some moments thinking. Then she said, "How was it, grandmother, that I saw your beautiful lamp--not the light of it only--but the great round silver lamp itself, hanging alone in the great open air high up? It was your lamp I saw--wasn't it?"
"Yes, my child; it was my lamp."
"Then how was it? I don't see a window all round."
"When I please, I can make the lamp shine through the walls--shine so strong that it melts them away from before the sight, and shows itself as you saw it. But, as I told you, it is not everybody can see it."
"How is it that I can then? I'm sure I don't know."
"It is a gift born with you. And one day I hope everybody will have it."
"But how do you make it shine through the walls?"
"Ah! that you would not understand if I were to try ever so much to make you--not yet--not yet. But," added the lady rising, "you must sit in my chair while I get you the present I have been preparing for you. I told you my spinning was for you. It is finished now, and I am going to fetch it. I have been keeping it warm under one of my brooding pigeons."
Irene sat down in the low chair, and her grandmother left her, shutting the door behind her. The child sat gazing, now at the rose-fire, now at the starry walls, now at the silvery light; and a great quietness came over her heart. If all the long-legged cats in the world had come rushing helter-skelter at her then, she would not have been afraid of them for a single moment. How this was, however, she could not tell;--she only knew there was no fear in her, and everything was so right and safe that it could not get in.
She had been gazing at the lovely lamp for some minutes fixedly: turning her eyes, she found the wall had vanished, for she was looking out on the dark cloudy night. But though she heard the wind blowing, none of it blew upon her. In a moment more, the clouds themselves parted, or rather vanished like the wall, and she looked straight into the starry herds, flashing gloriously in the dark blue. It was but for a moment. The clouds gathered again and shut out the stars; the wall gathered again and shut out the clouds; and there stood the lady beside her with the loveliest smile on her face, and a shimmering ball in her hand, about the size of a pigeon's egg.
"There, Irene; there is my work for you!" she said, holding out the ball to the princess.
She took it in her hand, and looked at it all over. It sparkled a little, and shone here and shone there, but not much. It was of a sort of gray whiteness, something like spun glass.
"Is this _all_ your spinning, grandmother?" she asked.
"All since you came to the house. There is more there than you think."
"How pretty it is! What am I to do with it?"
"That I will now explain to you," answered the lady, turning from her, and going to her cabinet.
She came back with a small ring in her hand. Then she took the ball from Irene's, and did something with the two--Irene could not tell what.
"Give me your hand," she said.
Irene held up her right hand.
"Yes, that is the hand I want," said the lady, and put the ring on the forefinger of it.
"What a beautiful ring!" said Irene. "What is the stone called?"
"It is a fire-opal."
"Please, am I to keep it?"
"Always."
"Oh, thank you, grandmother! It's prettier than anything I ever saw, except those--of all colors--in your--Please, is that your crown?"
"Yes, it is my crown. The stone in your ring is of the same sort--only not so good. It has only red, but mine have all colors, you see."
"Yes, grandmother. I will take such care of it! --But--" she added, hesitating.
"But what?" asked her grandmother.
"What am I to say when Lootie asks me where I got it?" " _You_ will ask _her_ where you got it," answered the lady smiling.
"I don't see how I can do that."
"You will though."
"Of course I will if you say so. But you know I can't pretend not to know."
"Of course not. But don't trouble yourself about it. You will see when the time comes."
So saying, the lady turned, and threw the little ball into the rose-fire.
"Oh, grandmother!" exclaimed Irene; "I thought you had spun it for me."
"So I did, my child. And you've got it."
"No; it's burnt in the fire."
The lady put her hand in the fire, brought out the ball, glimmering as before, and held it toward her. Irene stretched out her hand to take it, but the lady turned, and going to her cabinet, opened a drawer, and laid the ball in it.
"Have I done anything to vex you, grandmother?" said Irene pitifully.
"No, my darling. But you must understand that no one ever gives anything to another properly and really without keeping it. That ball is yours."
"Oh! I'm not to take it with me! You are going to keep it for me!"
"You are to take it with you. I've fastened the end of it to the ring on your finger."
Irene looked at the ring.
"I can't see it there, grandmother," she said.
"Feel--a little way from the ring--toward the cabinet," said the lady.
"Oh! I do feel it!" exclaimed the princess. "But I can't see it," she added, looking close to her outstretched hand.
"No. The thread is too fine for you to see it. You can only feel it. Now you can fancy how much spinning that took, although it does seem such a little ball."
"But what use can I make of it, if it lies in your cabinet?"
"That is what I will explain to you. It would be of no use to you--it wouldn't be yours at all if it did not lie in my cabinet. Now listen. If ever you find yourself in any danger--such, for example, as you were in this evening--you must take off your ring, and put it under the pillow of your bed. Then you must lay your forefinger, the same that wore the ring, upon the thread, and follow the thread wherever it leads you."
"Oh, how delightful! It will lead me to you, grandmother, I know!"
"Yes. But, remember, it may seem to you a very roundabout way indeed, and you must not double the thread. Of one thing you may be sure, that while you hold it, I hold it too."
"It is very wonderful!" said Irene thoughtfully. Then suddenly becoming aware, she jumped up, crying--"Oh, grandmother! here I have been sitting all this time in your chair, and you standing! I _beg_ your pardon."
The lady laid her hand on her shoulder and said: "Sit down again, Irene. Nothing pleases me better than to see any one sit in my chair. I am only too glad to stand so long as any one will sit in it."
"How kind of you!" said the princess, and sat down again.
"It makes me happy," said the lady.
"But," said Irene, still puzzled, "won't the thread get in somebody's way and be broken, if the one end is fast to my ring and the other laid in your cabinet?"
"You will find all that arranges itself. I am afraid it is time for you to go."
"Mightn't I stay and sleep with you to-night, grandmother?"
"No, not to-night. If I had meant you to stay to-night, I should have given you a bath; but you know everybody in the house is miserable about you, and it would be cruel to keep them so all night. You must go down stairs."
"I'm so glad, grandmother, you didn't say--_go home_--for this is my home. Mayn't I call this my home?"
"You may, my child. And I trust you will always think it your home. Now come. I must take you back without any one seeing you."
"Please, I want to ask you one question more," said Irene. "Is it because you have your crown on that you look so young?"
"No, child," answered her grandmother; "it is because I felt so young this evening, that I put my crown on. And it occurred to me that you would like to see your old grandmother in her best."
"Why do you call yourself old? You're not old, grandmother."
"I am very old indeed. It is so silly of people--I don't mean you, for you are such a tiny, and couldn't know better--but it is so silly of people to fancy that old age means crookedness and witheredness and feebleness and sticks and spectacles and rheumatism and forgetfulness! It is so silly! Old age has nothing whatever to do with all that. The right old age means strength and beauty and mirth and courage and clear eyes and strong painless limbs. I am older than you are able to think, and--" "And look at you, grandmother!" cried Irene, jumping up, and flinging her arms about her neck. "I won't be so silly again, I promise you. At least--I'm rather afraid to promise--but if I am, I promise to be sorry for it--I do. I wish I were as old as you, grandmother. I don't think you are ever afraid of anything."
"Not for long, at least, my child. Perhaps by the time I am two thousand years of age, I shall, indeed, never be afraid of anything. But I must confess that I have sometimes been afraid about my children--sometimes about you, Irene."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, grandmother! --To-night, I suppose, you mean."
"Yes--a little to-night; but a good deal when you had all but made up your mind that I was a dream, and no real great-great-grandmother. You must not suppose that I am blaming you for that, I daresay it was out of your power to help it."
"I don't know, grandmother," said the princess, beginning to cry. "I can't always do myself as I should like. And I don't always try. I'm very sorry anyhow."
The lady stooped, lifted her in her arms, and sat down with her in her chair, holding her close to her bosom. In a few minutes the princess had sobbed herself to sleep. How long she slept, I do not know. When she came to herself she was sitting in her own high chair at the nursery table, with her doll's-house before her.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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16
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THE RING
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THE same moment her nurse came into the room, sobbing. When she saw her sitting there, she started back with a loud cry of amazement and joy. Then running to her, she caught her up in her arms and covered her dear little face with kisses.
"My precious darling princess! where have you been? What has happened to you? We've all been crying our eyes out, and searching the house from top to bottom for you."
"Not quite from the top," thought Irene to herself; and she might have added--"not quite to the bottom," perhaps, if she had known all. But the one she would not, and the other she could not say.
"Oh, Lootie! I've had such a dreadful adventure!" she replied, and told her all about the cat with the long legs, and how she ran out upon the mountain, and came back again. But she said nothing of her grandmother or her lamp.
"And there we've been searching for you all over the house for more than an hour and a half!" exclaimed the nurse. "But that's no matter, now we've got you! Only, princess, I must say," she added, her mood changing, "what you ought to have done was to call for your own Lootie to come and help you, instead of running out of the house, and up the mountain, in that wild--I must say, foolish fashion."
"Well, Lootie," said Irene quietly, "perhaps if you had a big cat, all legs, running at you, you mightn't exactly know which was the wisest thing to do at the moment."
"I wouldn't run up the mountain, anyhow," returned Lootie.
"Not if you had time to think about it. But when those creatures came at you that night on the mountain, you were so frightened yourself that you lost your way home."
This put a stop to Lootie's reproaches. She had been on the point of saying that the long-legged cat must have been a twilight fancy of the princess's, but the memory of the horrors of that night, and of the talking-to which the king had given her in consequence, prevented her from saying that which after all she did not half believe--having a strong suspicion that the cat was a goblin; for the fact was that she knew nothing of the difference between the goblins and their creatures: she counted them all just goblins.
Without another word she went and got some fresh tea and bread and butter for the princess. Before she returned, the whole household, headed by the housekeeper, burst into the nursery to exult over their darling. The gentlemen-at-arms followed, and were ready enough to believe all she told them about the long-legged cat. Indeed, though wise enough to say nothing about it, they remembered with no little horror, just such a creature amongst those they had surprised at their gambols upon the princess's lawn. In their own hearts they blamed themselves for not having kept better watch. And their captain gave order that from this night the front door and all the windows on the ground floor should be locked immediately the sun set, and opened after upon no pretence whatever. The men-at-arms redoubled their vigilance, and for some time there was no further cause of alarm.
When the princess woke the next morning, her nurse was bending over her.
"How your ring does glow this morning, princess! --just like a fiery rose!" she said.
"Does it, Lootie?" returned Irene. "Who gave me the ring, Lootie? I know I've had it a long time, but where did I get it? I don't remember."
"I think it must have been your mother gave it you, princess; but really, for as long as you have worn it, I don't remember that ever I heard," answered her nurse.
"I will ask my king-papa the next time he comes," said Irene.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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17
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SPRING-TIME
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THE spring, so dear to all creatures, young and old, came at last, and before the first few days of it had gone, the king rode through its budding valleys to see his little daughter. He had been in a distant part of his dominions all the winter, for he was not in the habit of stopping in one great city, or of visiting only his favorite country houses, but he moved from place to place, that all his people might know him. Wherever he journeyed, he kept a constant lookout for the ablest and best men to put into office, and wherever he found himself mistaken, and those he had appointed incapable or unjust, he removed them at once. Hence you see it was his care of the people that kept him from seeing his princess so often as he would have liked. You may wonder why he did not take her about with him; but there were several reasons against his doing so, and I suspect her great-great-grandmother had had a principal hand in preventing it. Once more Irene heard the bugle-blast, and once more she was at the gate to meet her father as he rode up on his great white horse.
After they had been alone for a little while, she thought of what she had resolved to ask him.
"Please, king-papa," she said, "will you tell me where I got this pretty ring? I can't remember."
The king looked at it. A strange, beautiful smile spread like sunshine over his face, and an answering smile, but at the same time a questioning one, spread like moonlight over Irene's.
"It was your queen-mamma's once," he said.
"And why isn't it hers now?" asked Irene.
"She does not want it now," said the king, looking grave.
"Why doesn't she want it now?"
"Because she's gone where all those rings are made."
"And when shall I see her?" asked the princess.
"Not for some time yet," answered the king, and the tears came in his eyes.
Irene did not remember her mother, and did not know why her father looked so, and why the tears came in his eyes; but she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and asked no more questions.
The king was much disturbed on hearing the report of the gentlemen-at-arms concerning the creatures they had seen; and I presume would have taken Irene with him that very day, but for what the presence of the ring on her finger assured him of. About an hour before he left, Irene saw him go up the old stair; and he did not come down again till they were just ready to start; and she thought with herself that he had been up to see the old lady. When he went away, he left the other six gentlemen behind him, that there might be six of them always on guard.
And now, in the lovely spring-weather, Irene was out on the mountain the greater part of the day. In the warmer hollows there were lovely primroses, and not so many that she ever got tired of them. As often as she saw a new one opening an eye of light in the blind earth, she would clap her hands with gladness, and, unlike some children I know, instead of pulling it, would touch it as tenderly as if it had been a new baby, and, having made its acquaintance, would leave it as happy as she found it. She treated the plants on which they grew like birds' nests; every fresh flower was like a new little bird to her. She would pay a visit to all the flower-nests she knew, remembering each by itself. She would go down on her hands and knees beside one and say "Good morning! Are you all smelling very sweet this morning? Good-bye!" And then she would go to another nest, and say the same. It was a favorite amusement with her. There were many flowers up and down, and she loved them all, but the primroses were her favorites.
"They're not too shy, and they're not a bit forward," she would say to Lootie.
There were goats too about, over the mountain, and when the little kids came, she was as pleased with them as with the flowers. The goats belonged to the miners mostly--a few of them to Curdie's mother; but there were a good many wild ones that seemed to belong to nobody. These the goblins counted theirs, and it was upon them partly that they lived. They set snares and dug pits for them; and did not scruple to take what tame ones happened to be caught; but they did not try to steal them in any other manner, because they were afraid of the dogs the hill-people kept to watch them, for the knowing dogs always tried to bite their feet. But the goblins had a kind of sheep of their own--very queer creatures, which they drove out to feed at night, and the other goblin-creatures were wise enough to keep good watch over them, for they knew they should have their bones by and by.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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18
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CURDIE'S CLUE
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CURDIE was as watchful as ever, but was almost getting tired of his ill-success. Every other night or so he followed the goblins about, as they went on digging and boring, and getting as near them as he could, watched them from behind stones and rocks; but as yet he seemed no nearer finding out what they had in view. As at first, he always kept hold of the end of his string, while his pickaxe left just outside the hole by which he entered the goblins' country from the mine, continued to serve as an anchor and hold fast the other end. The goblins hearing no more noise in that quarter, had ceased to apprehend an immediate invasion, and kept no watch.
One night, after dodging about and listening till he was nearly falling asleep with weariness, he began to roll up his ball, for he had resolved to go home to bed. It was not long, however, before he began to feel bewildered. One after another he passed goblin-houses, caves that is, occupied by goblin families, and at length was sure they were many more than he had passed as he came. He had to use great caution to pass unseen--they lay so close together. Could his string have led him wrong? He still followed winding it, and still it led him into more thickly populated quarters, until he became quite uneasy, and indeed apprehensive; for although he was not afraid of the _cobs_, he was afraid of not finding his way out. But what could he do? It was of no use to sit down and wait for the morning--the morning made no difference here. It was all dark, and always dark; and if his string failed him he was helpless. He might even arrive within a yard of the mine, and never know it. Seeing he could do nothing better, he would at least find where the end of the string was, and if possible how it had come to play him such a trick. He knew by the size of the ball that he was getting pretty near the last of it, when he began to feel a tugging and pulling at it. What could it mean? Turning a sharp corner, he thought he heard strange sounds. These grew, as he went on, to a scuffling and growling and squeaking; and the noise increased, until, turning a second sharp corner, he found himself in the midst of it, and the same moment tumbled over a wallowing mass, which he knew must be a knot of the cobs' creatures. Before he could recover his feet, he had caught some great scratches on his face, and several severe bites on his legs and arms. But as he scrambled to get up, his hand fell upon his pickaxe, and before the horrid beasts could do him any serious harm, he was laying about with it right and left in the dark. The hideous cries which followed gave him the satisfaction of knowing that he had punished some of them pretty smartly for their rudeness, and by their scampering and their retreating howls, he perceived that he had routed them. He stood a little, weighing his battle-axe in his hand as if it had been the most precious lump of metal--but indeed no lump of gold itself could have been so precious at that time as that common tool--then untied the end of the string from it, put the ball in his pocket, and still stood thinking. It was clear that the cobs' creatures had found his axe, had between them carried it off, and had so led him he knew not where. But for all his thinking he could not tell what he ought to do, until suddenly he became aware of a glimmer of light in the distance. Without a moment's hesitation he set out for it, as fast as the unknown and rugged way would permit. Yet again turning a corner, led by the dim light, he spied something quite new in his experience of the underground regions--a small irregular shape of something shining. Going up to it, he found it was a piece of mica, or Muscovy glass, called sheep-silver in Scotland, and the light flickering as if from a fire behind it. After trying in vain for some time to discover an entrance to the place where it was burning, he came at length to a small chamber in which an opening high in the wall revealed a glow beyond. To this opening he managed to scramble up, and then he saw a strange sight.
Below sat a little group of goblins around a fire, the smoke of which vanished in the darkness far aloft. The sides of the cave were full of shining minerals like those of the palace-hall; and the company was evidently of a superior order, for every one wore stones about head, or arms, or waist, shining, dull, gorgeous colors in the light of the fire. Nor had Curdie looked long before he recognized the king himself, and found that he had made his way into the inner apartment of the royal family. He had never had such a good chance of hearing something! He crept through the hole as softly as he could, scrambled a good way down the wall toward them without attracting attention, and then sat down and listened. The king, evidently the queen, and probably the crown-prince and the prime minister were talking together. He was sure of the queen by her shoes, for as she warmed her feet at the fire, he saw them quite plainly.
"That _will_ be fun!" said the one he took for the crown-prince.
It was the first whole sentence he heard.
"I don't see why you should think it such a grand affair!" said his stepmother, tossing her head backward.
"You must remember, my spouse," interposed his Majesty, as if making excuse for his son, "he has got the same blood in him. His mother--" "Don't talk to me of his mother! You positively encourage his unnatural fancies. Whatever belongs to _that_ mother, ought to be cut out of him."
"You forget yourself, my dear!" said the king.
"I don't," said the queen, "nor you either. If you expect _me_ to approve of such coarse tastes, you will find yourself mistaken. _I_ don't wear shoes for nothing."
"You must acknowledge, however," the king said, with a little groan, "that this at least is no whim of Harelip's, but a matter of state-policy. You are well aware that his gratification comes purely from the pleasure of sacrificing himself to the public good. Does it not, Harelip?"
"Yes, father; of course it does. Only it _will_ be nice to make her cry. I'll have the skin taken off between her toes, and tie them up till they grow together. Then her feet will be like other people's, and there will be no occasion for her to wear shoes."
"Do you mean to insinuate _I've_ got toes, you unnatural wretch?" cried the queen; and she moved angrily toward Harelip. The councilor, however, who was betwixt them, leaned forward so as to prevent her touching him, but only as if to address the prince.
"Your royal Highness," he said, "possibly requires to be reminded that you have got three toes yourself--one on one foot, two on the other."
"Ha! ha! ha!" shouted the queen triumphantly.
The councilor, encouraged by this mark of favor, went on.
"It seems to me, your royal Highness, it would greatly endear you to your future people, proving to them that you are not the less one of themselves that you had the misfortune to be born of a sun-mother, if you were to command upon yourself the comparatively slight operation which, in a more extended form, you so wisely meditate with regard to your future princess."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the queen, louder than before, and the king and the minister joined in the laugh. It was anything but a laughing matter to Harelip. He growled, and for a few moments the others continued to express their enjoyment of his discomfiture.
The queen was the only one Curdie could see with any distinctness. She sat sideways to him, and the light of the fire shone full upon her face. He could not consider her handsome. Her nose was certainly broader at the end than its extreme length, and her eyes, instead of being horizontal, were set up like two perpendicular eggs, one on the broad, the other on the small, end. Her mouth was no bigger than a small buttonhole until she laughed, when it stretched from ear to ear--only to be sure her ears were very nearly in the middle of her cheeks.
Anxious to hear everything they might say, Curdie ventured to slide down a smooth part of the rock just under him, to a projection below, upon which he thought to rest. But whether he was not careful enough, or the projection gave way, down he came with a rush on the floor of the cavern, bringing with him a great rumbling shower of stones.
The goblins jumped from their seats in more anger than consternation, for they had never yet seen anything to be afraid of in the palace. But when they saw Curdie with his pick in his hand, their rage was mingled with fear, for they took him for the first of an invasion of miners. The king notwithstanding drew himself up to his full height of four feet, spread himself to his full breadth of three and a half, for he was the handsomest and squarest of all the goblins, and strutting up to Curdie, planted himself with outspread feet before him, and said with dignity-- "Pray what right have you in my palace?"
"The right of necessity, your majesty," answered Curdie. "I lost my way, and did not know where I was wandering to."
"How did you get in?"
"By a hole in the mountain."
"But you are a miner! Look at your pickaxe!"
Curdie did look at it, answering, "I came upon it, lying on the ground, a little way from here. I tumbled over some wild beasts who were playing with it. Look, your majesty." And Curdie showed him how he was scratched and bitten.
[Illustration: The goblins fell back a little when he began, and made horrible grimaces all through the rhyme.]
The king was pleased to find him behave more politely than he had expected from what his people had told him concerning the miners, for he attributed it to the power of his own presence; but he did not therefore feel friendly to the intruder.
"You will oblige me by walking out of my dominions at once," he said, well knowing what a mockery lay in the words.
"With pleasure, if your majesty will give me a guide," said Curdie.
"I will give you a thousand," said the king, with a scoffing air of magnificent liberality.
"One will be quite sufficient," said Curdie.
But the king uttered a strange shout, half halloo, half roar, and in rushed goblins till the cave was swarming. He said something to the first of them which Curdie could not hear, and it was passed from one to another till in a moment the farthest in the crowd had evidently heard and understood it. They began to gather about him in a way he did not relish, and he retreated toward the wall. They pressed upon him.
"Stand back," said Curdie, grasping his pickaxe tighter by his knee.
They only grinned and pressed closer. Curdie bethought himself, and began to rhyme.
"Ten, twenty, thirty-- You're all so very dirty! Twenty, thirty, forty-- You're all so thick and snorty!
"Thirty, forty, fifty-- You're all so puff-and-snifty! Forty, fifty, sixty-- Beast and man so mixty!
"Fifty, sixty, seventy-- Mixty, maxty, leaventy-- Sixty, seventy, eighty-- All your cheeks so slaty.
"Seventy, eighty, ninety, All your hands so flinty! Eighty, ninety, hundred, Altogether dundred!"
The goblins fell back a little when he began, and made horrible grimaces all through the rhyme, as if eating something so disagreeable that it set their teeth on edge and gave them the creeps; but whether it was that the rhyming words were most of them no words at all, for a new rhyme being considered more efficacious, Curdie had made it on the spur of the moment, or whether it was that the presence of the king and queen gave them courage, I cannot tell; but the moment the rhyme was over, they crowded on him again, and out shot a hundred long arms, with a multitude of thick nailless fingers at the end of them, to lay hold upon him. Then Curdie heaved up his axe. But being as gentle as courageous and not wishing to kill any of them, he turned the end which was square and blunt like a hammer, and with that came down a great blow on the head of the goblin nearest him. Hard as the heads of all goblins are, he thought he must feel that. And so he did, no doubt; but he only gave a horrible cry, and sprung at Curdie's throat. Curdie however drew back in time, and just at that critical moment, remembered the vulnerable part of the goblin-body. He made a sudden rush at the king, and stamped with all his might on his Majesty's feet. The king gave a most unkingly howl, and almost fell into the fire. Curdie then rushed into the crowd, stamping right and left. The goblins drew back howling on every side as he approached, but they were so crowded that few of those he attacked could escape his tread; and the shrieking and roaring that filled the cave would have appalled Curdie, but for the good hope it gave him. They were tumbling over each other in heaps in their eagerness to rush from the cave, when a new assailant suddenly faced him:--the queen, with flaming eyes and expanded nostrils, her hair standing half up from her head, rushed at him. She trusted in her shoes; they were of granite--hollowed like French _sabots_. Curdie would have endured much rather than hurt a woman, even if she was a goblin; but here was an affair of life and death: forgetting her shoes, he made a great stamp on one of her feet. But she instantly returned it with very different effect, causing him frightful pain and almost disabling him. His only chance with her would have been to attack the granite shoes with his pickaxe, but before he could think of that, she had caught him up in her arms, and was rushing with him across the cave. She dashed him into a hole in the wall, with a force that almost stunned him. But although he could not move, he was not too far gone to hear her great cry, and the rush of multitudes of soft feet, followed by the sounds of something heaved up against the rock; after which came a multitudinous patter of stones falling near him. The last had not ceased when he grew very faint, for his head had been badly cut, and at last insensible.
When he came to himself, there was perfect silence about him, and utter darkness, but for the merest glimmer in one tiny spot. He crawled to it, and found that they had heaved a slab against the mouth of the hole, past the edge of which a poor little gleam found its way from the fire. He could not move it a hair's breadth, for they had piled a great heap of stones against it. He crawled back to where he had been lying, in the faint hope of finding his pickaxe. But after a vain search, he was at last compelled to acknowledge himself in an evil plight. He sat down and tried to think, but soon fell fast asleep.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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19
|
GOBLIN COUNSELS
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HE must have slept a long time, for when he awoke, he felt wonderfully restored--indeed he felt almost well, and he was also very hungry. There were voices in the outer cave.
Once more then, it was night; for the goblins slept during the day, and went about their affairs during the night.
In the universal and constant darkness of their dwelling, they had no reason to prefer the one arrangement to the other; but from aversion to the sun-people, they chose to be busy when there was least chance of their being met either by the miners below, when they were burrowing, or by the people of the mountain above, when they were feeding their sheep or catching their goats. And indeed it was only when the sun was away that the outside of the mountain was sufficiently like their own dismal regions to be endurable to their mole-eyes, so thoroughly had they become disused to any light beyond that of their own fires and torches.
Curdie listened, and soon found that they were talking of himself.
"How long will it take?" asked Harelip.
"Not many days, I should think," answered the king. "They are poor feeble creatures, those sun-people, and want to be always eating. _We_ can go a week at a time without food, and be all the better for it; but I've been told _they_ eat two or three times every day! Can you believe it? --They must be quite hollow inside--not at all like us, nine-tenths of whose bulk is solid flesh and bone. Yes--I judge a week of starvation will do for him."
"If I may be allowed a word," interposed the queen, "--and I think I ought to have some voice in the matter--" "The wretch is entirely at your disposal, my spouse," interrupted the king. "He is your property. You caught him yourself. We should never have done it."
The queen laughed. She seemed in far better humor than the night before.
"I was about to say," she resumed, "that it does seem a pity to waste so much fresh meat."
"What are you thinking of, my love?" said the king. "The very notion of starving him implies that we are not going to give him any meat, either salt or fresh."
"I'm not such a stupid as that comes to," returned her Majesty. "What I mean is, that by the time he is starved, there will hardly be a picking upon his bones."
The king gave a great laugh.
"Well, my spouse, you may have him when you like," he said. "I don't fancy him for my part. I am pretty sure he is tough eating."
"That would be to honor instead of punish his insolence," returned the queen. "But why should our poor creatures be deprived of so much nourishment? Our little dogs and cats and pigs and small bears would enjoy him very much."
"You are the best of housekeepers, my lovely queen!" said her husband. "Let it be so by all means. Let us have our people in, and get him out and kill him at once. He deserves it. The mischief he might have brought upon us, now that he had penetrated so far as our most retired citadel, is incalculable. Or rather let us tie him hand and foot, and have the pleasure of seeing him torn to pieces by full torchlight in the great hall."
"Better and better!" cried the queen and prince together, both of them clapping their hands. And the prince made an ugly noise with his hare-lip, just as if he had intended to be one at the feast.
"But," added the queen, bethinking herself, "he is so troublesome. For as poor creatures as they are, there is something about those sun-people that is _very_ troublesome. I cannot imagine how it is that with such superior strength and skill and understanding as ours, we permit them to exist at all. Why do we not destroy them entirely, and use their cattle and grazing lands at our pleasure? Of course, we don't want to live in their horrid country! It is far too glaring for our quieter and more refined tastes. But we might use it for a sort of outhouse, you know. Even our creatures' eyes might get used to it, and if they did grow blind, that would be of no consequence, provided they grew fat as well. But we might even keep their great cows and other creatures, and then we should have a few more luxuries, such as cream and cheese, which at present we only taste occasionally, when our brave men have succeeded in carrying some off from their farms."
"It is worth thinking of," said the king; "and I don't know why you should be the first to suggest it, except that you have a positive genius for conquest. But still, as you say, there is something very troublesome about them; and it would be better, as I understand you to suggest, that we should starve him for a day or two first, so that he may be a little less frisky when we take him out."
"Once there was a goblin Living in a hole; Busy he was cobblin' A shoe without a sole.
"By came a birdie: 'Goblin, what do you do?' 'Cobble at a sturdie Upper leather shoe.' " 'What's the good o' that, sir?' Said the little bird, 'Why it's very pat, sir-- Plain without a word. " 'Where 'tis all a hill, sir, Never can be holes: Why should their shoes have soles, sir, When they've got no souls?'"
"What's that horrible noise?" cried the queen, shuddering from pot-metal head to granite shoes.
"I declare," said the king with solemn indignation, "it's the sun-creature in the hole!"
"Stop that disgusting noise!" cried the crown-prince valiantly, getting up and standing in front of the heap of stones, with his face toward Curdie's prison. --"Do now, or I'll break your head."
"Break away," shouted Curdie, and began singing again-- "Once there was a goblin Living in a hole,--" "I really cannot bear it," said the queen. "If I could only get at his horrid toes with my slippers again!"
"I think we had better go to bed," said the king.
"It's not time to go to bed," said the queen.
"I would if I was you," said Curdie.
"Impertinent wretch!" said the queen, with the utmost scorn in her voice.
"An impossible _if_," said his Majesty with dignity.
"Quite," returned Curdie, and began singing again-- "Go to bed, Goblin, do. Help the queen Take off her shoe.
"If you do, It will disclose A horrid set Of sprouting toes."
"What a lie!" roared the queen in a rage.
"By the way, that reminds me," said the king, "that, for as long as we have been married, I have never seen your feet, queen. I think you might take off your shoes when you go to bed! They positively hurt me sometimes."
"I will do just as I like," retorted the queen sulkily.
"You ought to do as your hubby wishes you," said the king.
"I will not," said the queen.
"Then I insist upon it," said the king.
Apparently his Majesty approached the queen for the purpose of following the advice given by Curdie, for the latter heard a scuffle, and then a great roar from the king.
"Will you be quiet then?" said the queen wickedly.
"Yes, yes, queen. I only meant to coax you."
"Hands off!" cried the queen triumphantly. "I'm going to bed. You may come when you like. But as long as I am queen, I will sleep in my shoes. It is my royal privilege. Harelip, go to bed."
"I'm going," said Harelip sleepily.
"So am I," said the king.
"Come along then," said the queen; "and mind you are good, or I'll--" "Oh, no, no, no!" screamed the king, in the most supplicating of tones.
Curdie heard only a muttered reply in the distance; and then the cave was quite still.
They had left the fire burning, and the light came through brighter than before. Curdie thought it was time to try again if anything could be done. But he found he could not get even a finger through the chink between the slab and the rock. He gave a great rush with his shoulder against the slab, but it yielded no more than if it had been part of the rock. All he could do was to sit down and think again.
By and by he came to the resolution to pretend to be dying, in the hope they might take him out before his strength was too much exhausted to let him have a chance. Then, for the creatures, if he could but find his axe again, he would have no fear of them; and if it were not for the queen's horrid shoes, he would have no fear at all.
Meantime, until they should come again at night, there was nothing for him to do but forge new rhymes, now his only weapons. He had no intention of using them at present, of course; but it was well to have a stock, for he might live to want them, and the manufacture of them would help to while away the time.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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20
|
IRENE'S CLUE
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THAT same morning, early, the princess woke in a terrible fright. There was a hideous noise in her room--of creatures snarling and hissing and racketing about as if they were fighting. The moment she came to herself, she remembered something she had never thought of again--what her grandmother told her to do when she was frightened. She immediately took off her ring and put it under her pillow. As she did so, she fancied she felt a finger and thumb take it gently from under her palm. "It must be my grandmother!" she said to herself, and the thought gave her such courage that she stopped to put on her dainty little slippers before running from the room. While doing this, she caught sight of a long cloak of sky-blue, thrown over the back of a chair by her bedside. She had never seen it before, but it was evidently waiting for her. She put it on, and then, feeling with the forefinger of her right hand, soon found her grandmother's thread, which she proceeded at once to follow, expecting it would lead her straight up the old stair. When she reached the door, she found it went down and ran along the floor, so that she had almost to crawl in order to keep a hold of it. Then, to her surprise, and somewhat to her dismay, she found that instead of leading her toward the stair it turned in quite the opposite direction. It led her through certain narrow passages toward the kitchen, turning aside ere she reached it, and guiding her to a door which communicated with a small back yard. Some of the maids were already up, and this door was standing open. Across the yard the thread still ran along the ground, until it brought her to a door in the wall which opened upon the mountain side. When she had passed through, the thread rose to about half her height, and she could hold it with ease as she walked. It led her straight up the mountain.
The cause of her alarm was less frightful than she supposed. The cook's great black cat, pursued by the housekeeper's terrier, had bounced against her bedroom door, which had not been properly fastened, and the two had burst into her room together and commenced a battle royal. How the nurse came to sleep through it, was a mystery, but I suspect the old lady had something to do with it.
It was a clear warm morning. The wind blew deliciously over the mountain-side. Here and there she saw a late primrose, but she did not stop to call on them. The sky was mottled with small clouds. The sun was not yet up, but some of their fluffy edges had caught his light and hung out orange and gold-colored fringes upon the air. The dew lay in round drops upon the leaves, and hung like tiny diamonds from the blades of grass about her path.
"How lovely that bit of gossamer is!" thought the princess, looking at a long undulating line that shone at some distance from her up the hill. It was not the time for gossamers though; and Irene soon discovered that it was her own thread she saw shining on before her in the light of the morning. It was leading her she knew not whither; but she had never in her life been out before sunrise, and everything was so fresh and cool and lively and full of something coming, that she felt too happy to be afraid of anything.
After leading her up a good distance, the thread turned to the left, and down the path upon which she and Lootie had met Curdie. But she never thought of that, for now in the morning light, with its far outlook over the country, no path could have been more open and airy and cheerful. She could see the road almost to the horizon, along which she had so often watched her king-papa and his troop come shining, with the bugle-blast cleaving the air before them; and it was like a companion to her. Down and down the path went, then up, and then down, and then up again, getting rugged and more rugged as it went; still along the path went the silvery thread, and still along the thread went Irene's little rosy-tipped forefinger. By and by she came to a little stream that jabbered and prattled down the hill, and up the side of the stream went both path and thread. And still the path grew rougher and steeper, and the mountain grew wilder, till Irene began to think she was going a very long way from home; and when she turned to look back, she saw that the level country had vanished and the rough bare mountain had closed in about her. But still on went the thread, and on went the princess. Everything around her was getting brighter and brighter as the sun came nearer; till at length his first rays all at once alighted on the top of a rock before her, like some golden creature fresh from the sky. Then she saw that the little stream ran out of a hole in that rock, that the path did not go past the rock, and that the thread was leading her straight up to it. A shudder ran through her from head to foot when she found that the thread was actually taking her into the hole out of which the stream ran. It ran out babbling joyously, but she had to go in.
She did not hesitate. Right into the hole she went, which was high enough to let her walk without stooping. For a little way there was a brown glimmer, but at the first turn it all but ceased, and before she had gone many paces she was in total darkness. Then she began to be frightened indeed. Every moment she kept feeling the thread backward, and as she went farther and farther into the darkness of the great hollow mountain, she kept thinking more and more about her grandmother, and all that she had said to her, and how kind she had been, and how beautiful she was, and all about her lovely room, and the fire of roses, and the great lamp that sent its light through stone walls. And she became more and more sure that the thread could not have gone there of itself, and that her grandmother must have sent it. But it tried her dreadfully when the path went down very steep, and especially when she came to places where she had to go down rough stairs, and even sometimes a ladder. Through one narrow passage after another, over lumps of rock and sand and clay, the thread guided her, until she came to a small hole through which she had to creep. Finding no change on the other side--"Shall I ever get back?" she thought, over and over again, wondering at herself that she was not ten times more frightened, and often feeling as if she were only walking in the story of a dream. Sometimes she heard the noise of water, a dull gurgling inside the rock. By and by she heard the sounds of blows, which came nearer and nearer; but again they grew duller and almost died away. In a hundred directions she turned, obedient to the guiding thread.
At last she spied a dull red shine, and came up to the mica-window, and thence away and round about, and right into a cavern, where glowed the red embers of a fire. Here the thread began to rise. It rose as high as her head, and higher still. What _should_ she do if she lost her hold? She was pulling it down! She might break it! She could see it far up, glowing as red as her fire-opal in the light of the embers.
But presently she came to a huge heap of stones, piled in a slope against the wall of the cavern. On these she climbed, and soon recovered the level of the thread--only however to find, the next moment, that it vanished through the heap of stones, and left her standing on it, with her face to the solid rock. For one terrible moment, she felt as if her grandmother had forsaken her. The thread which the spiders had spun far over the seas, which her grandmother had sat in the moonlight and spun again for her, which she had tempered in the rose-fire, and tied to her opal ring, had left her--had gone where she could no longer follow it--had brought her into a horrible cavern, and there left her! She was forsaken indeed!
"When _shall_ I wake?" she said to herself in an agony, but the same moment knew that it was no dream. She threw herself upon the heap, and began to cry. It was well she did not know what creatures, one of them with stone shoes on her feet, were lying in the next cave. But neither did she know who was on the other side of the slab.
At length the thought struck her, that at least she could follow the thread backward, and thus get out of the mountain, and home. She rose at once, and found the thread. But the instant she tried to feel it backward, it vanished from her touch. Forward, it led her hand up to the heap of stones--backward, it seemed nowhere. Neither could she see it as before in the light of the fire. She burst into a wailing cry, and again threw herself down on the stones.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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21
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THE ESCAPE
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AS the princess lay and sobbed, she kept feeling the thread mechanically, following it with her finger many times up the stones in which it disappeared. By and by she began, still mechanically, to poke her finger in after it between the stones as far as she could. All at once it came into her head that she might remove some of the stones and see where the thread went next. Almost laughing at herself for never having thought of this before, she jumped to her feet. Her fear vanished: once more she was certain her grandmother's thread could not have brought her there just to leave her there; and she began to throw away the stones from the top as fast as she could, sometimes two or three at a handful, sometimes taking both hands to lift one. After clearing them away a little, she found that the thread turned and went straight downward. Hence, as the heap sloped a good deal, growing of course wider toward its base, she had to throw away a multitude of stones to follow the thread. But this was not all, for she soon found that the thread, after going straight down for a little way, turned first sideways in one direction, then sideways in another, and then shot, at various angles, hither and thither inside the heap, so that she began to be afraid that to clear the thread, she must remove the whole huge gathering. She was dismayed at the very idea, but, losing no time, set to work with a will; and with aching back, and bleeding fingers and hands, she worked on, sustained by the pleasure of seeing the heap slowly diminish, and begin to show itself on the opposite side of the fire. Another thing which helped to keep up her courage was, that as often as she uncovered a turn of the thread, instead of lying loose upon the stones, it tightened up; this made her sure that her grandmother was at the end of it somewhere.
She had got about half way down when she started, and nearly fell with fright. Close to her ear as it seemed, a voice broke out singing-- "Jabber, bother, smash! You'll have it all in a crash. Jabber, smash, bother! You'll have the worst of the pother. Smash, bother, jabber! --" Here Curdie stopped, either because he could not find a rhyme to _jabber_, or because he remembered what he had forgotten when he woke up at the sound of Irene's labors, that his plan was to make the goblins think he was getting weak. But he had uttered enough to let Irene know who he was.
"It's Curdie!" she cried joyfully.
"Hush, hush!" came Curdie's voice again from somewhere. "Speak softly."
"Why, you were singing loud!" said Irene.
"Yes. But they know I am here, and they don't know you are. Who are you?"
"I'm Irene," answered the princess. "I know who you are quite well. You're Curdie."
"Why, how ever did you come here, Irene?"
"My great-great-grandmother sent me; and I think I've found out why. You can't get out, I suppose?"
"No, I can't. What are you doing?"
"Clearing away a huge heap of stones."
"There's a princess!" exclaimed Curdie, in a tone of delight, but still speaking in little more than a whisper. "I can't think how you got here, though."
"My grandmother sent me after her thread."
"I don't know what you mean," said Curdie; "but so you're there, it doesn't much matter."
"Oh, yes it does!" returned Irene. "I should never have been here but for her."
"You can tell me all about it when we get out, then. There's no time to lose now," said Curdie.
And Irene went to work, as fresh as when she began.
"There's such a lot of stones!" she said. "It will take me a long time to get them all away."
"How far on have you got?" asked Curdie.
"I've got about the half way, but the other half is ever so much bigger."
"I don't think you will have to move the lower half. Do you see a slab laid up against the wall?"
Irene looked and felt about with her hands, and soon perceived the outlines of the slab.
"Yes," she answered, "I do."
"Then, I think," rejoined Curdie, "when you have cleared the slab about half way down, or a little more, I shall be able to push it over."
"I must follow my thread," returned Irene, "whatever I do."
"What _do_ you mean?" exclaimed Curdie.
"You will see when you get out of here," answered the princess, and then she went on harder than ever.
But she was soon satisfied that what Curdie wanted done, and what the thread wanted done, were one and the same thing. For she not only saw that by following the turns of the thread she had been clearing the face of the slab, but that, a little more than half way down, the thread went through the chink between the slab and the wall into the place where Curdie was confined, so that she could not follow it any farther until the slab was out of her way. As soon as she found this, she said in a right joyous whisper-- "Now, Curdie! I think if you were to give a great push, the slab would tumble over."
"Stand quite clear of it then," said Curdie, "and let me know when you are ready."
Irene got off the heap, and stood on one side of it.
"Now, Curdie!" she cried.
Curdie gave a great rush with his shoulder against it. Out tumbled the slab on the heap, and out crept Curdie over the top of it.
"You've saved my life, Irene!" he whispered.
"Oh, Curdie! I'm so glad! Let's get out of this horrid place as fast as we can."
"That's easier said than done," returned he.
"Oh, no! it's quite easy," said Irene. "We have only to follow my thread. I am sure that it's going to take us out now."
She had already begun to follow it over the fallen slab into the hole, while Curdie was searching the floor of the cavern for his pickaxe.
[Illustration: Curdie went on after her, flashing his torch about.]
"Here it is!" he cried. "No, it is not!" he added, in a disappointed tone. "What can it be then? --I declare it's a torch. That _is_ jolly! It's better almost than my pickaxe. Much better if it weren't for those stone shoes!" he went on, as he lighted the torch by blowing the last embers of the expiring fire.
When he looked up, with the lighted torch casting a glare into the great darkness of the huge cavern, he caught sight of Irene disappearing in the hole out of which he had himself just come.
"Where are you going there?" he cried. "That's not the way out. That's where I couldn't get out."
"I know that," whispered Irene. "But this is the way my thread goes, and I must follow it."
"What nonsense the child talks!" said Curdie to himself. "I must follow her, though, and see that she comes to no harm. She will soon find she can't get out that way, and then she will come with me."
So he crept once more over the slab into the hole with his torch in his hand. But when he looked about in it, he could see her nowhere. And now he discovered that although the hole was narrow, it was much larger than he had supposed; for in one direction the roof came down very low, and the hole went off in a narrow passage, of which he could not see the end. The princess must have crept in there. He got on his knees and one hand, holding the torch with the other, and crept after her. The hole twisted about, in some parts so low that he could hardly get through, in others so high that he could not see the roof, but everywhere it was narrow--far too narrow for a goblin to get through, and so I presume they never thought that Curdie might. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable lest he could not see the end. The princess when he heard her voice almost close to his ear, whispering-- "Aren't you coming, Curdie?"
And when he turned the next corner, there she stood waiting for him.
"I knew you couldn't go wrong in that narrow hole, but now you must keep by me, for here is a great wide place," she said.
"I can't understand it," said Curdie, half to himself, half to Irene.
"Never mind," she returned. "Wait till we get out."
Curdie, utterly astonished that she had already got so far, and by a path he had known nothing of, thought it better to let her do as she pleased.
"At all events," he said again to himself, "I know nothing about the way, miner as I am; and she seems to think she does know something about it, though how she should, passes my comprehension. So she's just as likely to find her way as I am, and as she insists on taking the lead, I must follow. We can't be much worse off than we are, anyhow."
Reasoning thus, he followed her a few steps, and came out in another great cavern, across which Irene walked in a straight line, as confidently as if she knew every step of the way. Curdie went on after her, flashing his torch about, and trying to see something of what lay around them. Suddenly he started back a pace as the light fell upon something close by which Irene was passing. It was a platform of rock raised a few feet from the floor and covered with sheep skins, upon which lay two horrible figures asleep, at once recognized by Curdie as the king and queen of the goblins. He lowered his torch instantly lest the light should awake them. As he did so, it flashed upon his pickaxe, lying by the side of the queen, whose hand lay close by the handle of it.
"Stop one moment," he whispered. "Hold my torch, and don't let the light on their faces."
Irene shuddered when she saw the frightful creatures whom she had passed without observing them, but she did as he requested, and turning her back, held the torch low in front of her. Curdie drew his pickaxe carefully away, and as he did so, spied one of her feet, projecting from under the skins. The great clumsy granite shoe, exposed thus to his hand, was a temptation not to be resisted. He laid hold of it, and with cautious efforts, drew it off. The moment he succeeded, he saw to his astonishment that what he had sung in ignorance, to annoy the queen, was actually true: she had six horrible toes. Overjoyed at his success, and seeing by the huge bump in the sheep skins where the other foot was, he proceeded to lift them gently, for, if he could only succeed in carrying away the other shoe as well, he would be no more afraid of the goblins than of so many flies. But as he pulled at the second shoe, the queen gave a growl and sat up in bed. The same instant the king awoke also, and sat up beside her.
"Run, Irene!" cried Curdie, for though he was not now in the least afraid for himself, he was for the princess.
Irene looked once round, saw the fearful creatures awake, and like the wise princess she was, dashed the torch on the ground and extinguished it, crying out-- "Here, Curdie, take my hand."
He darted to her side, forgetting neither the queen's shoe nor his pickaxe, and caught hold of her hand, as she sped fearlessly where her thread guided her. They heard the queen give a great bellow; but they had a good start, for it would be some time before they could get torches lighted to pursue them. Just as they thought they saw a gleam behind them, the thread brought them to a very narrow opening, through which Irene crept easily, and Curdie with difficulty.
"Now," said Curdie; "I think we shall be safe."
"Of course we shall," returned Irene.
"Why do you think so?" asked Curdie.
"Because my grandmother is taking care of us."
"That's all nonsense," said Curdie. "I don't know what you mean."
"Then if you don't know what I mean, what right have you to call it nonsense?" asked the princess, a little offended.
"I beg your pardon, Irene," said Curdie; "I did not mean to vex you."
"Of course not," returned the princess. "But why do _you_ think we shall be safe?"
"Because the king and queen are far too stout to get through that hole."
"There may be ways round," said the other.
"To be sure there might; we are not out of it yet," acknowledged Curdie.
"But what do you mean by the king and queen?" asked the princess. "I should never call such creatures as those a king and a queen."
"Their own people do, though," answered Curdie.
The princess asked more questions, and Curdie, as they walked leisurely along, gave her a full account, not only of the character and habits of the goblins, so far as he knew them, but of his own adventures with them, beginning from the very night after that in which he had met her and Lootie upon the mountain. When he had finished, he begged Irene to tell him how it was that she had come to his rescue. So Irene too had to tell a long story, which she did in rather a roundabout manner, interrupted by many questions concerning things she had not explained. But her tale, as he did not believe more than half of it, left everything as unaccountable to him as before, and he was nearly as much perplexed as to what he must think of the princess. He could not believe that she was deliberately telling stories, and the only conclusion he could come to was that Lootie had been playing the child tricks, inventing no end of lies to frighten her for her own purposes.
"But how ever did Lootie come to let you go into the mountain alone?" he asked.
"Lootie knows nothing about it. I left her fast asleep--at least I think so. I hope my grandmother won't let her get into trouble, for it wasn't her fault at all, as my grandmother very well knows."
"But how did you find your way to me?" persisted Curdie.
"I told you already," answered Irene;--"by keeping my finger upon my grandmother's thread, as I am doing now."
"You don't mean you've got the thread there?"
"Of course I do. I have told you so ten times already. I have hardly--except when I was removing the stones--taken my finger off it. There!" she added, guiding Curdie's hand to the thread, "you feel it yourself--don't you?"
"I feel nothing at all," replied Curdie.
"Then what can be the matter with your finger? I feel it perfectly. To be sure it is very thin, and in the sunlight looks just like the thread of a spider, though there are many of them twisted together to make it--but for all that I can't think why you shouldn't feel it as well as I do."
Curdie was too polite to say he did not believe there was any thread there at all. What he did say was-- "Well, I can make nothing of it."
"I can though, and you must be glad of that, for it will do for both of us."
"We're not out yet," said Curdie.
"We soon shall be," returned Irene confidently.
And now the thread went downward, and led Irene's hand to a hole in the floor of the cavern, whence came a sound of running water which they had been hearing for some time.
"It goes into the ground now, Curdie," she said, stopping.
He had been listening to another sound, which his practised ear had caught long ago, and which also had been growing louder. It was the noise the goblin miners made at their work, and they seemed to be at no great distance now. Irene heard it the moment she stopped.
"What is that noise?" she asked. "Do you know, Curdie?"
"Yes. It is the goblins digging and burrowing," he answered.
"And don't you know for what purpose they do it?"
"No; I haven't the least idea. Would you like to see them?" he asked, wishing to have another try after their secret.
"If my thread took me there, I shouldn't much mind; but I don't want to see them, and I can't leave my thread. It leads me down into the hole, and we had better go at once."
"Very well. Shall I go in first?" said Curdie.
"No; better not. You can't feel the thread," she answered, stepping down through a narrow break in the floor of the cavern. "Oh!" she cried, "I am in the water. It is running strong--but it is not deep, and there is just room to walk. Make haste, Curdie."
He tried, but the hole was too small for him to get in.
"Go on a little bit," he said, shouldering his pickaxe.
In a few moments he had cleared a large opening and followed her. They went on, down and down with the running water, Curdie getting more and more afraid it was leading them to some terrible gulf in the heart of the mountain. In one or two places he had to break away the rock to make room before even Irene could get through--at least without hurting herself. But at length they spied a glimmer of light, and in a minute more, they were almost blinded by the full sunlight into which they emerged. It was some little time before the princess could see well enough to discover that they stood in her own garden, close by the seat on which she and her king-papa had sat that afternoon. They had come out by the channel of the little stream. She danced and clapped her hands with delight.
"Now, Curdie!" she cried, "won't you believe what I told you about my grandmother and her thread?"
For she had felt all the time that Curdie was not believing what she had told him.
"There! --don't you see it shining on before us?" she added.
"I don't see anything," persisted Curdie.
"Then you must believe without seeing," said the princess; "for you can't deny it has brought me out of the mountain."
"I can't deny we _are_ out of the mountain, and I should be very ungrateful indeed to deny that _you_ had brought _me_ out of it."
"I couldn't have done it but for the thread," persisted Irene.
"That's the part I don't understand."
"Well, come along, and Lootie will get you something to eat. I am sure you must want it very much."
"Indeed I do. But my father and mother will be so anxious about me, I must make haste--first up the mountain to tell my mother, and then down into the mine again to acquaint my father."
"Very well, Curdie; but you can't get out without coming this way, and I will take you through the house, for that is nearest."
They met no one by the way, for indeed, as before, the people were here and there and everywhere searching for the princess. When they got in, Irene found that the thread, as she had half expected, went up the old staircase, and a new thought struck her. She turned to Curdie and said-- "My grandmother wants me. Do come up with me, and see her. Then you will know that I have been telling you the truth. Do come--to please me, Curdie. I can't bear you should think I say what is not true."
"I never doubted you believed what you said," returned Curdie. "I only thought you had some fancy in your head that was not correct."
"But do come, dear Curdie."
The little miner could not withstand this appeal, and though he felt shy in what seemed to him such a huge grand house, he yielded, and followed her up the stair.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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22
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THE OLD LADY AND CURDIE
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UP the stair then they went, and the next and the next, and through the long rows of empty rooms, and up the little tower stairs, Irene growing happier and happier as she ascended. There was no answer when she knocked at length at the door of the workroom, nor could she hear any sound of the spinning-wheel, and once more her heart sank within her--but only for one moment, as she turned and knocked at the other door.
"Come in," answered the sweet voice of her grandmother, and Irene opened the door and entered, followed by Curdie.
"You darling!" cried the lady, who was seated by a fire of red roses mingled with white--"I've been waiting for you, and indeed getting a little anxious about you, and beginning to think whether I had not better go and fetch you myself."
As she spoke she took the little princess in her arms and placed her upon her lap. She was dressed in white now, and looking if possible more lovely than ever.
"I've brought Curdie, grandmother. He wouldn't believe what I told him, and so I've brought him."
"Yes--I see him. He is a good boy, Curdie, and a brave boy. Aren't you glad you have got him out?"
"Yes, grandmother. But it wasn't very good of him not to believe me when I was telling him the truth."
"People must believe what they can, and those who believe more must not be hard upon those who believe less. I doubt if you would have believed it all yourself if you hadn't seen some of it."
"Ah! yes, grandmother, I daresay. I'm sure you are right. But he'll believe now."
"I don't know that," replied her grandmother.
"Won't you, Curdie?" said Irene, looking round at him as she asked the question.
He was standing in the middle of the floor, staring, and looking strangely bewildered. This she thought came of his astonishment at the beauty of the lady.
"Make a bow to my grandmother, Curdie," she said.
"I don't see any grandmother," answered Curdie, rather gruffly.
"Don't see my grandmother when I'm sitting in her lap!" exclaimed the princess.
"No I don't," said Curdie, almost sulkily.
"Don't you see the lovely fire of roses--white ones amongst them this time?" asked Irene almost as bewildered as he.
"No I don't," answered Curdie, almost sulkily.
"Nor the blue bed? Nor the rose-colored counterpane? Nor the beautiful light, like the moon, hanging from the roof?"
"You're making game of me, your royal Highness; and after what we have come through together this day, I don't think it is kind of you," said Curdie, feeling very much hurt.
"Then what _do_ you see?" asked Irene, who perceived at once that for her not to believe him was at least as bad as for him not to believe her.
"I see a big, bare garret-room--like the one in mother's cottage, only big enough to take the cottage itself in, and leave a good margin all round," answered Curdie.
"And what more do you see?"
"I see a tub, and a heap of musty straw, and a withered apple and a ray of sunlight coming through a hole in the middle of the roof, and shining on your head, and making all the place look a curious dusky brown. I think you had better drop it, princess, and go down to the nursery, like a good girl."
"But don't you hear my grandmother talking to me?" asked Irene, almost crying.
"No. I hear the cooing of a lot of pigeons. If you won't come down, I will go without you. I think that will be better anyhow, for I'm sure nobody who met us would believe a word we said to them. They would think we made it all up. I don't expect anybody but my own father and mother to believe me. They _know_ I wouldn't tell a story."
"And yet _you_ won't believe _me_, Curdie?" expostulated the princess, now fairly crying with vexation, and sorrow at the gulf between her and Curdie.
"No. I _can't_, and I can't help it," said Curdie, turning to leave the room.
"What _shall_ I do, grandmother?" sobbed the princess, turning her face round upon the lady's bosom, and shaking with suppressed sobs.
"You must give him time," said her grandmother; "and you must be content not to be believed for a while. It is very hard to bear; but I have had to bear it, and shall have to bear it many a time yet. I will take care of what Curdie thinks of you in the end. You must let him go now."
"You are not coming, are you?" asked Curdie.
"No, Curdie; my grandmother says I must let you go. Turn to the right when you get to the bottom of all the stairs, and in that way you will arrive safely at the hall where the great door is."
"Oh! I don't doubt I can find my way--without you, princess, or your old grannie's thread either," said Curdie, quite rudely.
"Oh, Curdie! Curdie!"
"I wish I had gone home at once. I'm very much obliged to you, Irene, for getting me out of that hole, but I wish you hadn't made a fool of me afterward."
He said this as he opened the door, which he left open, and, without another word, went down the stairs. Irene listened with dismay to his departing footsteps. Then turning again to the lady-- "What does it all mean, grandmother?" she sobbed, and burst into fresh tears.
"It means, my love, that I did not mean to show myself. Curdie is not yet able to believe some things. Seeing is not believing--it is only seeing. You remember I told you that if Lootie were to see me, she would rub her eyes, forget the half she saw, and call the other half nonsense."
"Yes; but I should have thought Curdie--" "You are right. Curdie is much farther on than Lootie, and you will see what will come of it. But in the meantime, you must be content, I say, to be misunderstood for a while. We are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more necessary."
"What is that, grandmother?"
"To understand other people."
"Yes, grandmother. I must be fair--for if I'm not fair to other people, I'm not worth being understood myself I see. So as Curdie can't help it, I will not be vexed with him, but just wait."
"There's my own dear child," said her grandmother, and pressed her close to her bosom.
"Why weren't you in your workroom, when we came up, grandmother?" asked Irene, after a few moments' silence.
"If I had been there, Curdie would have seen me well enough. But why should I be there rather than in this beautiful room?"
"I thought you would be spinning."
"I've nobody to spin for just at present. I never spin without knowing for whom I am spinning."
"That reminds me--there is one thing that puzzles me," said the princess: "how are you to get the thread out of the mountain again? Surely you won't have to make another for me! That would be such a trouble!"
The lady set her down, and rose, and went to the fire. Putting in her hand, she drew it out again, and held up the shining ball between her finger and thumb.
"I've got it now, you see," she said, coming back to the princess, "all ready for you when you want it."
Going to her cabinet, she laid it in the same drawer as before.
"And here is your ring," she added, taking it from the little finger of her left hand, and putting it on the forefinger of Irene's right hand.
"Oh, thank you, grandmother. I feel so safe now!"
"You are very tired, my child," the lady went on. "Your hands are hurt with the stones, and I have counted nine bruises on you. Just look what you are like."
And she held up to her a little mirror which she had brought from the cabinet. The princess burst into a merry laugh at the sight. She was so draggled with the stream, and dirty with creeping through narrow places, that if she had seen the reflection without knowing it was a reflection, she would have taken herself for some gypsy-child whose face was washed and hair combed about once in a month. The lady laughed too, and lifting her again upon her knee, took off her cloak and night-gown. Then she carried her to the side of the room. Irene wondered what she was going to do with her, but asked no questions--only starting a little when she found that she was going to lay her in the large silver bath; for as she looked into it, again she saw no bottom, but the stars shining miles away as it seemed in a great blue gulf. Her hands closed involuntarily on the beautiful arms that held her, and that was all.
The lady pressed her once more to her bosom, saying-- "Do not be afraid, my child."
"No, grandmother," answered the princess, with a little gasp; and the next instant she sank in the clear cool water.
When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but a strange lovely blue over and beneath and all about her. The lady and the beautiful room had vanished from her sight, and she seemed utterly alone. But instead of being afraid, she felt more than happy--perfectly blissful. And from somewhere came the voice of the lady, singing a strange sweet song, of which she could distinguish every word; but of the sense she had only a feeling--no understanding. Nor could she remember a single line after it was gone. It vanished, like the poetry in a dream, as fast as it came. In after years, however, she would sometimes fancy that snatches of melody suddenly rising in her brain, must be little phrases and fragments of the air of that song; and the very fancy would make her happier, and abler to do her duty.
How long she lay in the water she did not know. It seemed a long time--not from weariness, but from pleasure. But at last she felt the beautiful hands lay hold of her, and through the gurgling waters she was lifted out into the lovely room. The lady carried her to the fire, and sat down with her in her lap, and dried her tenderly with the softest towel. It was so different from Lootie's drying! When the lady had done, she stooped to the fire, and drew from it her night-gown, as white as snow.
"How delicious!" exclaimed the princess. "It smells of all the roses in the world, I think."
When she stood up on the floor, she felt as if she had been made over again. Every bruise and all weariness were gone, and her hands were soft and whole as ever.
"Now I am going to put you to bed for a good sleep," said her grandmother.
"But what will Lootie be thinking? And what am I to say to her when she asks me where I have been?"
"Don't trouble yourself about it. You will find it all come right," said her grandmother, and laid her into the blue bed, under the rosy counterpane.
"There is just one thing more," said Irene. "I am a little anxious about Curdie. As I brought him into the house, I ought to have seen him safe on his way home."
"I took care of all that," answered the lady. "I told you to let him go, and therefore I was bound to look after him. Nobody saw him, and he is now eating a good dinner in his mother's cottage, far up the mountain."
"Then I will go to sleep," said Irene, and in a few minutes, she was fast asleep.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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23
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CURDIE AND HIS MOTHER
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CURDIE went up the mountain neither whistling nor singing, for he was vexed with Irene for taking him in, as he called it; and he was vexed with himself for having spoken to her so angrily. His mother gave a cry of joy when she saw him, and at once set about getting him something to eat, asking him questions all the time, which he did not answer so cheerfully as usual. When his meal was ready, she left him to eat it, and hurried to the mine to let his father know he was safe. When she came back, she found him fast asleep upon her bed; nor did he wake until the arrival home of his father in the evening.
"Now, Curdie," his mother said, as they sat at supper, "tell us the whole story from beginning to end, just as it all happened."
Curdie obeyed, and told everything to the point where they came out upon the lawn in the garden of the king's house.
"And what happened after that?" asked his mother. "You haven't told us all. You ought to be very happy at having got away from those demons, and instead of that, I never saw you so gloomy. There must be something more. Besides, you do not speak of that lovely child as I should like to hear you. She saved your life at the risk of her own, and yet somehow you don't seem to think much of it."
"She talked such nonsense!" answered Curdie, "and told me a pack of things that weren't a bit true; and I can't get over it."
"What were they?" asked his father. "Your mother may be able to throw some light upon them."
Then Curdie made a clean breast of it, and told them everything.
They all sat silent for some time, pondering the strange tale. At last Curdie's mother spoke.
"You confess, my boy," she said, "there is something about the whole affair you do not understand?"
"Yes, of course, mother," he answered, "I cannot understand how a child knowing nothing about the mountain, or even that I was shut up in it, should come all that way alone, straight to where I was; and then, after getting me out of the hole, lead me out of the mountain, too, where I should not have known a step of the way if it had been as light as in the open air."
"Then you have no right to say that what she told you was not true. She did take you out, and she must have had something to guide her: why not a thread as well as a rope, or anything else? There is something you cannot explain, and her explanation may be the right one."
"It's no explanation at all, mother; and I can't believe it."
"That may be only because you do not understand it. If you did, you would probably find it was an explanation, and believe it thoroughly. I don't blame you for not being able to believe it, but I do blame you for fancying such a child would try to deceive you. Why should she? Depend upon it, she told you all she knew. Until you had found a better way of accounting for it all, you might at least have been more sparing of your judgment."
"That is what something inside me has been saying all the time," said Curdie, hanging down his head. "But what do you make of the grandmother? That is what I can't get over. To take me up to an old garret, and try to persuade me against the sight of my own eyes that it was a beautiful room, with blue walls and silver stars, and no end of things in it, when there was nothing there but an old tub and a withered apple and a heap of straw and a sunbeam! It was too bad! She _might_ have had some old woman there at least who could pass for her precious grandmother!"
"Didn't she speak as if she saw those other things herself, Curdie?"
"Yes. That's what bothers me. You would have thought she really meant and believed that she saw every one of the things she talked about. And not one of them there! It was too bad, I say."
"Perhaps some people can see things other people can't see, Curdie," said his mother very gravely. "I think I will tell you something I saw myself once--only perhaps you won't believe me either!"
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Curdie, bursting into tears; "I don't deserve that, surely!"
"But what I am going to tell you is very strange," persisted his mother; "and if having heard it, you were to say I must have been dreaming, I don't know that I should have any right to be vexed with you, though I know at least that I was not asleep."
"Do tell me, mother. Perhaps it will help me to think better of the princess."
"That's why I am tempted to tell you," replied his mother. "But first, I may as well mention, that according to old whispers, there is something more than common about the king's family; and the queen was of the same blood, for they were cousins of some degree. There were strange stories told concerning them--all good stories--but strange, very strange. What they were I cannot tell, for I only remember the faces of my grandmother and my mother as they talked together about them. There was wonder and awe--not fear, in their eyes, and they whispered, and never spoke aloud. But what I saw myself, was this: Your father was going to work in the mine, one night, and I had been down with his supper. It was soon after we were married, and not very long before you were born. He came with me to the mouth of the mine, and left me to go home alone, for I knew the way almost as well as the floor of our own cottage. It was pretty dark, and in some parts of the road where the rocks overhung, nearly quite dark. But I got along perfectly well, never thinking of being afraid, until I reached a spot you know well enough, Curdie, where the path has to make a sharp turn out of the way of a great rock on the left-hand side. When I got there, I was suddenly surrounded by about half-a-dozen of the cobs, the first I had ever seen, although I had heard tell of them often enough. One of them blocked up the path, and they all began tormenting and teasing me in a way it makes me shudder to think of even now."
"If I had only been with you!" cried father and son in a breath.
The mother gave a funny little smile, and went on.
"They had some of their horrible creatures with them too, and I must confess I was dreadfully frightened. They had torn my clothes very much, and I was afraid they were going to tear myself to pieces, when suddenly a great white soft light shone upon me. I looked up. A broad ray, like a shining road, came down from a large globe of silvery light, not very high up, indeed not quite so high as the horizon--so it could not have been a new star or another moon or anything of that sort. The cobs dropped persecuting me, and looked dazed, and I thought they were going to run away, but presently they began again. The same moment, however, down the path from the globe of light came a bird, shining like silver in the sun. It gave a few rapid flaps first, and then, with its wings straight out, shot sliding down the slope of the light. It looked to me just like a white pigeon. But whatever it was, when the cobs caught sight of it coming straight down upon them, they took to their heels and scampered away across the mountain, leaving me safe, only much frightened. As soon as it had sent them off, the bird went gliding again up the light, and just at the moment it reached the globe, the light disappeared, just the same as if a shutter had been closed over a window, and I saw it no more. But I had no more trouble with the cobs that night, or at any time afterward."
"How strange!" exclaimed Curdie.
"Yes, it is strange; but I can't help believing it, whether you do or not," said his mother.
"It's exactly as your mother told it to me the very next morning," said his father.
"You don't think I'm doubting my own mother!" cried Curdie.
"There are other people in the world quite as well worth believing as your own mother," said his mother. "I don't know that she's so much the fitter to be believed that she happens to be _your_ mother, Mr. Curdie. There are mothers far more likely to tell lies than that little girl I saw talking to the primroses a few weeks ago. If she were to lie I should begin to doubt my own word."
"But princesses _have_ told lies as well as other people," said Curdie.
"Yes, but not princesses like that child. She's a good girl, I am certain, and that's more than being a princess. Depend upon it you will have to be sorry for behaving so to her, Curdie. You ought at least to have held your tongue."
"I am sorry now," answered Curdie.
"You ought to go and tell her so, then."
"I don't see how I could manage that. They wouldn't let a miner boy like me have a word with her alone; and I couldn't tell her before that nurse of hers. She'd be asking ever so many questions, and I don't know how many of them the little princess would like me to answer. She told me that Lootie didn't know anything about her coming to get me out of the mountain. I am certain she would have prevented her somehow if she had known it. But I may have a chance before long, and meantime I must try to do something for her. I think, father, I have got on the track at last."
"Have you, indeed, my boy?" said Peter. "I am sure you deserve some success; you have worked very hard for it. What have you found out?"
"It's difficult you know, father, inside the mountain, especially in the dark, and not knowing what turns you have taken, to tell the lie of things outside."
"Impossible, my boy, without a chart, or at least a compass," returned his father.
"Well, I think I have nearly discovered in what direction the cobs are mining. If I am right, I know something else that I can put to it, and then one and one will make three."
"They very often do, Curdie, as we miners ought to be well aware. Now tell us, my boy, what the two things are, and see whether we guess at the same third as you."
"I don't see what that has to do with the princess," interposed his mother.
"I will soon let you see that, mother. Perhaps you may think me foolish, but until I am sure there is nothing in my present fancy, I am more determined than ever to go on with my observations. Just as we came to the channel by which we got out, I heard the miners at work somewhere near--I think down below us. Now since I began to watch them, they have mined a good half mile, in a straight line; and so far as I am aware, they are working in no other part of the mountain. But I never could tell in what direction they were going. When we came out in the king's garden, however, I thought at once whether it was possible they were working toward the king's house; and what I want to do to-night is to make sure whether they are or not. I will take a light with me--" "Oh, Curdie," cried his mother, "then they will see you."
"I'm no more afraid of them now than I was before," rejoined Curdie,--"now that I've got this precious shoe. They can't make another such in a hurry, and one bare foot will do for my purpose. Woman as she may be, I won't spare her next time. But I shall be careful with my light, for I don't want them to see me. I won't stick it in my hat."
"Go on, then, and tell us what you mean to do."
"I mean to take a bit of paper with me and a pencil, and go in at the mouth of the stream by which we came out. I shall mark on the paper as near as I can the angle of every turning I take until I find the cobs at work, and so get a good idea in what direction they are going. If it should prove to be nearly parallel with the stream, I shall know it is toward the king's house they are working."
"And what if you should. How much wiser will you be then?"
"Wait a minute, mother, dear. I told you that when I came upon the royal family in the cave, they were talking of their prince--Harelip, they called him--marrying a sun-woman--that means one of us--one with toes to her feet. Now in the speech one of them made that night at their great gathering, of which I heard only a part, he said that peace would be secured for a generation at least by the pledge the prince would hold for the good behavior of _her_ relatives: that's what he said, and he must have meant the sun-woman the prince was to marry. I am quite sure the king is much too proud to wish his son to marry any but a princess, and much too knowing to fancy that his having a peasant woman for a wife would be of any material advantage to them."
"I see what you are driving at now," said his mother.
"But," said his father, "the king would dig the mountain to the plain before he would have his princess the wife of a cob, if he were ten times a prince."
"Yes; but they think so much of themselves!" said his mother. "Small creatures always do. The bantam is the proudest cock in my little yard."
"And I fancy," said Curdie, "if they once get her, they would tell the king they would kill her except, he consented to the marriage."
"They might say so," said his father, "but they wouldn't kill her; they would keep her alive for the sake of the hold it gave them over our king. Whatever he did to them, they would threaten to do the same to the princess."
"And they are bad enough to torment her just for their own amusement--I know that," said his mother.
"Anyhow, I will keep a watch on them, and see what they are up to," said Curdie. "It's too horrible to think of. I daren't let myself do it. But they sha'n't have her--at least if I can help it. So, mother dear--my clue is all right--will you get me a bit of paper and a pencil and a lump of pease-pudding, and I will set out at once. I saw a place where I can climb over the wall of the garden quite easily."
"You must mind and keep out of the way of the men on the watch," said his mother.
"That I will. I don't want them to know anything about it. They would spoil it all. The cobs would only try some other plan--they are such obstinate creatures! I shall take good care, mother. They won't kill and eat me either, if they should come upon me. So you needn't mind them."
His mother got him what he asked for, and Curdie set out. Close beside the door by which the princess left the garden for the mountain, stood a great rock, and by climbing it Curdie got over the wall. He tied his clue to a stone just inside the channel of the stream, and took his pickaxe with him. He had not gone far before he encountered a horrid creature coming toward the mouth. The spot was too narrow for two of almost any size or shape, and besides Curdie had no wish to let the creature pass. Not being able to use his pickaxe, however, he had a severe struggle with him, and it was only after receiving many bites, some of them bad, that he succeeded in killing him with his pocket knife. Having dragged him out, he made haste to get in again before another should stop up the way.
I need not follow him farther in this night's adventures. He returned to his breakfast, satisfied that the goblins were mining in the direction of the palace--on so low a level that their intention must, he thought, be to burrow under the walls of the king's house, and rise up inside it--in order, he fully believed, to lay hands on the little princess, and carry her off for a wife to their horrid Harelip.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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24
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IRENE BEHAVES LIKE A PRINCESS
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WHEN the princess awoke from the sweetest of sleeps, she found her nurse bending above her, the housekeeper looking over the nurse's shoulder, and the laundry-maid looking over the housekeeper's. The room was full of women-servants; and the gentlemen-at-arms, with a long column of men-servants behind them, were peeping, or trying to peep in at the door of the nursery.
"Are those horrid creatures gone?" asked the princess, remembering first what had terrified her in the morning.
"You naughty little princess!" cried Lootie.
Her face was very pale, with red streaks in it, and she looked as if she were going to shake her; but Irene said nothing--only waited to hear what should come next.
"How _could_ you get under the clothes like that, and make us all fancy you were lost! And keep it up all day too! You _are_ the most obstinate child! It's anything but fun to us, I can tell you!"
It was the only way the nurse could account for her disappearance.
"I didn't do that, Lootie," said Irene, very quietly.
"Don't tell stories!" cried her nurse quite rudely.
"I shall tell you nothing at all," said Irene.
"That's just as bad," said the nurse.
"Just as bad to say nothing at all as to tell stories!" exclaimed the princess. "I will ask my papa about that. He won't say so. And I don't think he will like you to say so."
"Tell me directly what you mean by it!" screamed the nurse, half wild with anger at the princess, and fright at the possible consequences to herself.
"When I tell you the truth, Lootie," said the princess, who somehow did not feel at all angry, "you say to me _Don't tell stories_: it would appear that I must tell stories before you will believe me."
"You are very rude, my dear princess," said the nurse.
"You are so rude, Lootie, that I will not speak to you again till you are sorry. Why should I, when I know you will not believe me?" returned the princess.
For she did know perfectly well that if she were to tell Lootie what she had been about, the more she went on to tell her, the less would she believe her.
"You are the most provoking child!" cried her nurse. "You deserve to be well punished for your wicked behavior."
"Please, Mrs. Housekeeper," said the princess, "will you take me to your room and keep me till my king-papa comes? I will ask him to come as soon as he can."
Every one stared at these words. Up to this moment, they had all regarded her as little more than a baby.
But the housekeeper was afraid of the nurse, and sought to patch matters up, saying-- "I am sure, princess, nursey did not mean to be rude to you."
"I do not think my papa would wish me to have a nurse who spoke to me as Lootie does. If she thinks I tell lies, she had better either say so to my papa, or go away. Sir Walter, will you take charge of me?"
"With the greatest of pleasure, princess," answered the captain of the gentlemen-at-arms, walking with his great stride into the room. The crowd of servants made eager way for him, and he bowed low before the little princess's bed. "I shall send my servant at once, on the fastest horse in the stable, to tell your king-papa that your royal Highness desires his presence. When you have chosen one of these under-servants to wait upon you, I shall order the room to be cleared."
"Thank you very much, Sir Walter," said the princess, and her eye glanced toward a rosy-cheeked girl who had lately come to the house as a scullery-maid.
But when Lootie saw the eyes of her dear princess going in search of another instead of her, she fell upon her knees by the bedside, and burst into a great cry of distress.
"I think, Sir Walter," said the princess, "I will keep Lootie. But I put myself under your care; and you need not trouble my king-papa until I speak to you again. Will you all please to go away? I am quite safe and well, and I did not hide myself for the sake either of amusing myself, or of troubling my people. Lootie, will you please to dress me?"
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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25
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CURDIE COMES TO GRIEF
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EVERYTHING was for some time quiet above ground. The king was still away in a distant part of his dominions. The men-at-arms kept watching about the house. They had been considerably astonished by finding at the foot of the rock in the garden, the hideous body of the goblin-creature killed by Curdie; but they came to the conclusion that it had been slain in the mines, and had crept out there to die; and except an occasional glimpse of a live one they saw nothing to cause alarm. Curdie kept watching in the mountain, and the goblins kept burrowing deeper into the earth. As long as they went deeper, there was, Curdie judged, no immediate danger.
To Irene, the summer was as full of pleasure as ever, and for a long time, although she often thought of her grandmother during the day, and often dreamed about her at night, she did not see her. The kids and the flowers were as much her delight as ever, and she made as much friendship with the miners' children she met on the mountain as Lootie would permit; but Lootie had very foolish notions concerning the dignity of a princess, not understanding that the truest princess is just the one who loves all her brothers and sisters best, and who is most able to do them good by being humble toward them. At the same time she was considerably altered for the better in her behavior to the princess. She could not help seeing that she was no longer a mere child, but wiser than her age would account for. She kept foolishly whispering to the servants, however--sometimes that the princess was not right in her mind, sometimes that she was too good to live, and other nonsense of the same sort.
All this time, Curdie had to be sorry, without a chance of confessing, that he had behaved so unkindly to the princess. This perhaps made him the more diligent in his endeavors to serve her. His mother and he often talked on the subject, and she comforted him, and told him she was sure he would some day have the opportunity he so much desired.
Here I should like to remark, for the sake of princes and princesses in general, that it is a low and contemptible thing to refuse to confess a fault, or even an error. If a true princess has done wrong, she is always uneasy until she has had an opportunity of throwing the wrongness away from her by saying, "I did it; and I wish I had not; and I am sorry for having done it." So you see there is some ground for supposing that Curdie was not a miner only, but a prince as well. Many such instances have been known in the world's history.
At length, however, he began to see signs of a change in the proceedings of the goblin excavators: they were going no deeper, but had commenced running on a level; and he watched them, therefore, more closely than ever. All at once, one night, coming to a slope of very hard rock, they began to ascend along the inclined plane of its surface. Having reached its top, they went again on a level for a night or two, after which they began to ascend once more, and kept on at a pretty steep angle. At length Curdie judged it time to transfer his observation to another quarter, and the next night, he did not go to the mine at all; but, leaving his pickaxe and clue at home, and taking only his usual lumps of bread and pease-pudding, went down the mountain to the king's house. He climbed over the wall, and remained in the garden the whole night, creeping on hands and knees from one spot to the other, and lying at full length with his ear to the ground, listening. But he heard nothing except the tread of the men-at-arms as they marched about, whose observation, as the night was cloudy and there was no moon, he had little difficulty in avoiding. For several following nights, he continued to haunt the garden and listen, but with no success.
At length, early one evening, whether it was that he had got careless of his own safety, or that the growing moon had become strong enough to expose him, his watching came to a sudden end. He was creeping from behind the rock where the stream ran out, for he had been listening all round it in the hope it might convey to his ear some indication of the whereabouts of the goblin miners, when just as he came into the moonlight on the lawn, a whizz in his ear and a blow upon his leg startled him. He instantly squatted in the hope of eluding further notice. But when he heard the sound of running feet, he jumped up to take the chance of escape by flight. He fell, however, with a keen shoot of pain, for the bolt of a cross-bow had wounded his leg, and the blood was now streaming from it. He was instantly laid hold of by two or three of the men-at-arms. It was useless to struggle, and he submitted in silence.
"It's a boy!" cried several of them together, in a tone of amazement. "I thought it was one of those demons."
"What are you about here?"
"Going to have a little rough usage apparently," said Curdie laughing, as the men shook him.
"Impertinence will do you no good. You have no business here in the king's grounds, and if you don't give a true account of yourself, you shall fare as a thief."
"Why, what else could he be?" said one.
"He might have been after a lost kid, you know," suggested another.
"I see no good in trying to excuse him. He has no business here anyhow."
"Let me go away then, if you please," said Curdie.
"But we don't please--not except you give a good account of yourself."
"I don't feel quite sure whether I can trust you," said Curdie.
"We are the king's own men-at-arms," said the captain, courteously, for he was taken with Curdie's appearance and courage.
"Well, I will tell you all about it--if you will promise to listen to me and not do anything rash."
"I call that cool!" said one of the party laughing. "He will tell us what mischief he was about, if we promise to do as pleases him."
"I was about no mischief," said Curdie.
But ere he could say more he turned faint, and fell senseless on the grass. Then first they discovered that the bolt they had shot, taking him for one of the goblin creatures, had wounded him.
They carried him into the house, and laid him down in the hall. The report spread that they had caught a robber, and the servants crowded in to see the villain. Amongst the rest came the nurse. The moment she saw him she exclaimed with indignation: "I declare it's the same young rascal of a miner that was rude to me and the princess on the mountain. He actually wanted to kiss the princess. _I_ took good care of that--the wretch! And _he_ was prowling about--was he? Just like his impudence!"
The princess being fast asleep, and Curdie in a faint, she could misrepresent at her pleasure.
When he heard this, the captain, although he had considerable doubt of its truth, resolved to keep Curdie a prisoner until they could search into the affair. So, after they had brought him round a little, and attended to his wound, which was rather a bad one, they laid him, still exhausted from the loss of blood, upon a mattress in a disused room--one of those already so often mentioned--and locked the door, and left him. He passed a troubled night, and in the morning they found him talking wildly. In the evening he came to himself, but felt very weak, and his leg was exceedingly painful. Wondering where he was, and seeing one of the men-at-arms in the room, he began to question him, and soon recalled the events of the preceding night. As he was himself unable to watch any more, he told the soldier all he knew about the goblins, and begged him to tell his companions, and stir them up to watch with tenfold vigilance; but whether it was that he did not talk quite coherently, or that the whole thing appeared incredible, certainly the man concluded that Curdie was only raving still, and tried to coax him into holding his tongue. This, of course, annoyed Curdie dreadfully, who now felt in his turn what it was not to be believed, and the consequence was that his fever returned, and by the time when, at his persistent entreaties, the captain was called, there could be no doubt that he was raving. They did for him what they could, and promised everything he wanted, but with no intention of fulfilment. At last he went to sleep, and when at length his sleep grew profound and peaceful, they left him, locked the door again, and withdrew, intending to revisit him early in the morning.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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26
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THE GOBLIN MINERS
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THAT same night several of the servants were having a chat together before going to bed.
"What can that noise be?" said one of the housemaids, who had been listening for a moment or two.
"I've heard it the last two nights," said the cook. "If there were any about the place, I should have taken it for rats, but my Tom keeps them far enough."
"I've heard though," said the scullery-maid, "that rats move about in great companies sometimes. There may be an army of them invading us. I heard the noises yesterday and to-day too."
"It'll be grand fun then for my Tom and Mrs. Housekeeper's Bob," said the cook. "They'll be friends for once in their lives, and fight on the same side. I'll engage Tom and Bob together will put to flight any number of rats."
"It seems to me," said the nurse, "that the noises are much too loud for that. I have heard them all day, and my princess has asked me several times what they could be. Sometimes they sound like distant thunder, and sometimes like the noises you hear in the mountain from those horrid miners underneath."
"I shouldn't wonder," said the cook, "if it was the miners after all. They may have come on some hole in the mountain through which the noises reach to us. They are always boring and blasting and breaking, you know."
As he spoke there came a great rolling rumble beneath them, and the house quivered. They all started up in affright, and rushing to the hall found the gentlemen-at-arms in consternation also. They had sent to wake their captain, who said from their description that it must have been an earthquake, an occurrence which, although very rare in that country, had taken place almost within the century; and then went to bed again, strange to say, and fell fast asleep without once thinking of Curdie, or associating the noises they had heard with what he had told them. He had not believed Curdie. If he had, he would at once have thought of what he had said, and would have taken precautions. As they heard nothing more, they concluded that Sir Walter was right, and that the danger was over for perhaps another hundred years. The fact, as discovered afterward, was that the goblins had, in working up a second sloping face of stone, arrived at a huge block which lay under the cellars of the house, within the line of the foundations. It was so round that when they succeeded, after hard work, in dislodging it without blasting, it rolled thundering down the slope with a bounding, jarring roll, which shook the foundations of the house. The goblins were themselves dismayed at the noise, for they knew, by careful spying and measuring, that they must now be very near, if not under, the king's house, and they feared giving an alarm. They, therefore, remained quiet for awhile, and when they began to work again, they no doubt thought themselves very fortunate in coming upon a vein of sand which filled a winding fissure in the rock on which the house was built. By scooping this away they soon came out in the king's wine-cellar.
No sooner did they and where they were, than they scurried back again, like rats into their holes, and running at full speed to the goblin palace, announced their success to the king and queen with shouts of triumph. In a moment the goblin royal family and the whole goblin people were on their way in hot haste to the king's house, each eager to have a share in the glory of carrying off that same night the Princess Irene.
The queen went stumping along in one shoe of stone and one of skin. This could not have been pleasant, and my readers may wonder that, with such skillful workmen about her, she had not yet replaced the shoe carried off by Curdie. As the king however had more than one ground of objection to her stone shoes, he no doubt took advantage of the discovery of her toes, and threatened to expose her deformity if she had another made. I presume he insisted on her being content with skin-shoes, and allowed her to wear the remaining granite one on the present occasion only because she was going out to war.
They soon arrived in the king's wine-cellar, and regardless of its huge vessels, of which they did not know the use, began as quietly as they could to force the door that led upward.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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27
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THE GOBLINS IN THE KING'S HOUSE
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WHEN Curdie fell asleep he began at once to dream. He thought he was ascending the mountain-side from the mouth of the mine, whistling and singing "_Ring, dod, bang! _" when he came upon a woman and child who were lost; and from that point he went on dreaming all that had happened since he met the princess and Lootie; how he had watched the goblins, and been taken by them, how he had been rescued by the princess; everything indeed, until he was wounded, and imprisoned by the men-at-arms. And now he thought he was lying wide awake where they had laid him, when suddenly he heard a great thundering sound.
"The cobs are coming!" he said. "They didn't believe a word I told them! The cobs'll be carrying off the princess from under their stupid noses! But they sha'n't! that they sha'n't!"
He jumped up, as he thought, and began to dress, but, to his dismay, found that he was still lying in bed.
"Now then I will!" he said. "Here goes! I _am_ up now!"
But yet again he found himself snug in bed. Twenty times he tried, and twenty times he failed; for in fact he was not awake, only dreaming that he was. At length in an agony of despair, fancying he heard the goblins all over the house, he gave a great cry. Then there came, as he thought, a hand upon the lock of the door. It opened, and, looking up, he saw a lady with white hair, carrying a silver box in her hand, enter the room. She came to his bed, he thought, stroked his head and face with cool, soft hands, took the dressing from his leg, rubbed it with something that smelled like roses, and then waved her hands over him three times. At the last wave of her hands everything vanished, he felt himself sinking into the profoundest slumber, and remembered nothing more until he awoke in earnest.
The setting moon was throwing a feeble light through the casement, and the house was full of uproar. There was soft heavy multitudinous stamping, a clashing and clanging of weapons, the voices of men and the cries of women, mixed with a hideous bellowing, which sounded victorious. The cobs were in the house! He sprang from his bed, hurried on some of his clothes, not forgetting his shoes, which were armed with nails; then spying an old hunting-knife, or short sword, hanging on the wall, he caught it, and rushed down the stairs, guided by the sounds of strife, which grew louder and louder.
When he reached the ground floor he found the whole place swarming. All the goblins of the mountain seemed gathered there. He rushed amongst them, shouting-- "One, two, Hit and hew! Three, four, Blast and bore!"
and with every rhyme he came down a great stamp upon a foot, cutting at the same time at their faces--executing, indeed, a sword dance of the wildest description. Away scattered the goblins in every direction,--into closets, upstairs, into chimneys, up on rafters, and down to the cellars. Curdie went on stamping and slashing and singing, but saw nothing of the people of the house until he came to the great hall, in which, the moment he entered it, arose a great goblin shout. The last of the men-at-arms, the captain himself, was on the floor, buried beneath a wallowing crowd of goblins. For, while each knight was busy defending himself as well as he could, by stabs in the thick bodies of the goblins, for he had soon found their heads all but invulnerable, the queen had attacked his legs and feet with her horrible granite shoe, and he was soon down; but the captain had got his back to the wall and stood out longer. The goblins would have torn them all to pieces, but the king had given orders to carry them away alive, and over each of them, in twelve groups, was standing a knot of goblins, while as many as could find room were sitting upon their prostrate bodies.
Curdie burst in dancing and gyrating and stamping and singing like a small incarnate whirlwind, "Where 'tis all a hole, sir, Never can be holes: Why should their shoes have soles, sir, When they've got no souls?
"But she upon her foot, sir, Has a granite shoe: The strongest leather boot, sir, Six would soon be through."
The queen gave a howl of rage and dismay; and before she recovered her presence of mind, Curdie, having begun with the group nearest him, had eleven of the knights on their legs again.
"Stamp on their feet!" he cried, as each man rose, and in a few minutes the hall was nearly empty, the goblins running from it as fast as they could, howling and shrieking and limping, and cowering every now and then as they ran to cuddle their wounded feet in their hard hands, or to protect them from the frightful stamp-stamp of the armed men.
And now Curdie approached the group which, trusting in the queen and her shoe, kept their guard over the prostrate captain. The king sat on the captain's head, but the queen stood in front, like an infuriated cat, with her perpendicular eyes gleaming green, and her hair standing half up from her horrid head. Her heart was quaking, however, and she kept moving about her skin-shod foot with nervous apprehension. When Curdie was within a few paces, she rushed at him, made one tremendous stamp at his opposing foot, which happily he withdrew in time, and caught him round the waist, to dash him on the marble floor. But just as she caught him, he came down with all the weight of his iron-shod shoe upon her skin-shod foot, and with a hideous howl she dropped him, squatted on the floor and took her foot in both her hands. Meanwhile the rest rushed on the king and the bodyguard sent them flying, and lifted the prostrate captain, who was all but pressed to death. It was some moments before he recovered breath and consciousness.
"Where's the princess?" cried Curdie again and again.
No one knew, and off they all rushed in search of her.
Through every room in the house they went, but nowhere was she to be found. Neither was one of the servants to be seen. But Curdie, who had kept to the lower part of the house, which was now quiet enough, began to hear a confused sound as of a distant hubbub, and set out to find where it came from. The noise grew as his sharp ears guided him to a stair and so to the wine cellar. It was full of goblins, whom the butler was supplying with wine as fast as he could draw it.
While the queen and her party had encountered the men-at-arms, Harelip with another company had gone off to search the house. They captured every one they met, and when they could find no more, they hurried away to carry them safe to the caverns below. But when the butler, who was amongst them, found that their path lay through the wine cellar, he bethought himself of persuading them to taste the wine, and, as he had hoped, they no sooner tasted than they wanted more. The routed goblins, on their way below, joined them, and when Curdie entered, they were all, with outstretched hands, in which were vessels of every description, from sauce-pan to silver cup, pressing around the butler, who sat at the tap of a huge cask, filling and filling. Curdie cast one glance around the place before commencing his attack, and saw in the farthest corner a terrified group of the domestics unwatched, but cowering without courage to attempt their escape. Amongst them was the terror-stricken face of Lootie; but nowhere could he see the princess. Seized with the horrible conviction that Harelip had already carried her off, he rushed amongst them, unable for wrath to sing any more, but stamping and cutting with greater fury than ever.
"Stamp on their feet; stamp on their feet!" he shouted, and in a moment the goblins were disappearing through the hole in the floor like rats and mice.
They could not vanish so fast, however, but that many more goblin feet had to go limping back over the underground ways of the mountain that morning.
Presently however they were reinforced from above by the king and his party, with the redoubtable queen at their head. Finding Curdie again busy amongst her unfortunate subjects, she rushed at him once more with the rage of despair, and this time gave him a bad bruise on the foot. Then a regular stamping fight got up between them, Curdie with the point of his hunting knife keeping her from clasping her mighty arms about him, as he watched his opportunity of getting once more a good stamp at her skin-shod foot. But the queen was more wary as well as more agile than hitherto.
The rest meantime, finding their adversary thus matched for the moment, paused in their headlong hurry, and turned to the shivering group of women in the corner. As if determined to emulate his father and have a sun-woman of some sort to share his future throne. Harelip rushed at them, caught up Lootie and sped with her to the hole. She gave a great shriek, and Curdie heard her, and saw the plight she was in. Gathering all his strength, he gave the queen a sudden cut across the face with his weapon, came down, as she started back, with all his weight on the proper foot, and sprang to Lootie's rescue. The prince had two defenceless feet, and on both of them Curdie stamped just as he reached the hole. He dropped his burden and rolled shrieking into the earth. Curdie made one stab at him as he disappeared, caught hold of the senseless Lootie, and having dragged her back to the corner, there mounted guard over her, preparing once more to encounter the queen. Her face streaming with blood, and her eyes flashing green lightning through it, she came on with her mouth open and her teeth grinning like a tiger's, followed by the king and her bodyguard of the thickest goblins. But the same moment in rushed the captain and his men, and ran at them stamping furiously. They dared not encounter such an onset. Away they scurried, the queen foremost. Of course the right thing would have been to take the king and queen prisoners, and hold them hostages for the princess, but they were so anxious to find her that no one thought of detaining them until it was too late.
Having thus rescued the servants, they set about searching the house once more. None of them could give the least information concerning the princess. Lootie was almost silly with terror, and although scarcely able to walk, would not leave Curdie's side for a single moment. Again he allowed the others to search the rest of the house--where, except a dismayed goblin lurking here and there, they found no one--while he requested Lootie to take him to the princess's room. She was as submissive and obedient as if he had been the king. He found the bed-clothes tossed about, and most of them on the floor, while the princess's garments were scattered all over the room, which was in the greatest confusion. It was only too evident that the goblins had been there, and Curdie had no longer any doubt that she had been carried off at the very first of the inroad. With a pang of despair he saw how wrong they had been in not securing the king and queen and prince; but he determined to find and rescue the princess as she had found and rescued him, or meet the worst fate to which the goblins could doom him.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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28
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CURDIE'S GUIDE
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[Illustration: There sat his mother by the fire, and in her arms lay the princess fast asleep.]
JUST as the consolation of this resolve dawned upon his mind, and he was turning away for the cellar to follow the goblins into their hole, something touched his hand. It was the slightest touch, and when he looked he could see nothing. Feeling and peering about in the gray of the dawn, his fingers came upon a tight thread. He looked again, and narrowly, but still could see nothing. It flashed upon him that this must be the princess's thread. Without saying a word, for he knew no one would believe him any more than he had believed the princess, he followed the thread with his finger, contrived to give Lootie the slip, and was soon out of the house, and on the mountain-side--surprised that, if the thread were indeed her grandmother's messenger, it should have led the princess, as he supposed it must, into the mountain, where she would be certain to meet the goblins rushing back enraged from their defeat. But he hurried on in the hope of overtaking her first. When he arrived however at the place where the path turned off for the mine, he found that the thread did not turn with it, but went straight up the mountain. Could it be that the thread was leading him home to his mother's cottage? Could the princess be there? He bounded up the mountain like one of its own goats, and before the sun was up, the thread had brought him indeed to his mother's door. There it vanished from his fingers, and he could not find it, search as he might.
The door was on the latch, and he entered. There sat his mother by the fire, and in her arms lay the princess fast asleep.
"Hush, Curdie!" said his mother. "Do not wake her. I'm so glad you're come! I thought the cobs must have got you again!"
With a heart full of delight, Curdie sat down at a corner of the hearth, on a stool opposite his mother's chair, and gazed at the princess, who slept as peacefully as if she had been in her own bed. All at once she opened her eyes and fixed them on him.
"Oh, Curdie! you're come!" she said quietly. "I thought you would!"
Curdie rose and stood before her with downcast eyes.
"Irene," he said, "I am very sorry I did not believe you."
"Oh, never mind, Curdie!" answered the princess. "You couldn't, you know. You do believe me now, don't you?"
"I can't help it now. I ought to have helped it before."
"Why can't you help it now?"
"Because, just as I was going into the mountain to look for you, I got hold of your thread, and it brought me here."
"Then you've come from my house, have you?"
"Yes, I have."
"I didn't know you were there."
"I've been there two or three days, I believe."
"And I never knew it! --Then perhaps you can tell me why my grandmother has brought me here? I can't think. Something woke me--I didn't know what, but I was frightened, and I felt for the thread, and there it was! I was more frightened still when it brought me out on the mountain, for I thought it was going to take me into it again, and I like the outside of it best. I supposed you were in trouble again, and I had to get you out, but it brought me here instead; and, oh, Curdie! your mother has been so kind to me--just like my own grandmother!"
Here Curdie's mother gave the princess a hug, and the princess turned and gave her a sweet smile, and held up her mouth to kiss her.
"Then you didn't see the cobs?" asked Curdie.
"No; I haven't been into the mountain, I told you, Curdie."
"But the cobs have been into your house--all over it--and into your bedroom making such a row!"
"What did they want there? It was very rude of them."
"They wanted you--to carry you off into the mountain with them, for a wife to their Prince Harelip."
"Oh, how dreadful!" cried the princess, shuddering.
"But you needn't be afraid, you know. Your grandmother takes care of you."
"Ah! you do believe in my grandmother then? I'm so glad! She made me think you would some day."
All at once Curdie remembered his dream, and was silent, thinking.
"But how did you come to be in my house, and me not know it?" asked the princess.
Then Curdie had to explain everything--how he had watched for her sake, how he had been wounded and shut up by the soldiers, how he heard the noises and could not rise, and how the beautiful old lady had come to him, and all that followed.
"Poor Curdie! to lie there hurt and ill, and me never to know it!" exclaimed the princess, stroking his rough hand. "I would not have hesitated to come and nurse you, if they had told me."
"I didn't see you were lame," said his mother.
"Am I, mother? Oh--yes--I suppose I ought to be. I declare I've never thought of it since I got up to go down amongst the cobs!"
"Let me see the wound," said his mother.
He pulled down his stocking--when behold, except a great scar, his leg was perfectly sound!
Curdie and his mother gazed in each other's eyes, full of wonder, but Irene called out-- "I thought so, Curdie! I was sure it wasn't a dream. I was sure my grandmother had been to see you. --Don't you smell the roses? It was my grandmother healed your leg, and sent you to help me."
"No, Princess Irene," said Curdie; "I wasn't good enough to be allowed to help you: I didn't believe you. Your grandmother took care of you without me."
"She sent you to help my people, anyhow. I wish my king-papa would come. I do want so to tell him how good you have been!"
"But," said the mother, "we are forgetting how frightened your people must be. --You must take the princess home at once, Curdie--or at least go and tell them where she is."
"Yes, mother. Only I'm dreadfully hungry. Do let me have some breakfast first. They ought to have listened to me, and then they wouldn't have been taken by surprise as they were."
"That is true, Curdie; but it is not for you to blame them much. You remember?"
"Yes, mother, I do. Only I must really have something to eat."
"You shall, my boy--as fast as I can get it," said his mother, rising and setting the princess on her chair.
But before his breakfast was ready, Curdie jumped up so suddenly as to startle both his companions.
"Mother, mother!" he cried, "I was forgetting. You must take the princess home yourself. I must go and wake my father."
Without a word of explanation, he rushed to the place where his father was sleeping. Having thoroughly roused him with what he told him, he darted out of the cottage.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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29
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MASON-WORK
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HE had all at once remembered the resolution of the goblins to carry out their second plan upon the failure of the first. No doubt they were already busy, and the mine was therefore in the greatest danger of being flooded and rendered useless--not to speak of the lives of the miners.
When he reached the mouth of the mine, after rousing all the miners within reach, he found his father and a good many more just entering. They all hurried to the gang by which he had found a way into the goblin country. There the foresight of Peter had already collected a great many blocks of stone, with cement, ready for building up the weak place--well enough known to the goblins. Although there was not room for more than two to be actually building at once, they managed, by setting all the rest to work in preparing the cement, and passing the stones, to finish in the course of the day a huge buttress filling the whole gang, and supported everywhere by the live rock. Before the hour when they usually dropped work, they were satisfied that the mine was secure.
They had heard goblin hammers and pickaxes busy all the time, and at length fancied they heard sounds of water they had never heard before. But that was otherwise accounted for when they left the mine; for they stepped out into a tremendous storm which was raging all over the mountain. The thunder was bellowing, and the lightning lancing out of a huge black cloud which lay above it, and hung down its edges of thick mist over its sides. The lightning was breaking out of the mountain, too, and flashing up into the cloud. From the state of the brooks, now swollen into raging torrents, it was evident that the storm had been storming all day.
The wind was blowing as if it would blow him off the mountain, but, anxious about his mother and the princess, Curdie darted up through the thick of the tempest. Even if they had not set out before the storm came on, he did not judge them safe, for, in such a storm even their poor little house was in danger. Indeed he soon found that but for a huge rock against which it was built, and which protected it both from the blasts and the waters, it must have been swept if it was not blown away; for the two torrents into which this rock parted the rush of water behind it united again in front of the cottage--two roaring and dangerous streams, which his mother and the princess could not possibly have passed. It was with great difficulty that he forced his way through one of them, and up to the door.
The moment his hand fell on the latch, through all the uproar of winds and waters came the joyous cry of the princess:-- "There's Curdie! Curdie! Curdie!"
She was sitting wrapped in blankets on the bed, his mother trying for the hundredth time to light the fire which had been drowned by the rain that came down the chimney. The clay floor was one mass of mud, and the whole place looked wretched. But the faces of the mother and the princess shone as if their troubles only made them merrier. Curdie laughed at sight of them.
"I never _had_ such fun!" said the princess, her eyes twinkling and her pretty teeth shining. "How nice it must be to live in a cottage on the mountain!"
"It all depends on what kind your inside house is," said the mother.
"I know what you mean," said Irene. "That's the kind of thing my grandmother says."
By the time Peter returned, the storm was nearly over, but the streams were so fierce and so swollen, that it was not only out of the question for the princess to go down the mountain, but most dangerous for Peter even or Curdie to make the attempt in the gathering darkness.
"They will be dreadfully frightened about you," said Peter to the princess, "but we cannot help it. We must wait till the morning."
With Curdie's help, the fire was lighted at last, and the mother set about making their supper; and after supper they all told the princess stories till she grew sleepy. Then Curdie's mother laid her in Curdie's bed, which was in a tiny little garret-room. As soon as she was in bed, through a little window low down in the roof she caught sight of her grandmother's lamp shining far away beneath, and she gazed at the beautiful silvery globe until she fell fast asleep.
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{
"id": "34339"
}
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30
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THE KING AND THE KISS
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THE next morning the sun rose so bright that Irene said the rain had washed his face and let the light out clean. The torrents were still roaring down the side of the mountain, but they were so much smaller as not to be dangerous in the daylight. After an early breakfast, Peter went to his work, and Curdie and his mother set out to take the princess home. They had difficulty in getting her dry across the streams, and Curdie had again and again to carry her, but at last they got safe on the broader part of the road, and walked gently down toward the king's house. And what should they see as they turned the last corner, but the last of the king's troop riding through the gate!
"Oh, Curdie!" cried Irene, clapping her hands right joyfully, "my king-papa is come."
The moment Curdie heard that, he caught her up in his arms, and set off at full speed, crying-- "Come on, mother dear! The king may break his heart before he knows that she is safe."
Irene clung round his neck, and he ran with her like a deer. When he entered the gate into the court, there sat the king on his horse, with all the people of the house about him, weeping and hanging their heads. The king was not weeping, but his face was white as a dead man's, and he looked as if the life had gone out of him. The men-at-arms he had brought with him, sat with horror-stricken faces, but eyes flashing with rage, waiting only for the word of the king to do something--they did not know what, and nobody knew what.
The day before the men-at-arms belonging to the house, as soon as they were satisfied the princess had been carried away, rushed after the goblins into the hole, but found that they had already so skilfully blockaded the narrowest part, not many feet below the cellar, that without miners and their tools they could do nothing. Not one of them knew where the mouth of the mine lay, and some of those who had set out to find it had been overtaken by the storm and had not even yet returned. Poor Sir Walter was especially filled with shame, and almost entertained the hope that the king would order him to be decapitated, for the very thought of that sweet little face down amongst the goblins was unendurable.
When Curdie ran in at the gate with the princess in his arms, they were all so absorbed in their own misery and awed by the king's presence and grief, that no one observed his arrival. He went straight up to the king, where he sat on his horse.
"Papa! papa!" the princess cried, stretching out her arms to him; "here I am!"
The king started. The color rushed to his face. He gave an inarticulate cry. Curdie held up the princess, and the king bent down and took her from his arms. As he clasped her to his bosom, the big tears went dropping down his cheeks and his beard. And such a shout arose from all the bystanders, that the startled horses pranced and capered, and the armor rang and clattered, and the rocks of the mountain echoed back the noises. The princess greeted them all as she nestled in her father's bosom, and the king did not set her down until she had told them all the story. But she had more to tell about Curdie than about herself, and what she did tell about herself none of them could understand except the king and Curdie, who stood by the king's knee stroking the neck of the great white horse. And still as she told what Curdie had done, Sir Walter and others added to what she told, even Lootie joining in the praises of his courage and energy.
Curdie held his peace, looking quietly up in the king's face. And his mother stood on the outskirts of the crowd listening with delight, for her son's deeds were pleasant in her ears, until the princess caught sight of her.
"And there is his mother, king-papa!" she said. "See--there. She is such a nice mother, and has been so kind to me!"
They all parted asunder as the king made a sign to her to come forward. She obeyed, and he gave her his hand, but could not speak.
"And now, king-papa," the princess went on, "I must tell you another thing. One night long ago Curdie drove the goblins away and brought Lootie and me safe from the mountain. And I promised him a kiss when we got home, but Lootie wouldn't let me give it to him. I would not have you scold Lootie, but I want you to impress upon her that a princess _must_ do as she promises."
"Indeed she must, my child--except it be wrong," said the king. "There, give Curdie a kiss."
And as he spoke he held her toward him.
The princess reached down, threw her arms round Curdie's neck, and kissed him on the mouth, saying-- "There, Curdie! There's the kiss I promised you!"
Then they all went into the house, and the cook rushed to the kitchen, and the servants to their work. Lootie dressed Irene in her shiningest clothes, and the king put off his armor, and put on purple and gold; and a messenger was sent for Peter and all the miners, and there was a great and grand feast, which continued long after the princess was put to bed.
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{
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31
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THE SUBTERRANEAN WATERS
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THE king's harper, who always formed a part of his escort, was chanting a ballad which he made as he went on playing on his instrument--about the princess and the goblins, and the prowess of Curdie, when all at once he ceased, with his eyes on one of the doors of the hall. Thereupon the eyes of the king and his guests turned thitherward also. The next moment, through the open doorway came the princess Irene. She went straight up to her father, with her right hand stretched out a little sideways, and her forefinger, as her father and Curdie understood, feeling its way along the invisible thread. The king took her on his knee, and she said in his ear-- "King-papa, do you hear that noise?"
"I hear nothing," said the king.
"Listen," she said, holding up her forefinger.
The king listened, and a great stillness fell upon the company. Each man, seeing that the king listened, listened also, and the harper sat with his harp between his arms, and his fingers silent upon the strings.
"I do hear a noise," said the king at length--"a noise as of distant thunder. It is coming nearer and nearer. What can it be?"
They all heard it now, and each seemed ready to start to his feet as he listened. Yet all sat perfectly still. The noise came rapidly nearer.
"What can it be?" said the king again.
"I think it must be another storm coming over the mountain," said Sir Walter.
Then Curdie, who at the first word of the king had slipped from his seat, and laid his ear to the ground, rose up quickly, and approaching the king said, speaking very fast-- "Please your Majesty, I think I know what it is. I have no time to explain, for that might make it too late for some of us. Will your Majesty order that everybody leave the house as quickly as possible, and get up the mountain?"
The king, who was the wisest man in the kingdom, knew well there was a time when things must be done, and questions left till afterward. He had faith in Curdie, and rose instantly, with Irene in his arms.
"Every man and woman follow me," he said, and strode out into the darkness.
Before he had reached the gate, the noise had grown to a great thundering roar, and the ground trembled beneath their feet, and before the last of them had crossed the court, out after them from the great hall-door came a huge rush of turbid water, and almost swept them away. But they got safe out of the gate and up the mountain, while the torrent went roaring down the road into the valley beneath.
Curdie had left the king and the princess to look after his mother, whom he and his father, one on each side, caught up when the stream overtook them and carried safe and dry.
When the king had got out of the way of the water, a little up the mountain, he stood with the princess in his arms, looking back with amazement on the issuing torrent, which glimmered fierce and foamy through the night. There Curdie rejoined them.
"Now, Curdie," said the king, "what does it mean! Is this what you expected?"
"It is, your Majesty," said Curdie; and proceeded to tell him about the second scheme of the goblins, who, fancying the miners of more importance to the upper world than they were, had resolved, if they should fail in carrying off the king's daughter, to flood the mine and drown the miners. Then he explained what the miners had done to prevent it. The goblins had, in pursuance of their design, let loose all the underground reservoirs and streams, expecting the water to run down into the mine, which was lower than their part of the mountain, for they had, as they supposed, not knowing of the solid wall close behind, broken a passage through into it. But the readiest outlet the water could find had turned out to be the tunnel they had made to the king's house, the possibility of which catastrophe had not occurred to the mind of the young miner until he placed his ear close to the floor of the hall.
What was then to be done? The house appeared in danger of falling, and every moment the torrent was increasing.
"We must set out at once," said the king. "But how to get at the horses!"
"Shall I see if we can manage that?" said Curdie.
"Do," said the king.
Curdie gathered the men-at-arms, and took them over the garden wall, and so to the stables. They found their horses in terror; the water was rising fast around them, and it was quite time they were got out. But there was no way to get them out, except by riding them through the stream, which was now pouring from the lower windows as well as the door. As one horse was quite enough for any man to manage through such a torrent, Curdie got on the king's white charger, and leading the way, brought them all in safety to the rising ground.
"Look, look, Curdie!" cried Irene, the moment that, having dismounted, he led the horse up to the king.
Curdie did look, and saw, high in the air, somewhere about the top of the king's house, a great globe of light, shining like the purest silver.
"Oh!" he cried in some consternation, "that is your grandmother's lamp! We _must_ get her out. I will go and find her. The house may fall, you know."
"My grandmother is in no danger," said Irene, smiling.
"Here, Curdie, take the princess while I get on my horse," said the king.
Curdie took the princess again, and both turned their eyes to the globe of light. The same moment there shot from it a white bird, which, descending with outstretched wings, made one circle round the king and Curdie and the princess, and then glided up again. The light and the pigeon vanished together.
"Now, Curdie," said the princess, as he lifted her to her father's arms, "you see my grandmother knows all about it, and isn't frightened. I believe she could walk through that water and it wouldn't wet her a bit."
"But, my child," said the king, "you will be cold if you haven't something more on. Run, Curdie, my boy, and fetch anything you can lay your hands on, to keep the princess warm. We have a long ride before us."
Curdie was gone in a moment, and soon returned with a great rich fur, and the news that dead goblins were tossing about in the current through the house. They had been caught in their own snare; instead of the mine they had flooded their own country, whence they were now swept up drowned. Irene shuddered, but the king held her close to his bosom. Then he turned to Sir Walter, and said-- "Bring Curdie's father and mother here."
"I wish," said the king, when they stood before him, "to take your son with me. He shall enter my bodyguard at once, and wait further promotion."
Peter and his wife, overcome, only murmured almost inaudible thanks. But Curdie spoke aloud.
"Please your Majesty," he said, "I cannot leave my father and mother."
"That's right, Curdie!" cried the princess. " _I_ wouldn't if I was you."
The king looked at the princess and then at Curdie with a glow of satisfaction on his countenance.
"I too think you are right, Curdie," he said, "and I will not ask you again. But I shall have a chance of doing something for you some time."
"Your Majesty has already allowed me to serve you," said Curdie.
"But, Curdie," said his mother, "why shouldn't you go with the king? We can get on very well without you."
"But I can't get on very well without you," said Curdie. "The king is very kind, but I could not be half the use to him that I am to you. Please your Majesty, if you wouldn't mind giving my mother a red petticoat! I should have got her one long ago, but for the goblins."
"As soon as we get home," said the king, "Irene and I will search out the warmest one to be found, and send it by one of the gentlemen."
"Yes, that we will, Curdie!" said the princess.
"And next summer we'll come back and see you wear it, Curdie's mother," she added. "Sha'n't we, king-papa?"
"Yes, my love; I hope so," said the king.
Then turning to the miners, he said---- "Will you do the best you can for my servants to-night? I hope they will be able to return to the house to-morrow."
The miners with one voice promised their hospitality.
Then the king commanded his servants to mind whatever Curdie should say to them, and after shaking hands with him and his father and mother, the king and the princess and all their company rode away down the side of the new stream which had already devoured half the road, into the starry night.
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32
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THE LAST CHAPTER
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ALL the rest went up the mountain, and separated in groups to the homes of the miners. Curdie and his father and mother took Lootie with them. And the whole way, a light, of which all but Lootie understood the origin, shone upon their path. But when they looked round they could see nothing of the silvery globe.
For days and days the water continued to rush from the doors and windows of the king's house, and a few goblin bodies were swept out into the road.
Curdie saw that something must be done. He spoke to his father and the rest of the miners, and they at once proceeded to make another outlet for the waters. By setting all hands to the work, tunneling here and building there, they soon succeeded; and having also made a little tunnel to drain the water away from under the king's house, they were soon able to get into the wine cellar, where they found a multitude of dead goblins--among the rest the queen, with the skin-shoe gone, and the stone one fast to her ankle--for the water had swept away the barricade which prevented the men-at-arms from following the goblins, and had greatly widened the passage. They built it securely up, and then went back to their labors in the mine.
A good many of the goblins with their creatures escaped from the inundation out upon the mountain. But most of them soon left that part of the country, and most of those who remained grew milder in character, and indeed became very much like the Scotch Brownies. Their skulls became softer as well as their hearts, and their feet grew harder, and by degrees they became friendly with the inhabitants of the mountain and even with the miners. But the latter were merciless to any of the _cobs' creatures_ that came their way, until at length they all but disappeared. Still-- "_But, Mr. Author, we would rather hear more about the Princess and Curdie. We don't care about the goblins and their nasty creatures. They frighten us--rather. _" "_But you know if you once get rid of the goblins there is no fear of the princess or of Curdie. _" "_But we want to know more about them. _" "_Some day, perhaps, I may tell you the further history of both of them; how Curdie came to visit Irene's grandmother, and what she did for him; and how the princess and he met again after they were older--and how--But there! I don't mean to go any farther at present. _" "_Then you're leaving the story unfinished, Mr. Author! _" "_Not more unfinished than a story ought to be, I hope. If you ever knew a story finished, all I can say is, I never did. Somehow, stories won't finish. I think I know why, but I won't say that either, now. _" THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 11, "clevernesss" changed to "cleverness" (knowledge and cleverness) Page 68, "gleamimg" changed to "gleaming" (were sparkling and gleaming) Page 77, "would'nt" changed to "wouldn't" (wouldn't have come) Page 103, "arrange" changed to "arranges" (all that arranges itself) Page 191, "of thing" added to text (the kind of thing)
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1
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A HAPPY QUEEN.
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It was the 13th of August, 1785. The queen, Marie Antoinette, had at last yielded to the requests and protestations of her dear subjects. She had left her fair Versailles and loved Trianon for one day, and had gone to Paris, in order to exhibit herself and the young prince whom she had borne to the king and the country on the 25th of March, and to receive in the cathedral of Notre Dame the blessing of the clergy and the good wishes of the Parisians.
She had had an enthusiastic reception, this beautiful and much loved queen, Marie Antoinette. She had driven into Paris in an open carriage, in company with her three children, and every one who recognized her had greeted her with a cheerful huzzah, and followed her on the long road to Notre Dame, at whose door the prominent clergy awaited her, the cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan, at their head, to introduce her to the house of the King of all kings.
Marie Antoinette was alone; only the governess of the children, the Duchess de Polignac, sat opposite her, upon the back seat of the carriage, and by her side the Norman nurse, in her charming variegated district costume, cradling in her arms Louis Charles, the young Duke of Normandy. By her side, in the front part of the carriage, sat her other two children--Therese, the princess royal, the first-born daughter, and the dauphin Louis, the presumptive heir of the much loved King Louis the Sixteenth. The good king had not accompanied his spouse on this journey to Paris, which she undertook in order to show to her dear, yet curious Parisians that she was completely recovered, and that her children, the children of France, were blossoming for the future like fair buds of hope and peace.
"Go, my dear Antoinette," the king had said to his queen, in his pleasant way and with his good natured smile--" go to Paris in order to prepare a pleasure for my good people. Show them our children, and receive from them their thanks for the happiness which you have given to me and to them. I will not go with you, for I wish that you should be the sole recipient of the enthusiasm of the people and their joyful acclamations. I will not share your triumph, but I shall experience it in double measure if you enjoy it alone. Go, therefore, my beloved Antoinette, and rejoice in this happy hour."
Marie Antoinette did go, and she did rejoice in the happiness of the hour. "While riding through Paris, hundreds recognized her, hundreds hailed her with loud acclamations. As she left the cathedral of Notre Dame, in order to ascend into the carriage again with her children and their governess, one would be tempted to think that the whole square in front of the church had been changed into a dark, tumultuous sea, which dashed its raging black waves into all the streets debouching on the square, and was filling all Paris with its roar, its swell, its thunder roll. Yes, all Paris was there, in order to look upon Marie Antoinette, who, at this hour, was not the queen, but the fair woman; the happy mother who, with the pride of the mother of the Gracchi, desired no other protection and no other companionship than that of her two sons; who, her hand resting upon the shoulder of her daughter, needed no other maid of honor to appear before the people in all the splendor and all the dignity of the Queen of France and the true mother.
Yes, all Paris was there in order to greet the queen, the woman, and the mother, and out of thousands upon thousands of throats there sounded forth the loud ringing shout, "Long live the queen! Long live Marie Antoinette! Long live the fair mother and the fair children of France!"
Marie Antoinette felt herself deeply moved by these shouts. The sight of the faces animated with joy, of the flashing eyes, and the intoxicated peals of laughter, kindled her heart, drove the blood to her cheeks, and made her countenance beam with joy, and her eyes glisten with delight. She rose from her seat, and with a gesture of inimitable grace took the youngest son from the arms of the nurse, and lifted him high in the air, in order to display this last token of her happiness and her motherly pride to the Parisians, who had not yet seen the child. The little hat, which had been placed sideways upon the high toupet of her powdered head, had dropped upon her neck; the broad lace cuffs had fallen back from the arms which lifted the child into the air, and allowed the whole arm to be seen without any covering above the elbow.
The eyes of the Parisians drank in this spectacle with perfect rapture, and their shouting arose every moment like a burst of fanaticism.
"How beautiful she is!" resounded everywhere from the mass. "What a wonderful arm! What a beautiful neck!"
A deep flush mantled the face of Marie Antoinette. These words of praise, which were a tribute to the beauty of the woman, awoke the queen from the ecstasy into which the enthusiasm of her subjects had transported her. She surrendered the child again to the arms of his nurse, and sank down quickly like a frightened dove into the cushions of the carriage, hastily drawing up at the same time the lace mantle which had fallen from her shoulders and replacing her hat upon her head.
"Tell the coachman to drive on quickly," she said to the nurse; and while the latter was communicating this order, Marie Antoinette turned to her daughter. "Now, Therese," asked she, laughing, "is it not a beautiful spectacle our people taking so much pleasure in seeing us?"
The little princess of seven years shook her proud little head with a doubting, dark look.
"Mamma," said she, "these people look very dirty and ugly. I do not like them!"
"Be still, my child, be still," whispered the queen, hastily, for she feared lest the men who pressed the carriage so closely as almost to touch its doors, might hear the unthinking words of the little girl.
Marie Antoinette had not deceived herself. A man in a blouse, who had even laid his hand upon the carriage, and whose head almost touched the princess, a man with a blazing, determined face, and small, piercing black eyes, had heard the exclamation of the princess, and threw upon her a malignant, threatening glance.
"Madame loves us not, because we are ugly and dirty," he said; "but we should, perhaps, look pretty and elegant too, if we could put on finery to ride about in splendid carriages. But we have to work, and we have to suffer, that we may be able to pay our taxes. For if we did not do this, our king and his family would not be able to strut around in this grand style. We are dirty, because we are working for the king."
"I beg you, sir," replied the queen, softly, "to forgive my daughter; she is but a child, and does not know what she is saying. She will learn from her parents, however, to love our good, hard- working people, and to be thankful for their love, sir."
"I am no 'sir,' " replied the man, gruffly; "I am the poor cobbler Simon, nothing more."
"Then I beg you, Master Simon, to accept from my daughter, as a remembrance, this likeness of her father, and to drink to our good health," said the queen, laying at the same time a louis-d'or in the hand of her daughter, and hastily whispering to her, "Give it to him."
The princess hastened to execute the command of her mother, and laid the glistening gold piece in the large, dirty hand which was extended to her. But when she wanted to draw back her delicate little hand, the large, bony fingers of the cobbler closed upon it and held it fast.
"What a little hand it is!" he said, with a deriding laugh; "I wonder what would become of these fingers if they had to work!"
"Mamma," cried the princess, anxiously, "order the man to let me go; he hurts me."
The cobbler laughed on, but dropped the hand of the princess.
"Ah," cried he, scornfully, "it hurts a princess only to touch the hand of a working man. It would be a great deal better to keep entirely away from the working people, and never to come among us."
"Drive forward quickly!" cried the queen to the coachman, with loud, commanding voice.
He urged on the horses, and the people who had hemmed in the carriage closely, and listened breathlessly to the conversation of the queen with the cobbler Simon, shrank timidly back before the prancing steeds.
The queen recovered her pleasant, merry smile, and bowed on all sides while the carriage rolled swiftly forward. The people again expressed their thanks with loud acclamations, and praised her beauty and the beauty of her children. But Marie Antoinette was no longer carried beyond herself by these words of praise, and did not rise again from her seat.
While the royal carriage was disappearing in the tumult and throng of the multitude, Simon the cobbler stood watching it with his mocking smile. He felt a hand upon his arm, and heard a voice asking the scornful question: "Are you in love with this Austrian woman, Master Simon?"
The cobbler quickly turned round to confront the questioner. He saw, standing by his side, a little, remarkably crooked and dwarfed young man, whose unnaturally large head was set upon narrow, depressed shoulders, and whose whole appearance made such an impression upon the cobbler that the latter laughed outright.
"Not beautiful, am I?" asked the stranger, and he tried to join in the laugh of the cobbler, but the result was a mere grimace, which made his unnaturally large mouth, with its thick, colorless lips, extend from one ear to the other, displaying two fearful rows of long, greenish teeth.
"Not beautiful at all, am I? Dreadfully ugly!" exclaimed the stranger, as Simon's laughter mounted higher and higher.
"You are somewhat remarkable, at least," replied the cobbler. "If I did not hear you talk French, and see you standing up straight like one of us, I should think you were the monstrous toad in the fable that I read about a short time ago."
"I am the monstrous toad of the fable," replied the stranger, laughing. "I have merely disguised myself today as a man in order to look at this Austrian woman with her young brood, and I take the liberty of asking you once more, Have you fallen in love with her?"
"No, indeed, I have not fallen in love with her," ejaculated the cobbler. "God is my witness--" "And why should you call God to witness?" asked the other, quickly. "Do you suppose it is so great a misfortune not to love this Austrian?"
"No, I certainly do not believe that," answered the other, thoughtfully. "I suppose that it is, perhaps, no sin before God not to love the queen, although it may he before man, and that it is not the first time that, it has been atoned for by long and dreary imprisonment. But I do love freedom, and therefore I shall take care not to tell a stranger what I think."
"You love freedom!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then give me your hand, and accept my thanks for the word, my brother."
"Your brother!" replied the cobbler, astounded. "I do not know you, and yet you call yourself, without more formal introduction, my brother."
"You have said that you love freedom, and therefore I greet you as my brother," replied the stranger. "All those who love freedom are brothers, for they confess themselves children of the same gracious and good mother who makes no difference between her children, but loves them all with equal intensity and equal devotion, and it is all the same to her whether this one of her sons is prince or count, and that one workman or citizen. For our mother, Freedom, we are all alike, we are all brethren."
"That sounds very finely," said the cobbler, shaking his head. "There is only one fault that I can find with it, it is not true. For if we were all alike, and were all brothers, why should the king ride round in his gilded chariot, while I, an old cobbler, sit on my bench and have my face covered with sweat?"
"The king is no son of Freedom!" exclaimed the stranger, with an angry gesture. "The king is a son of Tyranny, and therefore he wants to make his enemies, the sons of Freedom, to be his servants, his slaves, and to bind our arms with fetters. But shall we always bear this? Shall we not rise at last out of the dust into which we have been trodden?"
"Yes, certainly, if we can, then we will," said Simon, with his gruff laugh. "But here is the hitch, sir, we cannot do it. The king has the power to hold us in his fetters; and this fine lady, Madame Freedom, of whom you say that she is our mother, lets it come to pass, notwithstanding that her sons are bound down in servitude and abasement."
"It must be for a season yet," answered the other, with loud, rasping voice; "but the day of a rising is at hand, and shows with a laughing face how those whom she will destroy are rushing swiftly upon their own doom."
"What nonsense is that you are talking?" asked the cobbler. "Those who are going to be destroyed by Madame Liberty are working out their own ruin?"
"And yet they are doing it, Master Simon; they are digging their own graves, only they do not see it, and do not know it; for the divinity which means to destroy them has smitten them with blindness. There is this queen, this Austrian woman. Do you not see with your wise eyes how like a busy spider she is weaving her own shroud?"
"Now, that is certainly an error," said Simon; "the queen does not work at all. She lets the people work for her."
"I tell you, man, she does work, she is working at her own shroud, and I think she has got a good bit of it ready. She has nice friends, too, to help her in it, and to draw up the threads for this royal spider, and so get ready what is needed for this shroud. There, for example, is that fine Duke de Coigny. Do you know who that Duke de Coigny is?"
"No, indeed, I know nothing about it; I have nothing to do with the court, and know nothing about the court rabble."
"There you are right, they are a rabble," cried the other, laughing in return. "I know it, for I am so unfortunate as not to be able to say with you that I have nothing to do with the court. I have gone into palaces, and I shall come out again, but I promise you that my exit shall make more stir than my entrance. Now, I will tell you who the Duke de Coigny is. He is one of the three chief paramours of the queen, one of the great favorites of the Austrian sultana."
"Well, now, that is jolly," cried the cobbler; "you are a comical rogue, sir. So the queen has her paramours?"
"Yes. You know that the Duke de Besenval, at the time that the Austrian came as dauphiness to France, said to her: 'These hundred thousand Parisians, madame, who have come out to meet you, are all your lovers.' Now she takes this expression of Besenval in earnest, and wants to make every Parisian a lover of hers. Only wait, only wait, it will be your turn by and by. You will be able to press the hand of this beautiful Austrian tenderly to your lips."
"Well, I will let you know in advance, then," said Simon, savagely, "that I will press it in such right good earnest, that it shall always bear the marks of it. You were speaking just now of the three chief paramours--what are the names of the other two?"
"The second is your fine Lord de Adhemar; a fool, a rattle-head, a booby; but he is handsome, and a jolly lover. Our queen likes handsome men, and everybody knows that she is one of the laughing kind, a merry fly, particularly since the carousals on the palace terrace."
"Carousals! What was that?"
"Why, you poor innocent child, that is the name they give to those nightly promenades that our handsome queen took a year ago in the moonlight on the terrace at Versailles. Oh, that was a merry time! The iron fences of the park were not closed, and the dear people had a right to enter, and could walk near the queen in the moonlight, and hear the fine music which was concealed behind the hedges. You just ask the good-looking officer of the lancers, who sat one evening on a bench between two handsome women, dressed in white, and joked and laughed with them. He can tell you how Marie Antoinette can laugh, and what fine nonsense her majesty could afford to indulge in." [Footnote: See Madame de Campane. "Memoires," vol. i.] "I wish I knew him, and he would tell me about it," cried cobbler Simon, striking his fists together. "I always like to hear something bad about this Austrian woman, for I hate her and the whole court crowd besides. What right have they to strut and swell, and put on airs, while we have to work and suffer from morning till night? Why is their life nothing but jollity, and ours nothing but misery? I think I am of just as much consequence as the king, and my woman would look just as nice as the queen, if she would put on fine clothes and ride round in a gilded carriage. What puts them up and puts us down?"
"I tell you why. It is because we are ninnies and fools, and allow them to laugh in their sleeves at us, and make divinities out of themselves, before whom the people, or, as they call them, the rabble, are to fall upon their knees. But patience, patience! There will come a time when they will not laugh, nor compel the people to fall upon their knees and beg for favor. But no favor shall be granted to them. They shall meet their doom."
"Ha! I wish the time were here," shouted the cobbler, laughing; "and I hope I may be there when they meet their punishment."
"Well, my friend, that only depends upon yourself," said the stranger. "The time will come, and if you wish you can contribute your share, that it may approach with more rapid steps."
"What can I do? Tell me, for I am ready for every thing?"
"You can help whet the knife, that it may cut the better," said the stranger, with a horrible grimace. "Come, come, do not look at me so astonished, brother. There are already a good number of knife- sharpeners in the good city of Paris, and if you want to join their company, come this evening to me, and I will make you acquainted with some, and introduce you to our guild."
"Where do you live, sir, and what is your name?" asked the cobbler, with glowing curiosity.
"I live in the stable of the Count d'Artois, and my name is Jean Paul Marat."
"In the stable!" cried the cobbler. "My faith, I had not supposed you were a hostler or a coachman. It must be a funny sight, M. Marat, to see you mounted upon a horse."
"You think that such a big toad as I does not belong there exactly. Well, there you are right, brother Simon. My real business is not at all with the horses, but with the men in the stable. I am the horse- doctor, brother Simon, horse-doctor of the Count d'Artois; and I can assure you that I am a tolerably skilful doctor, for I have yoked together many a hostler and jockey whom the stable-keepers of the dear Artois have favored with a liberal dispensation of their lash. So, come this evening to me, not only that I may introduce you to good society, but come if you are sick. I will restore you, and it shall cost you nothing. I cure my brothers of the people without any pay, for it is not the right thing for brothers to take money one of another. So, brother Simon, I shall look for you this evening at the stable; but now I must leave you, for my sick folks are expecting me. Just one more word. If you come about seven o'clock to visit me, the old witch that keeps the door will certainly tell you that I am not at home. I will, therefore, give you the pass-word, which will allow you to go in. It is 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.' Good-by."
He nodded to the cobbler with a fearful grimace, and strode away quickly, in spite of not being able to lift his left foot over the broad square of the Hotel de Ville.
Master Simon looked after him at first with a derisive smile, and this diminutive figure, with his great head, on which a high, black felt hat just kept its position, seemed to amuse him excessively. All at once a thought struck him, and, like an arrow impelled from the bow, he dashed forward and ran after Jean Paul Marat.
"Doctor Marat, Doctor Marat!" he shouted, breathless, from a distance.
Marat stood still and looked around with a malicious glance.
"Well, what is it?" snarled he, "and who is calling my name so loud?"
"It is I, brother Marat," answered the cobbler, panting. "I have been running after you because you have forgotten something."
"What is it?" asked Marat, feeling in his pockets with his long fingers." I have my handkerchief and the piece of black bread that makes my breakfast. I have not forgotten anything."
"Yes, Jean Paul Marat, you have forgotten something," answered Master Simon. "You were going to tell me the names of the three chief paramours of the queen, and you have given only two--the Duke de Coigny and Lord Adhemar. You see I have a good memory, and retain all that you told me. So give me the name of the third one, for I will confess to you that I should like to have something to say about this matter in my club this afternoon, and it will make quite a sensation to come primed with this story about the Austrian woman."
"Well, I like that, I like that," said Marat, laughing so as to show his mouth from one ear to the other. "Now, that is a fine thing to have a club, where you can tell all these little stories about the queen and the court, and it will be a real pleasure to me to tell you any such matters as these to communicate to your club, for it is always a good thing to have any thing that takes place at Versailles and St. Cloud get talked over here at Paris among the dear good people."
"In St. Cloud?" asked the cobbler. "What is it that can happen there? That is nothing at all but a tiresome, old-forgotten pleasure palace of the king."
"It is lively enough there now, depend upon it," replied Marat, with his sardonic laugh. "King Louis the well beloved has given this palace to his wife, in order that she may establish there a larger harem than Trianon; that miserable, worthless little mouse-nest, where virtue, honor, and worth get hectored to death, is not large enough for her. Yes, yes, that fine, great palace of the French kings, the noble St. Cloud, is now the heritage and possession of this fine Austrian. And do you know what she has done? Close by the railing which separates the park from St. Cloud, and near the entrance, she has had a tablet put up, on which are written the conditions on which the public are allowed to enter the park."
"Well, that is nothing new," said the cobbler, impatiently." They have such a board put up at all the royal gardens, and everywhere the public is ordered, in the name of the king, not to do any injury, and not to wander from the regular paths."
"Well, that is just; it is ordered in the name of the king; but in St. Cloud, it runs in the name of the queen. Yes, yes, there you may see in great letters upon the board; 'In the name of the queen.' [Footnote: "De par la reine" was the expression which was then in the mouth of all France and stirred everybody's rage.] It is not enough for us that a king sits upon our neck, and imposes his commands upon us and binds us. We have now another ruler in France, prescribing laws and writing herself sovereign. We have a new police regulation in the name of the queen, a state within the state. Oh, the spider is making a jolly mesh of it! In the Trianon she made the beginning. There the police regulations have always been in the name of the queen; and because the policy was successful there, it extends its long finger still further, issues a new proclamation against the people, appropriates to itself new domain, and proposes to gradually encompass all France with its cords."
"That is rascally, that is wrong," cried the cobbler, raising his clinched fists in the air.
"But that is not all, brother. The queen goes still further. Down to the present time we have been accustomed to see the men who stoop to be the mean servants of tyrants array themselves in the monkey- jackets of the king's livery; but in St. Cloud, the Swiss guards at the gates, the palace servants, in one word, the entire menial corps, array themselves in the queen's livery; and if you are walking in the park of St. Cloud, you are no longer in France and on French soil, but in an Austrian province, where a foreigner can establish her harem and make her laws, and yet a virtuous and noble people does not rise in opposition to it."
"It does not know anything about it, brother Marat," said Simon, eagerly. "It knows very little about the vices and follies of the queen."
"Well, tell the people, then; report to them what I have told yon, and make it your duty that it be talked over among other friends, and made generally known."
"Oh! that shall be, that shall certainly be," said Simon, cheerily," but you have not given me the name of that third lover yet."
"Oh! the third-that is Lord Besenval, the inspector general of the Swiss guard, the chief general of the army, and the commander of the Order of Louis. You see it is a great advantage for a man to be a lover of the queen, for in that way he comes to a high position. While King Louis the Fifteenth, that monster of vice, was living, Besenval was only colonel of the Swiss guard, and all he could do was once in a while to take part in the orgies at the Eoil de Boeuf. But now the queen has raised him to a very high place. All St. Cloud and Trianon form the Eoil de Boeuf, where Marie Antoinette celebrates her orgies, and General Besenval is made one of the first directors of the sports. Now you know every thing, do you not?"
"Yes, Doctor Marat, now I have a general run of every thing, and I thank you; but I hope that you will tell me more this evening, for your stories are vastly entertaining."
"Yes, indeed, I shall tell you plenty more of the same sort, for the queen takes good care that we shall always have material for such stories. Yet, unfortunately, I have no time now, for--" "I know, I know, you have got to visit your sick people," said Simon, nodding confidentially to him. "I will not detain you any longer. Good-by, my dear Doctor Marat. We shall meet this evening."
He sprang quickly away, and soon disappeared round the next corner. Marat looked after him with a wicked, triumphant expression in his features.
"So far good, so far good," muttered he, shaking his head with choler. " In this way I have got to win over the soldiers and the people to freedom. The cobbler will make an able and practicable soldier, and with his nice little stories, he will win over a whole company. Triumph on, you proud Bourbons; go on dreaming in your gilded palaces, surrounded by your Swiss guards. Keep on believing that you have the power in your hands, and that no one can take it from you. The time will come when the people will disturb your fine dream, and when the little, despised, ugly Marat, whom no one now knows, and who creeps around in your stables like a poisonous rat, shall confront you as a power before which you shall shrink away and throw yourselves trembling into the dust. There shall go by no day in which I and my friends shall not win soldiers for our side, and the silly, simple fool, Marie Antoinette, makes it an easy thing for us. Go on committing your childish pranks, which, when the time shall threaten a little, will justify the most villanous deeds and the most shameless acts, and I will keep the run of all the turns of the times, and this fine young queen cannot desire that we should look at the world with such simple eyes as she does. Yes, fair Queen Marie Antoinette, thou hast thy Swiss guards, who fight for thee, and thou must pay them; but I have only one soldier who takes ground for me against thee, and whom I do not have to pay at all. My soldier's name is Calumny. I tell thee, fair queen, with this ally I can overcome all thy Swiss guards, and the whole horde of thy armies. For, on the earth there is no army corps that is so strong as Calumny. Hurrah! long life to thee, my sworn ally, Calumny!"
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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2
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MADAME ADELAIDE.
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Queen Marie Antoinette had returned, after her Paris ride, to her own Versailles. She was silent the whole of the way, and the Duchess de Polignac had sought in vain to cheer her friend with light and pleasant talk, and drive away the clouds from her lofty brow. Marie Antoinette had only responded by enforced smiles and half-words, and then, settling back into the carriage, had gazed with dreamy looks into the heavens, whose cheerful blue called out no reflection upon the fair face of the queen.
As they drew into the great court of the palace at Versailles, the drum-beat of the Swiss guards, presenting arms, and the general stir which followed the approach of the queen, appeared to awaken her from her sorrowful thoughts, and she straightened herself up and cast her glances about. They fell quite accidentally upon the child which was in the arms of the nurse opposite, and which, with great wide-open eyes, was looking up to the heavens, as its mother had done before.
In the intensity of her motherly love, the queen stretched out her arms to the child and drew it to her heart, and pressed a burning kiss upon its lips.
"Ah! my child, my dear child," said she, softly, "you have to-day, for the first time, made your entry into Paris, and heard the acclamations of the people. May you, so long as you live, always be the recipient of kindly greetings, and never again hear such words as that dreadful man spoke to us to-day!"
She pressed the little Duke of Normandy closely to her heart, and quite forgot that she was all this while in the carriage; that near the open portal the hostlers and lackeys were awaiting in a respectful posture the dismounting of the queen; that the drums were all the while beating, and that the guards were standing before the gates in the fixed attitude of presenting arms.
The Duchess de Polignac ventured to suggest in softly-spoken words the necessity of dismounting, and the queen, with her little boy in her arms, sprang lightly and spiritedly, without accepting the assistance of the master of the grooms, out of the carriage, smiling cheerily, greeting the assembled chamberlains as she passed by, hurried into the palace and ran up the great marble staircase. The Duchess de Polignac made haste to follow her, while the Princess Therese and the dauphin were received by their dames of honor and led into their respective apartments. The Norman nurse, shaking her head, hurried after the queen, and the chamberlains and both the maids of honor, shaking their heads, too, followed her into the great ante-chamber. After riding out, the queen was in the habit of dismissing them there, but to-day Marie Antoinette had gone into her own suite of rooms without saying a word, and the door was already closed.
"What shall we do now?" asked both the maids of honor of the cavaliers, and received only a shrug of the shoulders for reply.
"We shall have to wait," at last said the Marchioness de Mailly. "Perhaps her majesty will have the kindness to remember us and to permit us to withdraw."
"And if she should happen to forget it," answered the Princess de Chimay, "we shall have to stand here the whole day, while the queen in Trianon is amusing herself with the fantastic pastoral plays."
"Yes, certainly, there is a country festival in Trianon to-day," said the Prince de Castines, shrugging his shoulders, "and it might easily happen that we should be forgotten, and, like the unforgetable wife of Lot, have to stand here playing the ridiculous part of pillars of salt."
"No, there comes our deliverance," whispered the Marchioness de Mailly, pointing to a carriage which just then came rolling across the broad palace-square. "It was yesterday resolved in secret council at the Count de Provence's, that Madame Adelaide should make one more attempt to bring the queen to reason, and make her understand what is becoming and what is unbecoming to a Queen of France. Now look you, in accordance with this resolve, Madame Adelaide is coming to Versailles to pay a visit to her distinguished niece."
Just then the carriage of the Princess Adelaide, daughter of Louis the Fifteenth, and aunt of Louis the Sixteenth, drove through the great gate into the guarded vestibule of the palace; two outriders rode in advance, two lackeys stood on the stand behind the carriage, and upon the step on each side, a page in richly-embroidered garments.
Before the middle portal, which could only be used by the royal family, and which had never been desecrated by the entrance of one who was "lowly-born," the carriage came to a standstill. The lackeys hastened to open the gate, and a lady, advanced in years, gross in form, with an irritable face well pitted with pock-marks, and wearing no other expression than supercilious pride and a haughty indifference, dismounted with some difficulty, leaning upon the shoulder of her page, and toiled up the steps which conducted to the great vestibule.
The runner sprang before her up the great staircase covered with its carpets, and with his long staff rapped on the door of the first antechamber that led to the apartments of the queen. "Madame Adelaide!" shouted he with a loud voice, and the lackey repeated it in the same tone, quickly opening the door of the second antechamber; and the word was taken up by the chamberlains, and repeated and carried along where the queen was sitting.
Marie Antoinette shrugged herself together a little at this announcement, which interrupted her while engaged in charming unrestrained conversation with the Duchess de Polignac, and a shadow flitted across her lofty brow.
With fiery quickness she flung her arms around the neck of her friend, and pressed a kiss upon her lips. "Farewell, Julia; Madame Adelaide is coming: that is just the same as irritation and annoyance. She may not bear the least suspicion of this upon her fine and dearly-loved face, and just because they are not there, I must tell you, my dear friend, to leave me. But hold yourself in readiness, after Madame Annoyance has left me, to ride with me to Trianon. The queen must remain here half an hour still, but she will be rewarded for it, for Marie Antoinette will afterward go with her Julia to Trianon to spend a half day of pleasure with her husband and friends."
"And to impart to her friends an eternity of blissful recollections," said the duchess, with a charming smile, pressing the hand of the queen to her lips, and taking her leave with inimitable grace, in order to pass out through the little side-door which entered the corridor through a porcelain cabinet, intending then to visit the rooms of the 'children of France.'
At the same moment in which the lofty, dignified form of the duchess disappeared through the side-door, both wings of the main entrance were flung open, and the two maids of honor of the queen advanced to the threshold, and made so deep a reverence that their immense petticoats expanded like a kettle. Then they took a step backward, made another reverence so profound that their heads, bearing coiffures a foot and a half high, fell upon their breasts.
"Madame Adelaide!" they both ejaculated as with one voice, slowly straightening themselves up and taking their places at the sides of the door.
The princess now appeared upon the threshold; behind her, her maids of honor and master of ceremonies, the grand-chamberlain, the pages, and both masters of grooms, standing in the great antechambers.
At the appearance of the maids of honor, Marie Antoinette had taken her position in the middle of the chamber, and could not repress a faint smile, as with erect head she noticed the confusion instant upon the princess's imposing entrance.
Madame Adelaide advanced some steps, for the queen did not change her position nor hasten toward her as she had perhaps expected; her irritated look increased still more, and she did not take a seat.
"I come perhaps at an inconvenient season for your majesty," said she, with a tart smile. "The queen perhaps was just upon the point of going to Trianon, whither as I hear, the king has already proceeded?"
"Has your highness heard that?" asked the queen, smiling. "I wonder what sharp ears Madame Adelaide always has to catch such a trifling rumor, while my younger ones have never caught the least hint of the important approach of the princess, and so I am equally surprised and delighted at the unexpected appearance of my gracious and loving aunt."
Every one of these words, which were spoken so cheerily and with such a pleasant smile, seemed to pierce the princess like the prick of a needle, and caused her to press her lips together in just such a way as if she wanted to check an outcry of pain or suppress some hidden rage. Marie Antoinette, while speaking of the sharp ears which madame always had, had hinted at the advanced age no less than at the curiosity of the princess, and had brought her young and unburdened ears into very advantageous contrast with them.
"Would your majesty grant me the favor of an interview?" asked Madame Adelaide, who did not possess the power of entering on a contest with her exalted niece, with sharp yet graceful words.
"I am prepared with all pleasure," answered the queen, cheerfully; "and it depends entirely upon madame whether the audience shall be private or public."
"I beg for a half hour of entire privacy," said Madame Adelaide, with choler.
"A private audience, ladies!" called the queen to her maids of honor, as motioning with her hand she dismissed them. Then she directed her great brilliant eyes to the door of the antechamber. "My lord grooms, in half an hour I should like to have my carriage ready for Trianon."
The maids of honor withdrew into the great antechamber, and closed the doors behind them.
The queen and Madame Adelaide were alone.
"Let us sit, if it pleases you," said Marie Antoinette, motioning the princess to an arm-chair, while she took her own place upon a simple ottoman. "You have something to say to me, and I am entirely ready to hear you."
"Would to God, madame, that you would not only hear my words," said Madame Adelaide, with a sigh, "but that you would take them to heart as well!"
"If they deserve it, I certainly shall," said the queen, smiling.
"They certainly do deserve it," said the princess, "for what I aim at in my words concerns the peace, the security, the honor of our family. Madame, allow me first to disburden myself of something that has been committed to me. My noble and pious sister, Madame Louise, has given me this letter for your majesty, and in her name I ask our royal niece to read the same at once and in my presence."
She drew from the great reticule, which was attached to her arm by its silken cords, a sealed letter, and handed it to the queen.
But Marie Antoinette did not raise her hand to receive it, but shook her head as if in refusal, and yet with so eager a motion that her elaborate coiffure fairly trembled.
"I beg your pardon, madame," said she, earnestly, "but I cannot receive this letter from the prioress of the Carmelite convent at St. Denis; for you well know that when Madame Louise sent me some years ago, through your highness, a letter which I read, that I never again will receive and read letters from the prioress. Have the goodness, then, to take this back to the sender."
"You know, madame, that this is an affront directed against a princess of France!" was the emphatic reply.
"I know, madame, that that letter which I then received from Madame Louise was an affront directed by the princess against the Queen of France, and I shall protect the majesty of my station from a similar affront. Unquestionably this letter is similar in tone to that one. That one contained charges which went so far as to involve open condemnation, and contained proffers of counsel which meant little less than calumny. [Footnote: Gondrecourt, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 59.] And what would this be likely to contain different, which your highness takes the trouble to bring to me?"
"Well," cried Madame Adelaide, angrily, "its purport may be similar to that of the former letter; for, unfortunately, the causes are the same, and we may not wonder if the effects are also the same."
"Ah! one can easily see that your highness knows the contents of the letter," said Marie Antoinette, smiling, "and you will therefore certainly pardon me for not reading it. It was unquestionably written in the presence of your highness, in the pious cell of the prioress. She gave over for a while her prayers for the repose of the departed king, in order to busy herself a little with worldly things, and to listen to the calumnies which Madame Adelaide, or the Count de Provence, or the Cardinal de Kohan, or some other of the enemies of my person, have sought to hurl against the Queen of France."
"Calumnies!" replied Madame Adelaide, with an angry flash in her eyes. "Would to God, madame, that it were calumnies with which we have to do, and that all these things which trouble and disturb us were only malicious calumnies, and not sober facts!"
"And will your highness not have the goodness to communicate these facts to me?" said the queen, undisturbed, but smiling, and so only increasing the anger of the princess.
"These facts are of so varied kinds that it would be a difficult thing to choose out any separate ones among them," cried she, with fiery tone. "Every day, every hour of the life of your majesty, brings new facts to light."
"Oh!" said Marie Antoinette, "I had no idea that your highness had such tender care for me."
"And I had no idea, madame, that your frivolity went so far as continually to wound the laws, the customs, and the hallowed order of things. You do it--you do it, scorning every thing established with the random wantonness of a child that plays with fire, and does not know that the waves will flare up and consume it. Madame, I have come here to warn you once more, and for the last time."
"God be thanked, for the last time!" cried the queen, with a charming glance of her eyes.
"I conjure you, queen, for your own sake, for your husband's, for your children's, change your course; take a new direction; leave the path of danger on which you are hastening to irretrievable destruction."
The countenance of the queen, before so pleasant and animated, now darkened. Her smile gave way to a deep earnestness; she raised her head proudly and put on a royal bearing.
"Madame," said she, "up to this time I have been inclined to meet your biting philippics with the quiet indifference which innocence gives, and to remain mindful of the reverence due to age, and not to forget the harsh eyes with which the aged always look upon the deeds of youth. But you compel me to take the matter more earnestly to heart, for you join to my name that of my husband and my children, and so you appeal to my heart of hearts. Now, then, tell me, madame, what you have to bring against me."
"Your boundless frivolity, your culpable short-sightedness, your foolish pleasures, your extravagance, your love of finery, your mixing with politics, your excessive jovialness, your entertainments, your--" Marie Antoinette interrupted this series of charges with loud, merry laughter, which more enraged the princess than the most stinging words would have done.
"Yes," she continued, "you are frivolous, for you suppose the life of a queen is one clear summer's day, to be devoted to nothing but singing and laughing. You are short-sighted, for you do not see that the flowers of this summer's day in which you rejoice, only bloom above an abyss into which you, with your wanton dancing, are about to plunge. You indulge in foolish pleasures, instead of, as becomes a Queen of France, passing your life in seclusion, in devout meditation, in the exercise of beneficence, in pious deeds. You are a spendthrift, for you give the income of France to your favorites, to this Polignac family, which it has been reckoned receives alone a twentieth part of the whole income of the state; to these gracious lords and ladies of your so-called 'society,' supporting them in their frivolity, allowing them to make golden gain out of you. You are a lover of finery, not holding it beneath your dignity to spend whole hours with a poor milliner; allowing a man to dress your hair, and afterward to go into the toilet chambers of the Parisian dames, that their hair may be dressed by the same hands which have arranged the hair of a queen, and to imitate the coiffure which the Queen of France wears. And what kind of a coiffure is that which, invented by a queen, is baptized with a fantastic name, and carried through Paris, France, and all Europe?"
"But," said Marie Antoinette, with comical pathos, "these coiffures have, some of them, horrid names. We have, for example, the 'hog's bristles coiffure,' the 'flea-bite coiffure,' the 'dying dog,' the 'flame of love,' 'modesty's cap,' a--" "A queen's levee," interrupted the princess; "a love's nest of Marie Antoinette. Yes, we have come to that pass that the fashions are named after the queen, and all acquire a certain frivolous character, so that all the men and all the honorable women of Paris are in despair because the thoughts of their daughters, infected with the millinery tastes of the queen and the court, shun all noble thoughts, and only busy themselves with mere affairs of taste. I have shown you, and you will not be able to deny it, madame, that this decline in manners, which has been engendered by this love of finery, proceeds from you, and from you alone; that not only your love of finery is to blame, but also your coquetry, your joviality, and these unheard-of indescribable orgies to which the Queen of France surrenders herself, and to which she even allures her own husband, the King of France, the oldest son of the Church."
"What does your highness mean?" asked the queen.
"Of what entertainments are you speaking?"
"I am speaking of the entertainments which are celebrated in Trianon, to the perversion of all usage and all good manners. Of those orgies in which the queen transforms herself into a shepherdess, and permits the ladies of her court, who ought to appear before her with bended knee and with downcast eyes, to clothe themselves like her, and to put on the same bearing as the queen's! I speak of those orgies where the king, enchanted by the charms of his wife, and allured by her coquetry, so far forgets his royal rank as even to take part himself in this stupid frivolity, and to bear a share in this trivial masquerading. And this queen, whose loud laughter fills the groves of Trianon, and who sometimes finds her pleasure in imitating the lowing of cows or the bleating of goats-- this queen will afterward put on the bearing of a statesman, and will, with those hands which have just got through arranging an 'allegorical head-dress,' dip into the machinery of state, interrupting the arrangements of her entertainments to busy herself with politics, to set aside old, cherished ministers, to bring her friends and favorites into their places, and to make the king the mere executor of her will."
"Madame," said the queen, as glowing with anger and with eyes of flame she rose from her seat--"madame, this is going too far, this oversteps the bounds that every one, even the princesses of the royal house, owe to their sovereign. I have allowed you to subject to your biting criticism my outer life, my pleasures, and my dress, but I do not allow you to take in hand my inner life--my relations to my husband and my personal honor. You presume to speak of my favorites. I demand of you to name them, and if you can show that there is one man to whom I show any other favor than a gracious queen may show to a servant, a subject whom she can honor and trust, I desire that you would give his name to the king, and that a close investigation be made into the case. I have friends; yes, thank Heaven! I have friends who prize me highly, and who are every hour prepared to give their life for their queen. I have true and faithful servants; but no one will appear and give evidence that Marie Antoinette has ever had an illicit lover. My only lover has been the king, my husband, and I hope before God that he will always remain so, so long as I live. But this is exactly what the noble princesses my aunts, what the Count de Provence, and the whole party of the old court, never will forgive me for. I have had the good fortune to win the love of my husband. The king, despite all calumnies and all intrigues, lowered his glance to the poor young woman who stood solitary near him, and whom he had been taught to prize lightly and to despise, and then he found that she was not so simple, stupid, and ugly, as she had been painted. He began to take some notice of her, and then, God be thanked, he overlooked the fact that she was of Austrian blood, and that the policy of his predecessor had urged her upon him; his heart warmed to her in love, and Marie Antoinette received this love as a gracious gift of God, as the happiness of her life. Yes, madame, I may say it with pride and joy, the king loves me, he trusts me, and therefore his wife stands nearer to him than even his exalted aunts, and I am the one whom he most trusts and whom he selects to be his chief adviser. But this is just the offence which will never be forgiven me: it has fallen to my lot to take from my enemies and opponents their influence over my husband. The time has gone by when Madame Adelaide could gain an attentive ear when she came to the king, and in her passionate rage charged me with unheard of crimes, which had no basis excepting that in some little matters I had loosened the ancient chains of etiquette; the time is past when Madame Louise could presume to drive me with her flashing anger from her pious cell and make me kneel in the dust; and when it was permitted to the Count de la Morch to accuse the queen before the king of having risen in time to behold the rising of the sun at Versailles, in company with her whole court. The king loves me, and Madame Adelaide is no longer the political counsellor of the king; the ministers will no longer be appointed according to her dictate, and the great questions of the cabinet are decided without appealing to her! I know that this is a new offence which you lay to my charge, and that by your calumniations and suspicions you make me suffer the penalty for it. I know that the Count de Provence stoops to direct epigrams and pamphlets against his sister-in-law, his sovereign, and through the agency of his creatures to scatter them through Paris. I know that in his saloons all the enemies of the queen are welcome, and that charges against me are made without rebuke, and that there the weapons are forged with which I am assailed. But take care lest some day these weapons be turned against you! It is you who are imperilling the kingdom, and undermining the throne, for you do not hesitate setting before the people an example that nothing is sacred to you; that the dignity of the throne no longer has an existence, but that it may be denied with vile insinuations, and the most poisonous arrows directed against those who wear the crown of St. Louis on their head. But all you, the aunts, the brothers of the king, and the whole swarm of their intimates and dependents, you are all undermining the monarchy, for you forget that the foreigner, the Austrian, as you call her--that she is Queen of France, your sovereign, your lord, and that you are nothing better than her subjects. You are criminals, you are high traitors!"
"Madame," cried the Princess Adelaide, "Madame, what language is this that--" "It is the language of a woman in reply to a calumniator, the language of a queen to a rebellious subject. Madame, have the goodness not to answer me again. You have come into the palace of your sovereign to accuse her, and she has answered you as becomes her station. Now we have nothing more to say to each other. You requested a half-hour's private audience with me, and the time has gone. Farewell, madame; my carriage stands ready, and I go to Trianon. I shall, however, say nothing to the king respecting the new attack which you have made upon me, and I promise you that I shall forget it and forgive it."
She nodded lightly, turned herself around, and, with lofty carriage and proud self-possession, left the apartment.
Princess Adelaide looked after her with an expression of the deepest hate, and entirely forgetful of her lofty station, even raised her hand threateningly in the direction of the door through which the noble figure of the queen had just vanished. "I shall not forget nor forgive," muttered she. "I shall have my revenge on this impudent person who dares to threaten me and even to defy me, and who calls herself my sovereign. This Austrian, a sovereign of the princess royal of France! We will show her where are the limits of her power, and where are the limits of France! She shall go back to Austria; we want her not, this Austrian who dares to defy us."
Proud and erect though the bearing was with which the queen left Madame Adelaide, she had hardly entered her own room and closed the door which separated her from her enemy, when she sank groaning upon a seat, and a flood of tears streamed from her eyes.
"Oh, Campan, Campan! what have I been compelled to hear?" cried she, bitterly. "With what expressions have they ventured to address the Queen of France!" Madame de Campan, the first lady-in-waiting on the queen, who had just then entered the porcelain room, hastened to her mistress, and, sinking upon her knees, pressed the fallen hand of the queen to her lips. "Your majesty is weeping!" she whispered with her mild, sympathetic voice. " Your majesty has given the princess the satisfaction of knowing that she has succeeded in drawing tears from the Queen of France, and reddening her beautiful eyes."
"No, I will not give her this pleasure," said the queen, quickly raising herself up and drying her eyes. "I will be merry, and why do I weep? She sought to make me sick; she sought to wound me, but I have given back the sickness, and the wounds which I have inflicted upon her will not so soon heal."
"Has your majesty inflicted anything upon the princess?" cried Madame de Campan, in agitation.
"Yes," answered Marie Antoinette, with triumphant joy. "I have scourged her, I have wounded her, for I have distinctly intimated to her that I am Queen of France, and she my subject. I have told her, that when she dares direct her calumnies against the queen, she is guilty of high-treason."
"Oh!" exclaimed Madame de Campan, "the proud princess will never pardon that. Your majesty has now become her irreconcilable enemy, and she will leave no stone unturned to revenge herself upon you."
"She may attempt to revenge herself upon me," cried the queen, whose countenance began to brighten up once more. "I fear neither her nor her whole set. All their arrows will fall powerless at my feet, for the love of my husband and my pure conscience form the protection which secures me. And what can these people accomplish against me? They can slander me, that is all. But their calumnies will, in the end, prove that it is lies they tell, and no one will give them confidence more."
"Ah! your majesty does not know the wickedness of the world," sighed Campan, sadly. "Your majesty believes that the good are not cowardly, and that the bad are not reckless. Your majesty does not know that the bad have it in their power to corrupt public opinion; and that then the good have not the courage to meet this corrupting influence. But public opinion is a monster that brings the charge, passes judgment, pronounces the sentence, and inflicts the punishment in one person. Who thinks lightly of it, arrays against himself an enemy stronger than a whole army, and less open to entreaty than death."
"Ah!" cried the queen, raising her head proudly, "I do not fear this enemy. She shall not dare to attack me. She shall crouch and shrink before my gaze as the lion does when confronted by the eye of a virgin. I am pure and blameless. I pledged my troth to my husband before he loved me, and how shall I now break it, when he does love me, and is the father of my dear children? And now, enough of these disagreeable things that want to cast their vileness upon us! And the sun is shining so splendidly, and they are waiting for me in Trianon! Come, Campan, come; the queen will take the form of a happy wife."
Marie Antoinette hastened before her lady-in-waiting, hurried into her toilet-chamber in advance of her lady-in-waiting, who followed, sighing and shaking her head, and endeavored with her own hands to loosen the stiff corset of her robe, and to free herself from the immense crinoline which imprisoned her noble form.
"Off with these garments of state and royal robes," said Marie Antoinette, gliding out of the stiff apparel, and standing in a light, white undergarment, with bare shoulders and arms. "Give me a white percale dress and a gauze mantle with it."
"Will your majesty appear again in this simple costume?" asked Madame de Campan, sighing.
"Certainly, I will," cried she; "I am going to Trianon, to my much- loved country-house. You must know, Campan, that the king has promised to spend every afternoon of a whole week with me at Trianon, and that there we are going to enjoy life, nature, and solitude. So, for a whole week, the king will only be king in the forenoon, and in the afternoon a respectable miller in the village Trianon. Now, is not that a merry thought, Campan? And do you not see that I cannot go to Trianon in any other than a light white dress?"
"Yes, your majesty, I understand; but I was only thinking that the trades-people of Lyons had just presented a paper to your majesty, in which they complain of the decadence of the silk manufacture, explaining it on the ground that your majesty has a preference for white clothing, and stating that all the ladies feel obliged to follow the example of their queen, and lay their silk robes aside."
"And do you know, too," asked Marie Antoinette, "that Madame Adelaide has herself supported this ridiculous paper of the Lyonnese merchants, giving out that I wear white percale because I want to do my brother, the Emperor Joseph, a service, and so ordered these white goods from the Netherlands? Ah, let us leave these follies of the wicked and the stupid. They shall not prevent my wearing white clothes and being happy in Trianon. Give me a white dress quickly, Campan."
"Pardon, your majesty, but I must; first summon the ladies of the robing-room," answered Madame de Campan, turning to the door of the sleeping-room.
"Oh, why all this parade?" sighed the queen. "Can I never be free from the fetters of all this ceremony? Could you not yourself, Campan, put a simple dress upon me?"
"Your majesty, I am only a poor, powerless being, and I fear enmities. The ladies would never forgive me if I should encroach upon their rights and separate them from the adored person of the queen. It is their right, it is their duty to draw the robe upon the person of your majesty, and to secure your shoes. I beg, therefore, your gracious permission to allow the ladies to come in."
"Well, do it then," sighed the queen. " Let me bear the fetters here in Versailles until the last moment. I shall have my compensation in Trianon. Be assured I shall have my compensation there."
A quarter of an hour later the queen was arrayed in her changed attire, and came out from the toilet-chamber. The stiff crinoline had disappeared; the whalebone corset, with the long projecting point, was cast aside; and the high coiffure, which Leonard had so elaborately made up in the morning, was no more to be seen. A white robe, decorated at the bottom with a simple volante, fell in broad artistic folds over her noble figure, whose full proportions had been concealed by the rigid state dress. A simple waist encircled her bust, and was held together by a blue sash, which hung in long ends at her left side. Broad cuffs, held together with simple, narrow lace, fell down as far as the wrist, but through the thin material could be seen the fair form of her beautiful arms; and the white triangle of gauze which she had thrown over her naked neck, did not entirely veil the graceful lines of her full shoulders and her noble bust. Her hair, deprived of its unnatural disfigurement, and almost entirely freed from powder, arched itself above her fine forehead in a light toupet, and fell upon her shoulders in rich brown locks, on which only a mere breath of powder had been blown. On her arm the queen carried a great, round, straw hat, secured by blue ribbons, and over her fair, white hands she had drawn gloves of black netting.
Thus, with beaming countenance, with blushing cheeks, and with smiles curling around her full red lips; thus, all innocence, merriment, and cheerfulness, Marie Antoinette entered the sitting- room, where the Duchess de Polignac was waiting for her, in an attire precisely like that of the queen.
The latter flew to the duchess with the quickness of a young girl, with the tenderness of a sister, and drew her arm within that of her friend.
"Come, Julia," said she, "let us leave the world and enter paradise."
"Ah, I am afraid of paradise," cried the duchess, with a merry smile. "I have a horror of the serpent."
"You shall find no serpents there, my Julia," said the queen, drawing the arm of the duchess to herself. "Lean upon me, my friend, and be persuaded that I will defend you against every serpent, and every low, creeping thing."
"Oh, I fear the serpent more for my adored queen than for myself. What is there in me to harm? But your majesty is exposed on every side to attack."
"Oh, why, Julia," sighed the queen-" why do you ad-dress me with the stiff, formal title of majesty when we are alone together? Why do you not forget for a little etiquette when there is nobody by to hear us?"
"Your majesty," laughed the duchess, "we are in Versailles, and the walls have ears."
"It is true," cried the queen, with quickly restored merriment, " we are here in Versailles; that is your exculpation. Come, let us hasten to leave this proud, royal palace, and get away to the society of beautiful Nature, where there are no walls to hear us, but only God and Nature. Come, Julia."
She drew the duchess quickly out through the side door, which led to the little corridor, and thence to the adjacent staircase, and over the small court to one of the minor gates of the palace, leading to the park. The coupe of the queen was standing before this door, and the master of the stole and the lackeys were awaiting the approach of the queen.
Marie Antoinette sprang like a gazelle into the carriage, and then extended her hand to the duchess to assist her to ascend. "Forward, forward!" cried the queen to the coachman, " and drive with all haste, as if the horses had wings, for I long to fly. Forward! oh, forward!"
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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3
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TRIANON
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Fly, ye steeds, fly! Bear the Queen of France away from the stiff, proud Versailles; from the palaces of kings, where every thing breathes of exaltation, greatness, and unapproachableness; bear her to little, simple, pretty Trianon, to the dream of paradise, where all is innocence, simplicity, and peace; where the queen may be a woman, and a happy one, too, and where Marie Antoinette has the right to banish etiquette, and live in accordance with her inclinations, wishes, and humors.
Yes, truly, the fiery steeds have transformed themselves into birds; they cut the air, they scarcely touch the ground, and hardly can the driver restrain them when they reach the fence which separates the garden of Trianon from Versailles.
Light as a gazelle, happy as a young girl that knows nothing of the cares and burdens of life, Marie Antoinette sprang out of the carriage before the chamberlain had time to open the gate with its double wings, to let the queen pass in as a queen ought. Laughing, she glided through the little side gate, which sufficed for the more unpretending visitor of Trianon, and took the arm of her friend the Duchess de Polignac, in order to turn with her into one of the side alleys. But, before doing so, she turned to the chamberlain, who, standing in a respectful attitude, was awaiting the commands of his mistress.
"Weber," said she to him, in the pleasant Austrian dialect, the language of her early home" Weber, there is no need for you to follow us. The day is yours. You are free, as I am too. Meanwhile, if yon meet his majesty, tell him that I have gone to the small palace, and that, if it pleases his majesty, he may await me in my little village at the mill.
"And now, come, my Julia," said she, turning to the duchess, and drawing her forward with gentle violence, " now let us be merry and happy. I am no longer a queen, God be thanked! I am neither more nor less than anybody else. That is the reason I was so well pleased to come through the small door just now. Through a narrow gate alone we can enter paradise, and I am entering paradise now. Oh, do you not see, my friend, that the trees, the flowers, the bushes, every thing here is free from the dust of earth; that even the heaven has another color, and looks down upon me brilliant and blue, like the eye of God?"
"It is just," answered the Duchess de Polignac, "because you are seeing every thing with other eyes, your majesty."
"Your majesty!" cried Marie Antoinette. "You love me no longer; your heart is estranged from me, since you address me with this cold title. In Versailles, you had a valid plea; but here, Julia, what can you offer in justification? The flowers are not listeners, the bushes have not ears, like the walls of Versailles, to spy out our privacy."
"I say nothing for my exculpation," answered the duchess, throwing her arm with a playful movement around the neck of the queen, and imprinting a kiss upon the lofty brow of Marie Antoinette. "I only ask your pardon, and promise that I will be obedient and not disturb my friend's dream of paradise all day long by an ill-timed word. Now will you forgive me, Marie?"
"With all my soul, Julia," answered the queen, nodding to her in a friendly way. "And now, Julia, as we have a happy vacation day before us, we will enjoy it like two young girls who are celebrating the birthday of their grandmother after escaping from a boarding school. Let us see which of us is the swiftest of foot. We will make a wager on it. See, there gleams our little house out from the shrubbery; let us see which of us gets there first."
"Without stopping once in the run?" asked the duchess, amazed.
"I make no conditions; I only say, let us see who gets there first. If you win, Julia, I will give you the privilege of nominating a man to have the first place in my Swiss guards, and you may select the protege in whose behalf you were pleading yesterday. Come, let us run. One! --" "No, Marie," interrupted the duchess. "Supposing that you are the first, what shall I give you?"
"A kiss--a hearty kiss--Julia. Now, forward! One, two, three!"
And, speaking these words in merry accents, Marie Antoinette sprang forward along the narrow walk. The round straw hat which covered her head was tossed up on both sides; the blue ribbons fluttered in the wind; the white dress puffed up; and the grand chamberlain of the queen and Madame Adelaide would have been horrified if they could have seen the queen flying along like a girl escaped from the boarding-school.
But she, she never thought of there being any thing improper in the run; she looked forward to the goal with laughing glances, as the white house emerged more and more from the verdure by which it was surrounded, and then sideways at her friend, who had not been able to gain a single step upon her.
"Forward, forward!" shouted the queen; "I will and I must win, for the prize is a kiss from my Julia." And with renewed speed the queen dashed along. The lane opened and terminated in a square in front of the palace. The queen stopped in her course, and turned round to see her friend, who had been left far behind her.
As soon as the duchess saw it she tried to quicken her steps, and began to run again, but Marie Antoinette motioned with her hand, and went rapidly back to meet her.
"You shall not make any more effort, Julia," said she. "I have won, and you cannot bring my victory into question."
"And I do not wish to," answered the duchess, with a merry look of defiance on her gentle features. "I really did not wish to win, for it would have seemed as if I had to win what I want on the turn of a merry game. You have done wrong, Marie Antoinette. You want me to forget here in Trianon that you are the Queen of France. But you yourself do not forget it. Only the queen can propose such a prize as you have set, and only the queen can ask so insignificant a boon on the other side. You have made it impossible for me to win, for you know well that I am not selfish."
"I know it, and that is just the reason why I love you so dearly, Julia. I have done wrong," she went on to say with her gentle, sweet voice. "I see it, and I beg your forgiveness. Give me now as a proof that you do forgive me, give me the prize which I have won--a kiss, Julia, a kiss."
"Not here," answered the duchess. "O, no, not here, Marie. Do not you see that the doors of the saloons are open, and that your company are all assembled. They would all envy me; they would all be jealous if they were to see the preference which you show for me."
"Let them be jealous, let them envy you," cried the queen; "the whole world shall know that Julia de Polignac is my best-loved friend, that next to husband and children, I love no one so well as her."
With gentle violence the queen threw both her arms around the neck of the duchess, and kissed her passionately.
"Did you notice," said the Baron de Besenval to Lord Adhemar, with whom he was playing a game of backgammon in the saloon, "did you notice the tableau that the queen is presenting, taking for her theme a group representing Friendship?"
"I wish it were in my power to reproduce this wonderful group in marble," answered Lord Adhemar, laughing. "It would be a companion piece to Orestes and Pylades."
"But which," asked the Duchess de Guemene, looking up from her embroidery, "which would be the companion of Orestes, pursued of Furies, surrounded by serpents?"
"That is the queen," answered the Count de Vaudreuil, who was sitting at the piano and practising a new piece of music. "The queen is the womanly Orestes: the Furies are the three royal aunts; and the serpents--pardon me, ladies--are, with the exception of yourselves, most all the ladies of Paris."
"You are malicious, count," cried Madame de Morsan, "and were we by any chance not here, you would reckon us among the serpents."
"If I should do so," said Count Vaudreuil, laughing, "I should only wish to take the apple from you, in order to be driven out of paradise with you. But still! the queen is coming."
Yes, just then the queen entered the apartment. Her cheeks were glowing red by reason of her run, her bosom heaved violently with her hurried, agitated breathing. Her hat had fallen upon one side, and the dark blond hair was thrown about in wild confusion.
It was not the queen who entered the saloon, it was only Marie Antoinette, the simple, young woman, greeting her friends with brilliant glances and lively nods. It had been made a rule with her, that when she entered, no one should rise, nor leave the embroidery, or piano-playing, or any other occupation.
The women remained at their work, Lords Besenval and Adhemar went on playing their game of backgammon, and only the Count de Vaudreuil rose from his place at the approach of the queen.
"What have you been playing, count?" asked Marie Antoinette. "I beg your pardon, if I leave your question unanswered," replied the count, with a gentle inclination of the head. "Your majesty has such a fine ear, that you must doubtless recognize the composer in the music. It is an entirely new composition, and I have taken the license of arranging it for four hands. If your majesty would perhaps be inclined-" "Come," interrupted the queen, "let us try it at once."
Quickly, and with feverish impatience, she drew her black netted gloves from her delicate white hands, and at once took her place next to the count, on the seat already prepared for her.
"Will not the music be too difficult for me to play?" asked she, timidly.
"Nothing is too difficult for the Queen of France."
"But there is a great deal that is too difficult for the dilettante, Marie Antoinette," sighed the queen. "Meanwhile, we will begin and try it."
And with great facility and lightness of touch, the queen began to play the base of the piece which had been arranged by the Count de Vaudreuil for four hands. But the longer she played, the more the laughter and the unrestrained gayety disappeared from the features of the queen. Her noble countenance assumed an expression of deep earnestness, her eye kindled with feeling, and the cheeks which before had become purple-red with the exercise of playing, now paled with deep inward emotion.
All at once, in the very midst of the grand and impassioned strains, Marie Antoinette stopped, and, under the strength of her feeling, rose from her seat.
"Only Gluck can have written this!" cried she. "This is the music, the divine music of my exalted master, my great teacher, Chevalier Gluck."
"You are right; your majesty is a great musician," cried Lord Vaudreuil, in amazement, "the ideal pupil of the genial maestro. Yes, this music is Gluck's. It is the overture to his new opera of 'Alcestes,' which he sent me from Venice to submit to your majesty. These tones shall speak for the master, and entreat for him the protection of the queen."
"You have not addressed the queen, but my own heart," said Marie Antoinette, with gentle, deeply moved voice. "It was a greeting from my home, a greeting from my teacher, who is at the same time the greatest composer of Europe. Oh, I am proud of calling myself his pupil. But Gluck needs no protection; it is much more we who need the protection which he affords us in giving us the works of his genius. I thank you, count," continued Marie Antoinette, turning to Vaudreuil with a pleasant smile.
"This is a great pleasure which you have prepared for me. But knowing, as I now do, that this is Gluck's music, I do not dare to play another note; for, to injure a note of his writing, seems to me like treason against the crown. I will practise this piece, and then some day we will play it to the whole court. And now, my honored guests, if it pleases you, we go to meet the king. Gentlemen, let each one choose his lady, for we do not want to go in state procession, but by different paths."
All the gentlemen present rushed toward the queen, each desirous to have the honor of waiting upon her. Marie Antoinette thanked them all with a pleasant smile, and took the arm of the eldest gentleman there, the Baron de Besenval.
"Come, baron," said she, "I know a new path, which none of these gentry have learned, and I am sure that we shall be the first to reach the place where the king is."
Resting on the arm of the baron, she left the saloon, and passed out of the door opposite, upon the little terrace leading to the well- shaded park.
"We will go through the English garden. I have had them open a path through the thicket, which will lead us directly to our goal; while the others will all have to go through the Italian garden, and so make a circuit. But look, my lord, somebody is coming there--who is it?"
And the queen pointed to the tall, slim figure of a man who was just then striding along the terrace.
"Madame," answered the baron, "it is the Duke de Fronac."
"Alas!" murmured Marie Antoinette, "he is coming to lay new burdens upon us, and to put us in the way of meeting more disagreeable things."
"Would it be your wish that I should dismiss him? Do you give me power to tell him that you extend no audience to him here?"
"Oh! do not do so," sighed Marie Antoinette. "He, too, is one of my enemies, and we must proceed much more tenderly with our dear enemies than with our friends."
Just then the Duke de Fronac ascended the last terrace, and approached the queen with repeated bows, which she reciprocated with an earnest look and a gentle inclination of the head.
"Well, duke, is it I with whom the chief manager of the royal theatres wishes to speak?"
"Madame," answered the duke, "I am come to beg an audience of your majesty."
"You have it; and it is, as you see, a very imposing audience, for we stand in the throne room of God, and the canopy of Heaven arches over us. Now say, duke, what brings you to me?"
"Your majesty, I am come to file an accusation!"
"And of course against me?" asked the queen, with a haughty smile. The duke pretended not to hear the question, and went on: "I am come to bring a charge and to claim my rights. His majesty has had the grace to appoint me manager-in-chief of all the royal theatres, and to give me their supreme control."
"Well, what has that to do with me?" asked the queen in her coldest way. " You have then your duties assigned you, to he rightfully fulfilled, and to keep your theatres in order, as if they were troops under your care."
"But, your majesty, there is a theatre which seeks to free itself from my direction. And by virtue of my office and my trust I must stringently urge you that this new theatre royal be delivered into my charge."
"I do not understand you," said the queen, coolly. "Of what new theatre are you speaking, and where is it?"
"Your majesty, it is here in Trianon. Here operettas, comedies, and vaudevilles are played. The stage is furnished as all stages are; it is a permanent stage, and I can therefore ask that it be given over into my charge, for, I repeat it again, the king has appointed me director of all the collective theatres royal."
"But, duke," answered the queen with a somewhat more pliant tone, "you forget one thing, and that is, that the theatre in Trianon does not belong to the theatres of his majesty. It is my stage, and Trianon is my realm. Have you not read on the placards, which are at the entrance of Trianon, that it is the queen who gives laws here? Do you not know that the king has given me this bit of ground that I may enjoy my freedom here, and have a place where the Queen of France may have a will of her own?"
"Your majesty," answered the duke with an expression of the profoundest deference, "I beg your pardon. I did not suppose that there was a place in France where the king is not the lord paramount, and where his commands are not imperative."
"You see, then, that you are mistaken. Here in Trianon I am king, and my commands are binding."
"That does not prevent, your majesty, the commands of the king having equal force," replied the duke, with vehemence. "And even if the Queen of France disowns these laws, yet others do not dare take the risk of following the example of the queen. For they remain, wherever they are, the subjects of the king. So even here in Trianon I am still the obedient subject of his majesty, and his commands and my duties are bound to be respected by me."
"My lord duke," cried the queen with fresh impatience, "you are free never to come to Trianon. I give you my full permission to that end, and thus you will be relieved from the possibility of ever coming into collision with your ever-delicate conscience and the commands of the king."
"But, your majesty, there is a theatre in Trianon!"
"Not this indefinite phrase, duke; there is a theatre in Trianon, but I the queen, the princess of the royal family, and the guests I invite, support a theatre in Trianon. Let me say this once for all: you cannot have the direction where we are the actors. Besides, I have had occasion several times to give you my views respecting Trianon. I have no court here. I live here as a private person. I am here but a land owner, and the pleasures and enjoyments which I provide here for myself and my friends shall never be supervised by any one but myself alone." [Footnote: The very words of the queen. -- See Goncourt, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette"] "Your majesty," said the duke, with a cold smile, "it is no single person that supervises you; it is public opinion, and I think that this will speak on my side."
The duke bowed, and, without waiting for a sign from the queen to withdraw, he turned around and began to descend the terrace.
"He is a shameless man!" muttered the queen, with pale cheeks and flashing eyes, as she followed him with her looks.
"He is ambitious," whispered Besenval; "he implores your majesty in this way, and risks his life and his office, in the hope of being received into the court society."
"No, no," answered Marie Antoinette, eagerly; "there is nothing in me that attracts him. The king's aunts have set him against me, and this is a new way which their tender care has conjured up to irritate me, and make me sick.
Yet let us leave this, baron. Let us forget this folly, and only remember that we are in Trianon. See, we are now entering my dear English garden. Oh, look around you, baron, and then tell me is it not beautiful here, and have I not reason to be proud of what I have called here into being?"
While thus speaking, the queen advanced with eager, flying steps to the exquisite beds of flowers which beautifully variegated the surface of the English garden.
It was in very truth the creation of the queen, this English garden, and it formed a striking contrast to the solemn, stately hedges, the straight alleys, the regular flower beds, the carefully walled pools and brooks, which were habitual in the gardens of Versailles and Trianon. In the English garden every thing was cosy and natural. The waters foamed here, and there they gathered themselves together and stood still; here and there were plants which grew just where the wind had scattered the seed. Hundreds of the finest trees--willows, American oaks, acacias, firs--threw their shade abroad, and wrought a rich diversity in the colors of the foliage. The soil here rose into gentle hillocks, and there sank in depressions and natural gorges. All things seemed without order or system, and where art had done its work, there seemed to be the mere hand of free, unfettered Nature.
The farther the queen advanced with her companion into the garden, the more glowing became her countenance, and the more her eyes beamed with their accustomed fire.
"Is it not beautiful here?" asked she, of the baron, who was walking silently by her side.
"It is beautiful wherever your majesty is," answered he, with an almost too tender tone. But the queen did not notice it. Her heart was filled with an artless joy; she listened with suspended breath to the trilling song of the birds, warbling their glad hymns of praise out from the thickets of verdure. How could she have any thought of the idle suggestions of the voice of the baron, who had been chosen as her companion because of his forty-five years, and of his hair being tinged with gray?
"It seems to me, baron," she said, with a charming laugh, while looking at a bird which, its song just ended, soared from the bushes to the heavens--" it seems to me as if Nature wanted to send me a greeting, and deputed this bird to bring it to me. Ah," she went on to say, with quickly clouded brow, "it is really needful that I should at times hear the friendly notes and the sweet melodies of such a genuine welcome. I have suffered a great deal today, baron, and the welcome of this bird of Trianon was the balm of many a wound that I have received since yesterday."
"Your majesty was in Paris?" asked Besenval, hesitatingly, and with a searching glance of his cunning, dark eyes, directed to the sad countenance of Marie Antoinette.
"I was in Paris," answered she, with a flush of joy; "and the good Parisians welcomed the wife of the king and the mother of the children of France with a storm of enthusiasm."
"No, madame," replied the baron, reddening, "they welcomed with a storm of enthusiasm the most beautiful lady of France, the adored queen, the mother of all poor and suffering ones."
"And yet there was a dissonant note which mingled with all these jubilee tones," said the queen, thoughtfully. "While all were shouting, there came one voice which sounded to my ear like the song of the bird of misfortune. Believe me, Besenval, every thing is not as it ought to be. There is something in the air which fills me with anxiety and fear. I cannot drive it away; I feel that the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head, and that my hands are too weak to remove it."
"A woe to the traitors who have dared to raise the sword of Damocles over the head of the queen!" cried the baron, furiously.
"Woe to them, but woe to me too!" replied the queen, with gentle sadness. "I have this morning had a stormy interview with Madame Adelaide. It appears that my enemies have concocted a new way of attacking me, and Madame Adelaide was the herald to announce the beginning of the tournament."
"Did she venture to bring any accusations against your majesty?" asked Besenval. The queen replying in the affirmative with a nod, he went on. "But what can they say? Whence do they draw the poisoned arrows to wound the noblest and truest of hearts?"
"They draw them from their jealousy, from their hatred against the house of Austria, from the rage with which they look upon the manner in which the king has bestowed his love. 'What can they say?' They make out of little things monstrous crimes. They let a pebble grow into a great rock, with which they strive to smite me down. Oh, my friend, I have suffered a great deal to-day, and, in order to tell you this, I chose you as my companion. I dare not complain before the king," Marie Antoinette went on, while two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, "for I will not be the means of opening a breach in the family, and the king would cause them to feel his wrath who have drawn tears from the eyes of his wife. But you are my friend, Besenval, and I confide in your friendship and in your honor. Now, tell me, you who know the world, and who are my senior in experience of life, tell me whether I do wrong to live as I do. Are the king's aunts right in charging it upon me as a crime, that I take part in the simple joys of life, that I take delight in my youth and am happy? Is the Count de Provence right in charging me, as with a crime, that I am the chief counsellor of the king, and that I venture to give him my views regarding political matters? Am I really condemned to stand at an unapproachable distance from the people and the court, like a beautiful statue? Is it denied to me to have feeling, to love and to hate, like everybody else? Is the Queen of France nothing but the sacrificial lamb which the dumb idol etiquette carries in its leaden arms, and crushes by slowly pressing it to itself? Tell me, Besenval; speak to me like an honorable and upright man, and remember that God is above us and hears our words!"
"May God be my witness," said Besenval, solemnly. "Nothing lies nearer my heart than that your majesty hear me. For my life, my happiness, and my misery, all lie wrapped up in the heart of your majesty. No, I answer--no; the aunts of the king, the old princesses, look with the basilisk eye of envy from a false point. They have lived at the court of their father; they have seen Vice put on the trappings of Virtue; they have seen Shamelessness array itself in the garments of Innocence, and they no longer retain their faith in Virtue or Innocence. The purity of the queen appears to them to be a studied coquetry, her unconstrained cheerfulness to be culpable frivolity. No, the Count de Provence is not right in bringing the charge against the king that it is wrong in him to love his wife with the intensity and self surrender with which a citizen loves the wife whom he has himself selected. He is not right in alleging it as an accusation against you, that you are the counsellor of the king, and that you seek to control political action. Your whole offence lies in the fact that your political views are different from his, and that, through the influence which you have gained over the heart of the king, his aunts are driven into the background. Your majesty is an Austrian, a friend of the Duke de Choiseul. That is your whole offence. Now you would not be less blameworthy in the eyes of these enemies were you to live in exact conformity with the etiquette books of the Queen of France, covered with the dust of a hundred years. Your majesty would therefore do yourself and the whole court an injury were you to allow your youth, your beauty, and your innocence, to be subjected to these old laws. It were folly to condemn yourself to ennui and solitude. Does not the Queen of France enjoy a right which the meanest of her subjects possesses, of collecting her own chosen friends around her and taking her pleasure with them. We live, I know, in an age of reckless acts; but may there not be some recklessness in dealing with the follies of etiquette? They bring it as a charge against your majesty that you adjure the great court circles, and the stiff set with which the royal family of France used to martyr itself. They say that by giving up ceremony you are undermining the respect which the people ought to cherish toward royalty. But would it not be laughable to think that the obedience of the people depends upon the number of the hours which a royal family may spend in the society of tedious and wearisome courtiers? No, my queen, do not listen to the hiss of the hostile serpents which surround you. Go, courageously, your own way--the way of innocence, guilelessness, and love."
"I thank you--oh, I thank you!" cried Marie Antoinette. "You have lifted heavy doubts from my heart and strengthened my courage. I thank you!"
And, with beaming eyes and a sweet smile, she extended both her hands to the baron.
He pressed them tightly within his own, and, sinking upon his knee, drew the royal hands with a glow to his lips.
"Oh, my queen, my mistress!" he cried, passionately, "behold at your feet your most faithful servant, your most devoted slave. Receive from me the oath of my eternal devotion and love. You have honored me with your confidence, you have called me your friend. But my soul and my heart glow for another name. Speak the word, Marie Antoinette, the word--" The queen drew back, and the paleness of death spread over her cheeks. She had at the outset listened with amazement, then with horror and indignation, to the insolent words of the baron, and gradually her gentle features assumed a fierce and disdainful expression.
"My lord," she said, with the noble dignity of a queen, "I told you before that God is above us, and hears our words. You have spoken, wantonly, and God has heard you. To Him I leave the punishment of your wantonness. Stand up, my lord! the king shall know nothing of an insult which would have brought you into ignominy with him forever. But if you ever, by a glance or a gesture, recall this both wanton and ridiculous scene, the king shall hear all from me!"
And while the queen pointed, with a proud and dignified gesture, to the place which was their goal, she said, with commanding tone: "Go before, my lord; I will follow you alone." The Baron de Besenval, the experienced courtier, the practised man of the world, was undergoing what was new to him; he felt himself perplexed, ashamed, and no longer master of his words. He had risen from his knees, and, after making a stiff obeisance to the queen, he turned and went with a swift step and crestfallen look along the path which the queen had indicated.
Marie Antoinette followed him with her eyes so long as he remained in sight, then looked with a long, sad glance around her.
"And so I am alone again," she whispered, "and poorer by one illusion more. Ah, and is it then true that there is no friendship for me; must every friend be an envier or else a lover? Even this man, whom I honored with my confidence, toward whom I cherished the feeling of a pupil toward a teacher, even this man has dared to insult me! Ah, must my heart encounter a new wonder every day, and must my happiness be purchased with so many pains?"
And with a deep cry of pain the queen drew her hands to her face, and wept bitterly. All around was still. Only here and there were heard the songs of the birds in the bushes, light and dreamy; while the trees, swayed by the wind, gently whispered, as if they wanted to quiet the grief of the queen, and dry up those tears which fell upon the flowers.
All at once, after a short pause, the queen let her hands fall again, and raised her head with proud and defiant energy.
"Away with tears!" she said. "What would my friends say were they to see me? What buzzing and whispering would there be, were they to see that the gentle queen, the always happy and careless Marie Antoinette, had shed tears? Oh, my God!" she cried, raising her large eyes to heaven, "I have today paid interest enough for my happiness; preserve for me at least the capital, and I will cheerfully pay the world the highest rates, such as only a miserly usurer can desire."
And with a proud spirit, and a lofty carriage, the queen strode forward along the path. The bushes began to let the light through, and the queen emerged from the English garden into the small plain, in whose midst Marie Antoinette had erected her Arcadia, her dream of paradise. The queen stood still, and with a countenance which quickly kindled with joy, and with eyes which beamed with pleasure, looked at the lovely view which had been called into being by the skill of her architect, Hubert Robert.
And the queen might well rejoice in this creation, this poetic idyl, which arose out of the splendor of palaces like a violet in the sand, and among the variegated tropical flowers which adorn the table of a king. Closely adjoining each other were little houses like those in which peasants live, the peasant women being the proud ladies of the royal court. A little brook babbled behind the houses, and turned with its foaming torrent the white wheel of the mill which was at the extremity of the village. Near the mill, farther on, stood entirely alone a little peasant's house, especially tasteful and elegant. It was surrounded by flower beds, vineyards, and laurel paths. The roof was covered with straw; the little panes were held by leads to the sashes. It was the home of Marie Antoinette. The queen herself made the drawings, and wrought out the plan. It was her choice that it should be small, simple, and modest; that it should have not the slightest appearance of newness, and that rents and fissures should be represented on the wall by artificial contrivances, so as to give the house an old look, and an appearance of having been injured. She had little thought how speedily time could demolish the simple pastimes of a queen. Close by stood a still smaller house, known as the milk room. It was close to the brook. And when Marie Antoinette, with her peasant women, had milked the cows, they bore the milk through the village in white buckets, with silver handles, to the milk room, where it was poured out into pretty, white pans standing on tables of white marble. On the other side of the road was the house of the chief magistrate of the village, and close by lived the schoolmaster.
Marie Antoinette had had a care for everything. There were bins to preserve the new crops in, and before the hay scaffoldings were ladders leading up to the fragrant hay. "Ah, the world is beautiful," said Marie Antoinette, surveying her creation with a cheerful look. "I will enjoy the pleasant hours, and be happy here."
She walked rapidly forward, casting friendly glances up to the houses to see whether the peasants had not hid them-selves within, and were waiting for her. But all was still, and not one of the inhabitants peeped out from a single window. All at once the stillness was broken by a loud clattering sound. The white wheel of the mill began to turn, and at the door appeared the corpulent form of the miller in his white garments, with his smiling, meal powdered face, and with the white cap upon his head.
The queen uttered an exclamation of delight, and ran with quick steps toward the mill. But before she could reach it, the door of the official's house opposite opened, and the mayor, in his black costume, and with the broad white ribbon around his neck; the Spanish cane, with a gold knob, in his hand, and wearing his black, three-cornered hat, issued from the dwelling. He advanced directly to Marie Antoinette, and resting his hands upon his sides and assuming a threatening mien, placed himself in front of her.
"We are very much dissatisfied with you, for you neglect your duties of hospitality in a most unbecoming manner. We must have you give your testimony why you have come so late, for the flowers are all hanging their heads, the nightingales will not sing any more, and the lambs in the meadow will not touch the sweetest grass. Every thing is parching and dying because you are not here, and with desire to see you."
"That is not true," cried another merry voice; the window of the school house opened with a rattle, and the jolly young schoolmaster looked out and threatened with his rod the grave mayor.
"How can you say, sir, that every thing is going to ruin? Am I not here to keep the whole together? Since the unwise people stopped learning, I have become the schoolmaster of the dear kine, and am giving them lessons in the art of making life agreeable. I am the dancing master of the goats, and have opened a ballet school for the kids."
Marie Antoinette laughed aloud. "Mister schoolmaster," said she, "I am very desirous to have a taste of your skill, and I desire you to give a ballet display this afternoon upon the great meadow. So far as you are concerned, Mr. Mayor," she said, with a laughing nod, "I desire you to exercise a little forbearance, and to pardon some things in me for my youth's sake."
"As if my dear sister-in-law now needed any looking after!" cried the mayor, with an emphatic tone.
"Ah, my Lord de Provence," said the queen, smiling, "you are falling out of your part, and forgetting two things. The first, that I am not the queen here; and the second, that here in Trianon all flatteries are forbidden."
"It lies in you, whether the truth should appear as flattery," answered the Count de Provence, slightly bowing.
"That is an answer worthy of a scholar," cried the schoolmaster, Count d'Artois. "Brother, you do not know the A B C of gallantry. You must go to school to me."
"I do not doubt, brother Charles, that in this thing I could learn very much of you," said the Count de Provence, smiling. "Meanwhile, I am not sure that my wife would be satisfied with the instruction."
"Some time we will ask her about it," said the queen. "Good-by, my brothers, I must first greet my dear miller."
She rushed forward, sprang with a flying step up the little wooden stairway, and threw both her arms around the neck of the miller, who, laughingly, pressed her to his heart, and drew her within the mill.
"I thank you, Louis!" cried the queen, bending forward and pressing the hand of her husband to her lips. "What a pleasant surprise you have prepared for me; and how good it is in you to meet me here in my pleasant plantation!"
"Did you not say but lately that you wanted this masquerade?" asked the king, with a pleasant smile. "Did not you yourself assign the parts, and appoint me to be the miller, the Count de Provence to be mayor, and the whimsical Artois to be schoolmaster de par la reine, as it runs here in Trianon, and do you wonder now that we, as it becomes the obedient, follow our queen's commands, and undertake the charge which she intrusts to us?" "Oh, Louis, how good you are!" said the queen, with tears in her eyes. "I know indeed how little pleasure you, so far as you yourself are concerned, find in these foolish sports and idle acts, and yet you sacrifice your own wishes and take part in our games." "That is because I love you!" said the king with simplicity, and a smile of pleasure beautified his broad, good natured face. "Yes, Marie, I love you tenderly, and it gives me joy to contribute to your happiness."
The queen gently laid her arm around Louis's neck, and let her head fall upon his shoulder. "Do you still know, Louis," asked she, "do you still know what you said to me when you gave Trianon to me?"
"Well," said the king, shaking his head slowly. "You said to me, 'You love flowers. I will present to you a whole bouquet. I give you Little Trianon.' [Footnote: The very words of the king. --See "Memoire de Marquis de Crequy," vol. iv.] My dear sire! you have given me not only a bouquet of flowers, but a bouquet of pleasant hours, of happy years, for which I thank you, and you alone."
"And may this bouquet never wither, Marie!" said the king, laying his hand as if in blessing on the head of his wife, and raising his good, blue eyes with a pious and prayerful look. "But, my good woman," said he then, after a little pause, "you quite let me forget the part I have to play, and the mill wheel is standing still again, since the miller is not there. It is, besides, in wretched order, and it is full needful that I practise my art of black smith here a little, and put better screws and springs in the machine. But listen! what kind of song is that without?"
"Those are the peasants greeting us with their singing," said the queen, smiling. "Come, Mr. Miller, let us show ourselves to them."
She drew the king out upon the small staircase. Directly at the foot of it stood the king's two brothers, the Counts de Provence and Artois, as chief official and schoolmaster, and behind them the duchesses and princesses, dukes and counts, arrayed as peasants. In united chorus they greeted the mistress and the miller: "Oil peut-on etre mieux, Qu'au seiu de sa famille?"
The queen smiled, and yet tears glittered in her eyes, tears of joy.
Those were happy hours which the royal pair spent that day in Trianon--hours of such bright sunshine that Marie Antoinette quite forgot the sad clouds of the morning, and gave herself undisturbed to the enjoyment of this simple, country life. They sat down to a country dinner--a slight, simple repast, brought together from the resources of the hen-coop, the mill, and the milk-room. Then the whole company went out to lie down in the luxuriant grass which grew on the border of the little grove, and looked at the cows grazing before them on the meadow, and with stately dignity pursuing the serious occupation of chewing the cud. But as peasants have something else to do than to live and enjoy, their mistress, Marie Antoinette, soon left her resting-place to set her people a good example in working. The spinning-wheel was brought and set upon a low stool; Marie Antoinette began to spin. How quickly the wheel began to turn, as if it were the wheel of fortune--to-day bringing joy, and to-morrow calamity!
The evening has not yet come, and the wheel of fortune is yet turning, yet calamity is there.
Marie Antoinette does not yet know it; her eye still beams with joy, a happy smile still plays upon her rosy lips. She is sitting now with her company by the lake, with the hook in her hand, and looking with laughing face and fixed attention at the rod, and crying aloud as often as she catches a fish. For these fishes are to serve as supper for the company, and the queen has ceremoniously invited her husband to an evening meal, which she herself will serve and prepare. The queen smiles still and is happy; her spinning-wheel is silent, but the wheel of fate is moving still.
The king is no longer there. He has withdrawn into the mill to rest himself.
And yet there he is not alone. Who ventures to disturb him? It must be something very serious. For it is well known that the king very seldom goes to Trianon, and that when he is there he wishes to be entirely free from business.
And yet he is disturbed today; yet the premier, Baron de Breteuil, is come to seek the miller of Little Trianon, and to beseech him even there to be the king again.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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4
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THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE.
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Directly after a page, arrayed in the attire of a miller's boy, had announced the Baron de Breteuil, the king with drew into his chamber and resumed his own proper clothing. He drew on the long, gray coat, the short trousers of black velvet, the long, gold embroidered waistcoat of gray satin; and over this the bright, thin ribbon of the Order of Louis-the attire in which the king was accustomed to present himself on gala-days.
With troubled, disturbed countenance, he then entered the little apartment where his chief minister, the Baron de Breteuil, was awaiting him.
"Tell me quickly," ejaculated the king, "do you bring bad news? Has any thing unexpected occurred?"
"Sire," answered the minister, respectfully, "something unexpected at all events, but whether something bad will be learned after further investigation."
"Investigation!" cried the king. "Then do you speak of a crime?"
"Yes, sire, of a crime-the crime of a base deception, and, as it seems, of a defalcation involving immense sums and objects of great value."
"Ah," said the king, with a sigh of relief, "then the trouble is only one of money."
"No, sire, it is one which concerns the honor of the queen."
Louis arose, while a burning flush of indignation passed over his face.
"Will they venture again to assail the honor of the queen?" he asked.
"Yes, sire," answered Breteuil, with his invincible calmness--"yes, sire, they will venture to do so. And at this time it is so infernal and deeply-laid a plan that it will be difficult to get at the truth. Will your majesty allow me to unfold the details of the matter somewhat fully?"
"Speak, baron, speak," said the king, eagerly, taking his seat upon a wooden stool, and motioning to the minister to do the same.
"Sire," answered the premier, with a bow, "I will venture to sit, because I am in fact a little exhausted with my quick run hither."
"And is the matter so pressing?" muttered the king, drawing out his tobacco-box, and in his impatience rolling it between his fingers.
"Yes, very pressing," answered Breteuil, taking his seat. "Does your majesty remember the beautiful necklace which the court jeweller, Bohmer, some time since had the honor to offer to your majesty?"
"Certainly, I remember it," answered the king, quickly nodding. "The queen showed herself on that occasion just as unselfish and magnanimous as she always is. It was told me that her majesty had very much admired the necklace which Bohmer had showed to her, and yet had declined to purchase it, because it seemed to her too dear. I wanted to buy it and have the pleasure of offering it to the queen, but she decisively refused it."
"We well remember the beautiful answer which her majesty gave to her husband," said Breteuil, gently bowing. "All Paris repeated with delight the words which her majesty uttered: 'Sir, we have more diamonds than ships. Buy a ship with this money!'" [Footnote: "Correspondence Secrete de la Cour de Louis XVI."]
"You have a good memory," said the king, "for it is five years since this happened. Bohmer has twice made the attempt since then to sell this costly necklace to me, but I have dismissed him, and at last forbidden him to allude to the matter again."
"I believe that he has, meanwhile, ventured to trouble the queen several times about the necklace. It appears that he had almost persuaded himself that your majesty would purchase it. Years ago he caused stones to be selected through all Europe, wishing to make a necklace of diamonds which should be alike large, heavy, and brilliant. The queen refusing to give him his price of two million francs, he offered it at last for one million eight hundred thousand."
"I have heard of that," said the king. "Her majesty was at last weary of the trouble, and gave command that the court jeweller, Bohmer, should not be admitted."
"Every time, therefore, that he came to Versailles he was refused admittance. He then had recourse to writing, and two weeks ago her majesty received from him a begging letter, in which he said that he should be very happy if, through his instrumentality, the queen could possess the finest diamonds in Europe, and imploring her majesty not to forget her court jeweller. The queen read this letter, laughing, to her lady-in-waiting, Madame de Campan, and said it seemed as if the necklace had deprived the good Bohmer of his reason. But not wishing to pay any further attention to his letter or to answer it, she burned the paper in a candle which was accidentally standing on her table."
"Good Heaven! How do you know these details?" asked the king, in amazement.
"Sire, I have learned them from Madame de Campan herself, as I was compelled to speak with her about the necklace."
"But what is it about this necklace? What has the queen to do with that?" asked the king, wiping with a lace handkerchief the sweat which stood in great drops upon his lofty forehead.
"Sire, the court jeweller, Bohmer, asserts that he sold the necklace of brilliants to the queen, and now desires to be paid."
"The queen is right," exclaimed the king, "the man is out of his head. If he did sell the necklace to the queen, there must have been witnesses present to confirm it, and the keepers of her majesty's purse would certainly know about it."
"Sire, Bohmer asserts that the queen caused it to be bought of him in secret, through a third hand, and that this confidential messenger was empowered to pay down thirty thousand francs, and to promise two hundred thousand more."
"What is the name of this confidential messenger? What do they call him?"
"Sire," answered the Baron de Breteuil, solemnly--"sire, it is the cardinal and grand almoner of your majesty, Prince Louis de Rohan."
The king uttered a loud cry, and sprang quickly from his seat.
"Rohan?" asked he. "And do they dare to bring this man whom the queen hates, whom she scorns, into relations with her? Ha, Breteuil! you can go; the story is too foolishly put together for any one to believe it."
"Your majesty, Bohmer has, in the mean while, believed it, and has delivered the necklace to the cardinal, and received the queen's promise to pay, written with her own hand."
"Who says that? How do you know all the details?"
"Sire, I know it by a paper of Bohmer's, who wrote to me after trying in vain several times to see me. The letter was a tolerably confused one, and I did not understand it. But as he stated in it that the queen's lady-in-waiting advised him to apply to me as the minister of the royal house, I considered it best to speak with Madame de Campan. What I learned of her is so important that I begged her to accompany me to Trianon, and to repeat her statement before your majesty."
"Is Campan then in Trianon?" asked the king.
"Yes, sire; and on our arrival we learned that Bohmer had just been there, and was most anxious to speak to the queen. He had been denied admission as always, and had gone away weeping and scolding."
"Come," said the king, "let us go to Trianon; I want to speak with Campan."
And with quick, rapid steps the king, followed by the minister Breteuil, left the mill, and shunning the main road in order not to be seen by the queen, struck into the little side-path that led thither behind the houses.
"Campan," said the king, hastily entering the little toilet-room of the queen, where the lady-in-waiting was--"Campan, the minister has just been telling me a singular and incredible history. Yet repeat to me your last conversation with Bohmer."
"Sire," replied Madame de Campan, bowing low, "does your majesty command that I speak before the queen knows of the matter?"
"Ah," said the king, turning to the minister, "you see I am right. The queen knows nothing of this, else she would certainly have spoken to me about it. Thank God, the queen withholds no secrets from me! I thank you for your question, Campan. It is better that the queen be present at our interview. I will send for her to come here." And the king hastened to the door, opened it, and called, "Are any of the queen's servants here?"
The voice of the king was so loud and violent that the chamberlain, Weber, who was in the little outer antechamber, heard it, and at once rushed in.
"Weber," cried the king to him, "hasten at once to Little Trianon. Beg the queen, in my name, to have the goodness to come to the palace within a quarter of an hour, to consult about a weighty matter that allows no delay. But take care that the queen be not alarmed, and that she do not suspect that sad news has come regarding her family. Hasten, Weber! And now, baron," continued the king, closing the door, "now you shall be convinced by your own eyes and ears that the queen will be as amazed and as little acquainted with all these things as I myself. I wish, therefore, that you would be present at the interview which I shall have with my wife and Campan, without the queen's knowing that you are near. You will be convinced at once in this way of the impudent and shameless deception that they have dared to play. Where does that door lead to, Campan?" asked the king, pointing to the white, gold-bordered door, at whose side two curtains of white satin, wrought with roses, were secured.
"Sire, it leads to the small reception room."
"Will the queen pass that way when she comes?"
"No, your majesty, she is accustomed to take the same way which your majesty took, through the antechamber."
"Good. Then, baron, go into the little saloon. Leave the door open, and do you, Campan, loosen the curtains and let them fall over the door, that the minister may hear without being seen."
A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed when the queen entered the toilet-chamber, with glowing cheeks, and under visible excitement. The king went hastily to her, took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"Forgiveness, Marie, that I have disturbed you in the midst of your pleasures."
"Tell me, quickly," cried the queen, impatiently. "What is it? Is it a great misfortune?"
"No, Marie, but a great annoyance, which is so far a misfortune in that the name of your majesty is involved in a disagreeable and absurd plot. The court jeweller, Bohmer, asserts that he has sold a necklace to your majesty for one million eight hundred thousand francs."
"But the man is crazy," cried the queen. "Is that all your majesty had to say to me?"
"I beg that Campan will repeat the conversation which she had yesterday with Bohmer."
And the king beckoned with his hand to the lady-in-waiting, who, at the entrance of the queen, had modestly taken her seat at the back part of the room.
"How!" cried the queen, amazed, now first perceiving Campan. "What do you here? What does all this mean?"
"Your majesty, I came to Trianon to inform you about the conversation which I had yesterday with Bohmer. When I arrived I found he had just been here."
"And what did he want?" cried the queen. "Did you not tell me, Campan, that he no longer possesses this unfortunate necklace, with which he has been making a martyr of me for years? Did you not tell me that he had sold it to the Grand Sultan, to go to Constantinople?"
"I repeated to your majesty what Bohmer said to me. Meanwhile I beg now your gracious permission to repeat my to-day's interview with Bohmer. Directly after your majesty had gone to Trianon with the Duchess de Polignac, the court jeweller Bohmer was announced. He came with visible disquiet and perplexity, and asked me whether your majesty had left no commission for him. I answered him that the queen had not done so, that in one word she had no commission for him, and that she was tired of his eternal pestering. ' But,' said Bohmer, 'I must have an answer to the letter that I sent to her, and to whom must I apply?' 'To nobody,' I answered. 'Her majesty has burned your letter without reading it.' 'Ah! madame,' cried he, 'that is impossible. The queen knows that she owes me money.' "
"I owe him money!" cried the queen, horrified. "How can the miserable man dare to assert such a thing?"
"That I said to him, your majesty, but he answered, with complete self possession, that your majesty owed him a million and some five hundred thousand francs, and when I asked him in complete amazement for what articles your majesty owed him such a monstrous sum, he answered, 'For my necklace.'"
"This miserable necklace again!" exclaimed the queen. "It seems as if the man made it only to make a martyr of me with it. Year after year I hear perpetually about this necklace, and it has been quite in vain that, with all my care and good-will, I have sought to drive from him this fixed idea that I must buy it. He is so far gone in his illusion as to assert that I have bought it."
"Madame, this man is not insane," said the king, seriously. "Listen further. Go on, Campan."
"I laughed," continued Madame de Campan, "and asked him how he could assert such a thing, when he told me only a few months ago that he had sold the necklace to the Sultan. Then he replied that the queen had ordered him to give this answer to every one that asked about the necklace. Then he told me further, that your majesty had secretly bought the necklace, and through the instrumentality of the Lord Cardinal de Rohan."
"Through Rohan?" cried the queen, rising. "Through the man whom I hate and despise? And is there a man in France who can believe this, and who does not know that the cardinal is the one who stands the lowest in my favor!"
"I said to Mr. Bohmer--I said to him that he was deceived, that the queen would never make a confidant of Cardinal Rohan, and he made me this very answer: 'You deceive yourself, madame. The cardinal stands so high in favor, and maintains such confidential relations with her majesty, that she had sent, through his hands, thirty thousand francs as a first payment. The queen took this money in the presence of the cardinal, from the little secretary of Sevres porcelain, which stands near to the chimney in her boudoir.' 'And did the cardinal really say that?' I asked; and when he reaffirmed it, I told him that he was deceived. He now began to be very much troubled, and said, 'Good Heaven! what if you are right, what if I am deceived! There has already a suspicion come to me; the cardinal promised me that on Whit-sunday the queen would wear the collar, and she did not do so; so this determined me to write to her.' When now, full of anxiety, he asked what advice I could give him, I at once bade him go to Lord Breteuil and tell him all. He promised to do so, and went. But I hastened to come hither to tell your majesty the whole story, but when I arrived I found the unhappy jeweller already here, and he only went away after I gave him my promise to speak to- day with your majesty."
The queen had at the outset listened with speechless amazement, and as Campan approached the close of her communication, her eyes opened wider and wider. She had stood as rigid as a statue. But now all at once life and animation took possession of this statue; a glowing purple-red diffused itself over her cheeks, and directing her eyes, which blazed with wonderful fire, to the king, she said, with a loud and commanding voice, "Sire, you have heard this story. Your wife is accused, and the queen is even charged with having a secret understanding with Cardinal Rohan. I desire an investigation--a rigid, strict investigation. Call at once, Lord Breteuil, that we may take counsel with him. But I insist upon having this done."
"And your will is law, madame," said the king, directing an affectionate glance at the excited face of the queen. "Come out, Breteuil!"
And as between the curtains appeared the serious, sad face of the minister, the king turned to his wife and said: "I wished that he might be a secret witness of this interview, and survey the position which you should take in this matter."
"Oh, sire!" exclaimed Marie Antoinette, extending her hand to him, "so you did not for an instant doubt my innocence?"
"No, truly, not a moment," answered the king, with a smile. "But now come, madame, we will consider with Breteuil what is to be done, and then we will summon the Abbe de Viermont, that he may take part in our deliberations."
On the next day, the 15th of August, a brilliant, select company was assembled in the saloons of Versailles. It was a great holiday, Ascension-day, and the king and the queen, with the entire court, intended to be present at the mass, which the cardinal and the grand almoner would celebrate in the chapel.
The entire brilliant court was assembled; the cardinal arrayed in his suitable apparel, and wearing all the tokens of his rank, had entered the great reception room, and only awaited the arrival of the royal pair, to lead them into the church. The fine and much admired face of the cardinal wore today a beaming expression, and his great black eyes were continually directed, while he was talking with the Duke de Conti and the Count d'Artois, toward the door through which the royal couple would enter. All at once the portal opened, a royal page stepped in and glanced searchingly around; and seeing the towering figure of the cardinal in the middle of the hall, he at once advanced through the glittering company, and approached the cardinal. "Monseigneur," he whispered to him, "his majesty is awaiting your eminence's immediate appearance in the cabinet."
The cardinal broke off abruptly his conversation with Lord Conti, hurried through the hall and entered the cabinet.
No one was there except the king and queen, and in the background of the apartment, in the recess formed by a window, the premier, Baron Breteuil, the old and irreconcilable enemy of the proud cardinal, who in this hour would have his reward for his year long and ignominious treatment of the prince.
The cardinal had entered with a confident, dignified bearing; but the cold look of the king and the flaming eye of the queen appeared to confuse him a little, and his proud eye sank to the ground.
"You have been buying diamonds of Bohmer?" asked the king, brusquely.
"Yes, sire," answered the cardinal.
"What have you done with them? Answer me, I command you."
"Sire," said the cardinal, after a pause, "I supposed that they were given to the queen."
"Who intrusted you with this commission?"
"Sire, a lady named Countess Lamotte-Valois. She gave me a letter from her majesty, and I believed that I should be doing the queen a favor if I should undertake the care of the commission which the queen had the grace to intrust to me."
"I!" cried the queen, with an expression of intense scorn, "should I intrust you with a commission in my behalf? I, who for eight years have never deigned to bestow a word upon you? And I should employ such a person as you, a beggar of places?"
"I see plainly," cried the cardinal, "I see plainly that some one has deceived you grievously about me. I will pay for the necklace. The earnest wish to please your majesty has blinded your eyes regarding me. I have planned no deception, and am now bitterly undeceived. But I will pay for the necklace."
"And you suppose that that ends all!" said the queen, with a burst of anger. "You think that, with a pitiful paying for the brilliants, you can atone for the disgrace which you have brought upon your queen? No, no, sir; I desire a rigid investigation. I insist upon it that all who have taken part in this ignominious deception be brought to a relentless investigation. Give me the proofs that you have been deceived, and that you are not much rather the deceiver."
"Ah, madame," cried the cardinal, with a look at once so full of reproach and confidence, that the queen fairly shook with anger. "Here are the proofs of my innocence," continued he, drawing a small portfolio from his pocket, and taking from it a folded paper. "There is the letter of the queen to the Countess Lamotte, in which her majesty empowered me to purchase the diamonds."
The king took the paper, looked over it hastily, read the signature, and gave it, with a suspicious shrug of the shoulders, to his wife.
The queen seized the letter with the wild fury of a tigress, which has at last found its prey, and with breathless haste ran over the paper. Then she broke out into loud, scornful laughter, and, pointing to the letter, she looked at the cardinal with glances of flame.
"That is not my handwriting, that is not my signature!" cried she, furiously. "How are you--sir, a prince and grand almoner of France-- how are you so ignorant, so foolish, as to believe that I could subscribe myself 'Marie Antoinette of France?' Everybody knows that queens write only their baptismal names as signatures, and you alone have not known that?"
"I see into it," muttered the cardinal, pale under the look of the queen, and so weak that he had to rest upon the table for support, "I see into it; I have been dreadfully deceived."
The king took a paper from his table and gave it to the cardinal. "Do you confess that you wrote this letter to Bohmer, in which you send him thirty thousand francs in behalf of the queen, in part payment for the necklace?"
"Yes, sire, I confess it," answered the cardinal, with a low voice, which seemed to contradict what he uttered.
"He confesses it," cried the queen, gnashing her teeth, and making up her little hand into a clinched fist. "He has held me fit for such infamy--me, his queen!"
"You assert that you bought the jewels for the queen. Did you deliver them in person?"
"No, sire, the Countess Lamotte did that."
"In your name, cardinal?"
"Yes, in my name, sire, and she gave at the same time a receipt to the queen for one hundred and fifty thousand francs, which I lent the queen toward the purchase."
"And what reward did you have from the queen?"
The cardinal hesitated; then, as he felt the angry, cold, and contemning look of the queen resting upon him, the red blood mounted into his face, and with a withering glance at Marie Antoinette, he said: "You wish, madame, that I should speak the whole truth! Sire, the queen rewarded me for this little work of love in a manner worthy of a queen. She granted me an appointment in the park of Versailles."
At this new and fearful charge, the queen cried aloud, and, springing forward like a tigress, she seized the arm of her husband and shook it.
"Sire," said she, "listen to this high traitor, bringing infamy upon a queen! Will you bear it? Can his purple protect the villain?"
"No, it cannot, and it shall not!" cried the king. "Breteuil, do your duty. And you, cardinal, who venture to accuse your queen, to scandalize the good name of the wife of your king, go."
"Sire," stammered the cardinal, "sire, I--" "Not a word," interrupted the king, raising his hand and pointing toward the door, "out, I say, out with you!"
The cardinal staggered to the door, and entered the hall filled with a glittering throng, who were still whispering, laughing, and walking to and fro.
But hardly had he advanced a few steps, when behind him, upon the threshold of the royal cabinet, appeared the minister Breteuil.
"Lieutenant," cried Breteuil, with a loud voice, turning to the officer in command of the guard, "lieutenant, in the name of the king, arrest the Cardinal de Rohan, and take him under escort to the Bastile."
A general cry of horror followed these words, which rolled like a crashing thunder-clap through the careless, coquetting, and unsuspecting company. Then followed a breathless silence.
All eyes were directed to the cardinal, who, pale as death, and yet maintaining his noble carriage, walked along at ease.
At this point a young officer, pale like the cardinal, like all in fact, approached the great ecclesiastic, and gently took his arm.
"Cardinal," said he, with sorrowful tone, "in the name of the king, I arrest your eminence. I am ordered, monseigneur, to conduct you to the Bastile."
"Come, then, my son," answered the cardinal, quickly, making his way slowly through the throng, which respectfully opened to let him pass--" come, since the king commands it, let us go to the Bastile."
He passed on to the door. But when the officer had opened it, he turned round once more to the hall. Standing erect, with all the exalted dignity of his station and his person, he gave the amazed company his blessing.
Then the door closed behind him, and with pale faces the lords and ladies of the court dispersed to convey the horrible tidings to Versailles and Paris, that the king had caused the cardinal, the grand almoner of France, to be arrested in his official robes, and that it was the will of the queen.
And the farther the tidings rolled the more the report enlarged, like an avalanche of calumnies.
In the evening, Marat thundered in his club: "Woe, woe to the Austrian! She borrowed money of the Cardinal de Rohan to buy jewels for herself, jewels while the people hungered. Now, when the cardinal wants his money, the queen denies having received the money, and lets the head of the Church be dragged to the Bastile.
"Woe, woe to the Austrian!"
"Woe, woe to the Austrian!" muttered brother Simon, who sat near the platform on which Marat was. "We shall not forget it that she buys her jewels for millions of francs, while we have not a sou to buy bread with. Woe to the Austrian!"
And all the men of the club raised their fists and muttered with him, "Woe to the Austrian!"
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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5
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ENEMIES AND FRIENDS.
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All Paris was in an uproar and in motion in all the streets; the people assembled in immense masses at all the squares, and listened with abated breath to the speakers who had taken their stand amid the groups, and who were confirming the astonished hearers respecting the great news of the day.
"The Lord Cardinal de Rohan, the grand almoner of the king," cried a Franciscan monk, who had taken his station upon a curbstone, at the corner of the Tuileries and the great Place de Carrousel--"Cardinal de Rohan has in a despotic manner been deprived of his rights and his freedom. As a dignitary of the Church, he is not under the ordinary jurisdiction, and only the Pope is the rightful lord of a cardinal; only before the Holy Father can an accusation be brought against a servant of the Church. For it has been the law of the Church for centuries that it alone has the power to punish and accuse its servants, and no one has ever attempted to challenge that power. But do you know what has taken place? Cardinal de Rohan has been withdrawn from the jurisdiction of his rightful judges; he has been denied an ecclesiastical tribunal, and he is to be tried before Parliament as if he were an ordinary servant of the king; secular judges are going to sit in judgment upon this great church dignitary, and to charge him with a crime, when no crime has been committed! For what has he done, the grand almoner of France, cardinal, and cousin of the king? A lady, whom he believed to be in the queen's confidence, had told him that the queen wanted to procure a set of jewels, which she was unfortunately not able to buy, because her coffers, as a natural result of her well-known extravagance, were empty. The lady indicated to the lord cardinal that the queen would be delighted if he would advance a sum sufficient to buy the jewels with, and in his name she would cause the costly fabric to be purchased. The cardinal, all the while a devoted and true servant of the king, hastened to gratify the desire of the queen. He took this course with wise precaution, in order that the queen, whose violence is well known, should not apply to any other member of the court, and still further compromise the royal honor. And say yourselves, my noble friends, was it not much better that it should be the lord cardinal who should lend money to the queen, than Lord Lauzun, Count Coigny, or the musical Count Vaudreuil, the special favorite of the queen? Was it not better for him to make this sacrifice and do the queen this great favor?"
"Certainly it was better," cried the mob. "The lord cardinal is a noble man. Long live Cardinal de Rohan!"
"Perish the Austrian, perish the jewelled queen!" cried the cobbler Simon, who was standing amid the crowd, and a hundred voices muttered after him, "Perish the Austrian!"
"Listen, my dear people of Paris, you good natured lambs, whose wool is plucked off that the Austrian woman may have a softer bed," cried a shrieking voice; "hear what has occurred to-day. I can tell you accurately, for I have just come from Parliament, and a good friend of mine has copied for me the address with which the king is going to open the session today."
"Read it to us," cried the crowd. "Keep quiet there! keep still there! We want to hear the address. Read it to us."
"I will do it gladly, but you will not be able to understand me," shrieked the voice. "I am only little in comparison with you, as every one is little who opposes himself to the highest majesty of the earth, the people."
"Hear that," cried one of those who stood nearest to those a little farther away " hear that, he calls us majesties! He seems to be an excellent gentleman, and he does not look down upon us."
"Did you ever hear of a wise man looking down upon the prince royal, who is young, fair, and strong?" asked the barking voice.
"He is right, we cannot understand him," cried those who stood farthest away, pressing forward. "What did he say? He must repeat his words. Lift him up so that we all may hear him."
A broad shouldered, gigantic citizen, in good clothing, and with an open, spirited countenance, and a bold, defiant bearing, pressed through the crowd to the neighborhood of the speaker.
"Come, little man," cried he, "I will raise you up on my shoulder, and, but see, it is our friend Marat, the little man, but the great doctor!"
"And you truly, you are my friend Santerre, the great man and the greatest of doctors. For the beer which you get from his brewery is a better medicine for the people than all my electuaries can be. And you, my worthy friend of the hop-pole, will you condescend to take the ugly monkey Marat on your shoulders, that he may tell the people the great news of the day?"
Instead of answering, the brewer Santerre seized the little crooked man by both arms, swung him up with giant strength, and set him on his shoulders.
The people, delighted with the dexterity and strength of the herculean man, broke into a loud cheer, and applauded the brewer, whom all knew, and who was a popular personage in the city. But Marat, too, the horse-doctor of the Count d'Artois, as he called himself derisively, the doctor of poverty and misfortune, as his flatterers termed him--Marat, too, was known to many in the throng, and after Santerre had been applauded, they saluted Marat with a loud vivat, and with boisterous clapping of hands.
He turned his distorted, ugly visage toward the Tuileries, whose massive proportions towered up above the lofty trees of the gardens, and with a threatening gesture shook his fist at the royal palace.
"Have you heard it, you proud gods of the earth? Have you heard the sacred thunder mutterings of majesty? Are you not startled from the sleep of your vice, and compelled to fall upon your knees and pray, as poor sinners do before their judgment? But no. You do not see and you do not hear. Your ears are deaf and your hearts are sealed! Behind the lofty walls of Versailles, which a most vicious king erected for his menus plaisirs, there you indulge in your lusts, and shut out the voice of truth, which would speak to you here in Paris from the hallowed lips of the people."
"Long live Marat!" cried the cobbler Simon, who, drawn by the shouting, had left the Franciscan, and joined the throng in whose midst stood Santerre, with Marat on his shoulders. "Long live the great friend of the people! Long live Marat!"
"Long live Marat!" cried and muttered the people. "Marat heals the people when the gentry have made them sick, and taken the very marrow from their bones. Marat is no 'gentleman.' Marat does not look down upon the people!"
"My friends, I repeat to you what I said before," shrieked Marat. "Did you ever hear of a wise man looking down upon the crown prince, and thinking more of the king, who is old, unnerved by his vices, and blase! You, the people, you are the crown prince of France, and if you, at last, in your righteous and noble indignation, tread the tyrant under your feet, then the young prince, the people, will rule over France, and the beautiful words of the Bible will be fulfilled: 'There shall be one fold and one shepherd.' I have taken this improvised throne on the shoulders of a noble citizen only to tell you of an impropriety which the Queen of France has committed, and of the new usurpation with which she treads our laws under her feet, not tired out with opera-house balls and promenades by night. I will read you the address which the king sent to Parliament to-day, and with which the hearing of Cardinal de Rohan's case is to begin. Will the people hear it?"
"Yes, we will hear it," was the cry from all sides. "Read us the address."
Marat drew a dirty piece of paper from his pocket, and began to read with a loud, barking voice: "Louis, by the grace of God, King of France and Navarre, to our dear and faithful counsellors, members of the court of our Parliament, greeting: "It has come to our knowledge that parties named Bohmer and Bassenge have, without the knowledge of the queen, our much-loved consort and spouse, sold a diamond necklace, valued at one million six hundred thousand francs, to Cardinal de Rohan, who stated to them that he was acting in the matter under the queen's instructions. Papers were laid before them which they considered as approved and subscribed by the queen. After the said Bohmer and Bassenge had delivered the said necklace to the said cardinal, and had not received the first payment, they applied to the queen herself. We have beheld, not without righteous indignation, the eminent name, which in many ways is so dear to us, lightly spoken of, and denied the respect which is due to the royal majesty. We have thought that it pertains to the jurisdiction of our court to give a hearing to the said cardinal, and in view of the declaration which he has made before us, that he was deceived by a woman named Lamotte-Valois, we have held it necessary to secure his person, as well as that of Madame Valois, in order to bring all the parties to light who have been the instigators or abettors of such a plot. It is our will, therefore, that that matter come before the high court of Parliament, and that it be duly tried and judgment given."
"There you have this fine message," cried Marat; "there you have the web of his, which this Austrian woman has woven around us. For it is she who has sent this message to Parliament. You know well that we have no longer a King of France, but that all France is only the Trianon of the Austrian. It stands on all our houses, written over all the doors of government buildings, 'De par la reine!' The Austrian woman is the Queen of France, and the good-natured king only writes what she dictates to him. She says in this paper that these precautions have been taken in order that she may learn who are the persons who have joined in the attack upon her distinguished and much-loved person. Who, then, is the abettor of Madame Valois? Who has received the diamonds from the cardinal, through the instrumentality of Madame Valois? I assert, it is the queen who has done it. She received the jewels, and now she denies the whole story. And now this woman Lamotte-Valois must draw the hot chestnuts out from the ashes. You know this; so it always is! Kings may go unpunished, they always have a bete de souffrance, which has to bear their burdens. But now that a cardinal, the grand almoner of France, is compelled to become the bete de souffrance for this Austrian woman, must show you, my friends, that her arrogance has reached its highest point. She has trodden modesty and morals under foot, and now she will tread the Church under foot also."
"Be still!" was the cry on all sides. "The carbineers and gendarmes are coming. Be still, Marat, be still! You must not be arrested. We do not want all our friends to be taken to the Bastile."
And really just at that instant, at the entrance of the street that led to the square on the side of the Tuileries, appeared a division of carbineers, advancing at great speed.
Marat jumped with the speed of a cat down from the huge form of the brewer. The crowd opened and made way for him, and before the carbineers had approached, Marat had disappeared.
With this day began the investigations respecting the necklace which Messrs. Bohmer and Bassenge had wanted to sell the queen through the agency of Cardinal Bohan. The latter was still a prisoner in the Bastile. He was treated with all the respect due to his rank. He had a whole suite of apartments assigned to him; he was allowed to retain the service of both his chamberlains, and at times was permitted to see and converse with his relatives, although, it is true, in the presence of the governor of the Bastile. But Foulon was a very pious Catholic, and kept a respectful distance from the lord cardinal, who never failed on such occasions to give him his blessing. In the many hearings which the cardinal had to undergo, the president of the committee of investigation treated him with extreme consideration, and if the cardinal felt himself wearied, the sitting was postponed till another day. Moreover, at these hearings the defender of the cardinal could take part, in order to summon those witnesses or accused persons who could contribute to the release of the cardinal, and show that he had been the victim of a deeply-laid plot, and had committed no other wrong than that of being too zealous in the service of the queen.
News spread abroad of numerous arrests occurring in Paris. It had been known from the royal decree that the Countess Lamotte-Valois had likewise been arrested and imprisoned in the Bastile; but people were anxious to learn decisively whether Count Cagliostro, the wonder-doctor, had been seized. The story ran that a young woman in Brussels, who had been involved in the affair, and who had an extraordinary resemblance to the Queen Marie Antoinette, had been arrested, and brought to Paris for confinement in the Bastile.
All Paris, all France watched this contest with eager interest, which, after many months, was still far from a conclusion, and respecting which so much could be said.
The friends of the queen asserted that her majesty was completely innocent; that she had never spoken to the Countess Lamotte-Valois, and only once through her chamberlain. Weber had never sent her any assistance. But these friends of the queen were not numerous, and their number diminished every day.
The king had seen the necessity of making great reductions in the cost of maintaining his establishment, and in the government of the realm. France had had during the last years poor harvests. The people were suffering from a want of the bare necessities of life. The taxes could not be collected. A reform must be introduced, and those who before had rejoiced in a superfluity of royal gifts had to be contented with a diminution of them.
It had been the queen who allowed the tokens of royal favor to pour upon her friends, her companions in Trianon, like a golden rain. She had at the outset done this out of a hearty love for them. It was so sweet to cause those to rejoice whom she loved; so pleasant to see that charming smile upon the countenance of the Duchess de Polignac- -that smile which only appeared when she had succeeded in making others happy. For herself the duchess never asked a favor; her royal friend could only, after a long struggle and threatening her with her displeasure, induce her to take the gifts which were offered out of a really loving heart.
But behind the Duchess Diana stood her brother and sister-in-law, the Duke and Duchess de Polignac, who were ambitious, proud, and avaricious; behind the Duchess Diana stood the three favorites of the royal society in Trianon --Lords Vaudreuil, Besenval, D'Adhemar- -who desired embassies, ministerial posts, orders, and other tokens of honor.
Diana de Polignac was the channel through whom all these addressed themselves to the queen; she was the loved friend who asked whether the queen could not grant their demands. Louis granted all the requests to the queen, and Marie Antoinette then went to her loved friend Diana, in order to gratify her wishes, to receive a kiss, and to be rewarded with a smile.
The great noble families saw with envy and displeasure this supremacy of the Polignacs and the favorites of Trianon. They withdrew from the court; gave the "Queen of Trianon" over to her special friends and their citizen pleasures and sports, which, as they asserted, were not becoming to the great nobility. They gave the king over to his wife who ruled through him, and who, in turn, was governed by the Polignacs and the other favorites. To them and to their friends belonged all places, all honors; to them all applied who wanted to gain any thing for the court, and even they who wanted to get justice done them. Around the royal pair there was nothing but intrigues, cabals, envy, and hostility. Every one wanted to be first in the favor of the queen, in order to gain influence and consideration; every one wanted to cast suspicion on the one who was next to him, in order to supplant him in the favor of Marie Antoinette.
The fair days of fortune and peace, of which the queen dreamed in her charming country home, thinking that her realizations were met when the sun had scarcely risen upon them, were gone. Trianon was still there, and the happy peasant-girl of Trianon had been unchanged in heart; but those to whom she had given her heart, those who had joined in her harmless amusement in her village there, were changed! They had cast aside the idyllic masks with which the good- natured and confiding queen had deceived herself. They were no longer friends, no longer devoted servants; they were mere place- hunters, intriguers, flatterers, not acting out of love, but out of selfishness.
Yet the queen would not believe this; she continued to be the tender friend of her friends, trusted them, depended upon their love, was happy in their neighborhood, and let herself be led by them just as the king let himself be led by her.
They set ministers aside, appointed new ones, placed their favorites in places of power, and drove their opponents into obscurity.
But there came a day when the queen began to see that she was not the ruler but the ruled,--when she saw that she was not acting out her own will, but was tyrannized over by those who had been made powerful through her favor.
"I have been compelled to take part in political affairs," said she, "because the king, in his noble, good-humored way, has too little confidence in himself, and, out of his self-distrust, lets himself be controlled by the opinions of others. And so it is best that I should be his first confidante, and that he should take me to be his chief adviser, for his interests are mine, and these children are mine, and surely no one can speak more truly and honestly to the King of France than his queen, his wife, the mother of his children! And so if the king is not perfectly independent, and feels himself too weak to stand alone, and independently to exert power, he ought to rest on me; I will bear a part in his government, his business, that at any rate they who control be not my opponents, my enemies!"
For a while she yielded to her friends and favorites who wanted to stand in the same relation to the queen that she did to the king-- she yielded, not like Louis, from weakness, but from the very power of her love for them.
She yielded at the time when Diana de Polignac, urged by her brother-in-law, Polignac, and by Lord Besenval, conjured the queen to nominate Lord Calonne to be general comptroller of the finances. She yielded, and Calonne, the flatterer, the courtier of Polignac, received the important appointment, although Marie Antoinette experienced twinges of conscience for it, and did not trust the man whom she herself advanced to this high place. Public opinion, meanwhile, gave out that Lord Calonne was a favorite of the queen; and, while she bore him no special favor, and considered his appointment as a misfortune to France, she who herself promoted him became the object of public indignation.
Meanwhile the nomination of Lord Calonne was to be productive of real good. It gave rise to the publication of a host of libels and pamphlets which discussed the financial condition of France, and, in biting and scornful words, in the language of sadness and despair, developed the need and the misfortune of the land. The king gave the chief minister of police strict injunctions to send him all these ephemeral publications. He wanted to read them all, wanted to find the kernel of wheat which each contained, and, from his enemies, who assuredly would not flatter, he wanted to learn how to be a good king. And the first of his cares he saw to be a frugal king, and to limit his household expenses.
This time he acted independently; he asked no one's counsel, not even the queen's. As his own unconstrained act, he ordered a diminution of the court luxury, and a limitation of the great pensions which were paid to favorites. The great stable of the king must be reduced, the chief directorship of the post bureau must be abolished, the high salary of the governess of the royal children as well as that of the maid of honor of Madame Elizabeth, sister of the king, must be reduced.
And who were the ones affected by this? Chiefly the Polignac family. The Duke de Polignac was director of the royal mews, and next to him the Duke de Coigny. The Duke de Polignac was also chief director of the post department. His wife, Diana de Polignac, was also maid of honor to Madame Elizabeth, and Julia de Polignac was governess of the children of Prance.
They would not believe it; they held it impossible that so unheard- of a thing should happen, that their income should be reduced. The whole circle of intimate friends resorted to Trianon, to have an interview with the queen, to receive from her the assurance that she would not tolerate such a robbing of her friends, and that she would induce the king to take back his commands.
The queen, however, for the first time, made a stand against her friends.
"It is the will of the king," said she, "and I am too happy that the king has a will, to dare opposing it. May the king reign! It is his duty and his right, as it is the duty and right of all his subjects to conform to his wish and be subject to his will."
"But," cried Lord Besenval, "it is horrible to live in a country where one is not sure but he may lose tomorrow what he holds to-day; down to this time that has always been the Turkish fashion." [Footnote: His very words. See Goncourt's "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 181.]
The queen trembled and raised her great eyes with a look full of astonishment and pain to Besenval, then to the other friends; she read upon all faces alienation and unkindly feeling. The mask of devoted courtiers and true servants had for the first time fallen from their faces, and Marie Antoinette discovered these all at once wholly estranged and unknown countenances; eyes without the beam of friendship, lips without the smile of devotion.
The queen sought to put her hand to her heart. It seemed to her as if she had been wounded with a dagger. She felt as if she must cry aloud with pain and grief. But she commanded herself and only gave utterance to a faint sigh.
"You are not the only ones who will lose, my friends," said she, gently. "The king is a loser, too; for if he gives up the great stables, he sacrifices to the common good his horses, his equipages, and, above all, his true servants. We must all learn to put up with limitations and a reduction of outlay. But we can still remain good friends, and here in Trianon pass many pleasant days with one another in harmless gayety and happy contentment. Come, my friends, let us forget these cares and these constraints; let us, despite all these things, be merry and glad. Duke de Coigny, you have been for a week my debtor in billiards, to-day you must make it up. Come, my friends, let us go into the billiard-room."
And the queen, who had found her gayety again, went laughing in advance of her friends into the next apartment, where the billiard- table stood. She took up her cue, and, brandishing it like a sceptre, cried, "Now, my friends, away with care--" She ceased, for as she looked around her she saw that her friends had not obeyed her call. Only the Duke de Coigny, whom she had specially summoned, had followed the queen into the billiard-room.
A flash of anger shot from the eyes of the queen.
"How!" cried she, aloud, "did my companions not hear that I commanded them to follow me hither?"
"Your majesty," answered the Duke de Coigny, peevishly, "the ladies and gentlemen have probably recalled the fact that your majesty once made it a rule here in Trianon that every one should do as he pleases, and your majesty sees that they hold more strictly to the laws than others do."
"My lord," sighed the queen, "do you bring reproaches against me too? Are you also discontented?"
"And why should I be contented, your majesty?" asked the duke, with choler. "I am deprived of a post which hitherto has been held for life, and does your majesty desire that I should be contented? No, I am not contented. No, I do as the others do. I am full of anger and pain to see that nothing is secure more, that nothing is stable more, that one can rely upon nothing more--not even upon the word of kings."
"My lord duke," cried Marie Antoinette, with flashing anger, "you go too far, you forget that you are speaking to your queen."
"Madame," cried he, still louder, "here in Trianon there is no queen, there are no subjects! You yourself have said it, and I at least will hold to your words, even if you yourself do not. Let us play billiards, madame. I am at your service."
And while the Duke de Coigny said this, he seized with an angry movement the billiard-cue of the queen. It was a present which Marie Antoinette had received from her brother, the Emperor Joseph. It was made of a single rhinoceros skin, and was adorned with golden knobs. The king had a great regard for it, and no one before had ever ventured to use it excepting her alone.
"Give it to me, Coigny," said she, earnestly. "You deceive yourself, that is not your billiard-cue, that is mine."
"Madame," cried he, angrily, "what is mine is taken from me, and why should I not take what is not mine? It seems as if this were the latest fashion, to do what one pleases with the property of others; I shall hasten to have a share in this fashion, even were it only to show that I have learned something from your majesty. Let us begin."
Trembling with anger and excitement, he took two balls, laid them in the middle of the table, and gave the stroke. But it was so passionately given, and in such rage, that the cue glided by the balls and struck so strongly against the raised rim of the table that it broke.
The queen uttered an exclamation of indignation, and, raising the hand, pointed with a commanding gesture to the door.
"My Lord Duke de Coigny," said she, proudly, "I release you from the duty of ever coming again to Trianon. You are dismissed."
The duke, trembling with anger, muttering a few unintelligible words, made a slight, careless obeisance to the queen, and left the billiard-hall with a quick step. [Footnote: This scene is historical. See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii.]
Marie Antoinette looked after him with a long and pained look. Then, with a deep sigh, she took up the bits of the broken cue and went into her little porcelain cabinet, in order to gain rest and self- command in solitude and stillness.
Reaching that place, and now sure that no one could observe her, Marie Antoinette sank with a deep sigh into an arm-chair, and the long-restrained tears started from her eyes.
"Oh," sighed she, sadly, "they will destroy every thing I have, every thing--my confidence, my spirit, my heart itself. They will leave me nothing but pain and misfortune, and not one of them whom I till now have held to be my friends, will share it with me."
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{
"id": "3451"
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6
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THE TRIAL.
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For a whole year the preparation for the trial had lasted, and to- day, the 31st of August, 1786, the matter would be decided. The friends and relatives of the cardinal had had time to manipulate not only public opinion, but also to win over the judges, the members of Parliament, to the cause of the cardinal, and to prejudice them against the queen. All the enemies of Marie Antoinette, the legitimists even, who saw their old rights of nobility encroached upon by the preference given to the Polignacs and other families which had sprung from obscurity; the party of the royal princes and princesses, whom Marie Antoinette had always offended, first because she was an Austrian, and later because she had allowed herself to win the love of the king; the men of the agitation and freedom party, who thundered in their clubs against the realm, and held it to be their sacred duty to destroy the nimbus which, had hitherto enveloped the throne, and to show to the hungering people that the queen who lived in luxury was nothing more than a light-minded, voluptuous woman,--all these enemies of the queen had had time to gain over public opinion and the judges. The trial had been a welcome opportunity to all to give free play to their revenge, their indignation, and their hate. The family of the cardinal, sorely touched by the degradation which had come upon them all in their head, would, at the least, see the queen compromised with the cardinal, and if the latter should really come out from the trial as the deceived and duped one, Marie Antoinette should, nevertheless, share in the stain.
The Rohan family and their friends set therefore all means in motion, in order to win over public opinion and the judges. To this end they visited the members of Parliament, brought presents to those of them who were willing to receive them, made use of mercenary authors to hurl libellous pamphlets at the queen, published brochures which, in dignified language, defended the cardinal in advance, and exhibited him as the victim of his devotion and love to the royal family. Everybody read these pamphlets; and when at last the day of decision came, public opinion had already declared itself in favor of the cardinal and against the queen.
On the 31st of August, 1786, as already said, the trial so long in preparation was to be decided. The night before, the cardinal had been transferred from the Bastile to the prison, as had also the other prisoners who were involved in the case.
At early dawn the whole square before the prison was full of men, and the dependants of Rohan and the Agitators of Freedom, as Marat and his companions called themselves, were active here as ever to turn the feeling of the people against the queen.
In the court-house, on the other side of the great square, meanwhile, the great drama of the trial had begun. The members of Parliament, the judges in the case, sat in their flowing black garments, in long rows before the green table, and their serious, sad faces and sympathetic looks were all directed toward the cardinal, Louis de Rohan. But in spite of the danger of the situation, the noble face of the cardinal was completely undisturbed, and his bearing princely. He appeared in his full priestly array, substituting in place of the purple-red under- garment one of violet, as cardinals do when they appear in mourning. Over this he wore the short red cloak, and displayed all his orders; the red stockings, the silk shoes with jewelled buckles, completed his array. While entering, he raised his hands and gave his priestly blessing to those who should judge him, and perhaps condemn him. He then, in simple and dignified words, spoke as follows: A relative of his, Madame de Boulainvillier, had, three years before, brought a young woman to him, and requested him to maintain her. She was of the most exalted lineage, the last in descent from the earlier kings of France, of the family of Valois. She called herself the Countess of Lamotte-Valois; her husband, the Count Lamotte, was the royal sub-lieutenant in some little garrison city, and his salary was not able to support them except meagrely. The young lady was beautiful, intellectual, of noble manners, and it was natural that the cardinal should interest himself in behalf of the unfortunate daughter of the kings of France. He supported her for a while, and after many exertions succeeded in obtaining a pension of fifteen hundred francs from King Louis XVI., in behalf of the last descendant of the Valois family. Upon this the countess went herself to Versailles, in order to render thanks in person for this favor. She returned the next day to Paris, beaming with joy, and told the cardinal that she had not only been received by the queen, but that Marie Antoinette had been exceedingly gracious to her, and had requested her to visit her often. From this day on, the countess had naturally gained new favor in the eyes of the cardinal, for she often went to Versailles; and from the accounts of her visits there, when she returned, it was clear that she stood in high favor with the queen. But now, unfortunately, the cardinal found himself in precisely the opposite situation. He stood in extreme disfavor with the queen. She never condescended to bestow a glance upon him, nor a word. The cardinal was for a long time inconsolable on account of this, and sought in vain to regain the favor of the queen. This he intrusted with the deepest confidence to the Countess Lamotte- Valois, and she, full of friendly zeal, had undertaken to speak to the queen in his behalf. Some days later she told the cardinal that she had fulfilled her promise; she had painted his sadness in such moving words that the queen appeared to be very much affected, and had told the countess that she would pardon all, if the cardinal would send her in writing an apology for the mortifications which he had inflicted upon herself and her mother Maria Theresa. The cardinal, of course, joyfully consented to this. He sent to the countess a document in which he humbly begged pardon for asking the Empress Maria Theresa, years before, when Marie Antoinette was yet Dauphiness of France, and he, the cardinal, was French ambassador in Vienna, to chide her daughter on account of her light and haughty behavior, and to charge herself with seeing it bettered. This was the only offence against the queen of which he felt himself guilty, and for this he humbly implored forgiveness. He had, at the same time, begged the queen for an audience, that he might pay his respects to her, and on bended knee ask her pardon. Some days after, the Countess Lamotte-Valois had handed him a paper, written with the queen's hand, as an answer to his letter.
The president here interrupted the cardinal: "Are you still in possession of this document, your eminence?"
The cardinal bowed. "I have always, since I had the fortune to receive them, carried with me the dear, and to me invaluable, letters of the queen. On the day when I was arrested in Versailles, they lay in my breast coat-pocket. It was my fortune, and the misfortune of those who, after I had been carried to the Bastile, burst into my palace, sealed my papers, and at once burned what displeased them. In this way these letters escaped the auto-da-fe. Here is the first letter of the queen."
He drew a pocket-book from his robe, took from it a small folded paper, and laid it upon the table before the president.
The president opened it and read: "I have received your brief, and am delighted to find you no longer culpable; in the mean while, I am sorry not to be able to give you the audience which you ask. As soon, however, as circumstances allow me, I shall inform you; till then, silence. Marie Antoinette of France." [Footnote: Goncourt. -- "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 143.]
A murmur of astonishment arose among the judges after this reading, and all looks were directed with deep sympathy to the cardinal, who, with a quiet, modest bearing, stood over against them. The glances of the president of the high court, directed themselves, after he had read the letter and laid it upon the green table, to the great dignitary of the Church, and then he seemed to notice for the first time that the cardinal, a prince and grand almoner of the King of Prance, was standing like a common criminal.
"Give the lord cardinal an arm-chair," he ordered, with a loud voice, and one of the guards ran to bring one of the broad, comfortable chairs of the judges, which was just then unoccupied, and carried it to the cardinal.
Prince Rohan thanked the judges with a slight inclination of his proud head, and sank into the arm-chair. The accused and the judges now sat on the same seats, and one would almost have suspected that the cardinal, in his magnificent costume, with his noble, lofty bearing, his peaceful, passionless face, and sitting in his arm- chair, alone and separated from all others, was himself the judge of those who, in their dark garments and troubled and oppressed spirits, and restless mien, were sitting opposite him.
"Will your eminence have the goodness to proceed?" humbly asked the president of the court, after a pause. The cardinal nodded as the sign of assent, and continued his narrative.
This letter of the queen naturally filled him with great delight, particularly as he had a personal interview with her majesty in prospect, and he had implored the Countess Valois all the more to procure this meeting, because, in spite of the forgiveness which the queen had given to the cardinal, she continued on all occasions, where he had the happiness to be in her presence, to treat him with extreme disdain. On one Sunday, when he was reading mass before their majesties, he took the liberty to enter the audience-room and to address the queen. Marie Antoinette bestowed upon him only an annihilating look of anger and scorn, and turned her back upon him, saying, at the same time, with a loud voice, to the Duchess of Polignac: "What a shameless act! These people believe they may do any thing if they wear the purple. They believe they may rank with kings, and even address them."
These proud and cutting words had naturally deeply wounded the cardinal, and, for the first time, the doubt was suggested to him whether, in the end, all the communications of the Countess Valois, even the letter of the queen, might not prove to be false, for it appeared to him impossible that the queen could be secretly, favorably inclined to a man whom she openly scorned. In his anger he said so to the Countess Lamotte, and told her that he should hold all that she had brought him from the queen to be false, unless, within a very short time, she could procure what he had so long and so urgently besought, namely, an audience with the queen. He desired this audience as a proof that Marie Antoinette was really changed, and, at the same time, as a proof that the Countess Lamotte-Valois had told him the truth. The countess laughed at his distrust, and promised to try all the arts of address with the queen, in order to gain for the cardinal the desired audience. The latter, who thought he recognized in the beautiful and expressive countenance of the lady innocence and honorableness, now regretted his hasty words, and said to Madame Lamotte, that in case the queen would really grant him a private audience, he would give her (the countess) fifty thousand francs as a sign of his gratitude.
A murmur of applause and of astonishment rose at these words from the spectators, comprising some of the greatest noble families of France, the Rohans, the Guemenes, the Count de Vergennes, and all the most powerful enemies of the queen, who had taken advantage of this occasion in order to avenge themselves on the Austrian, who had dared to choose her friends and select her society, not in accordance with lineage, but as her own pleasure dictated.
The president of the court did not consider this murmur of applause marked enough to be reprimanded, and let it be continued.
"And did the Countess Lamotte-Valois procure for you this audience?" he then asked.
Prince Rohan was silent a moment, his face grew pale, his features assumed for the first time a troubled expression, and the painful struggles which disturbed his soul could be seen working within him.
"May it please this noble court," he replied, after a pause, with feeling, trembling voice, "I feel at this moment that, beneath the robe of the priest, the heart of the man beats yet. It is, however, for every man a wrong, an unpardonable wrong, to disclose the confidence of a lady, and to reveal to the open light of day the favors which have been granted by her. But I must take this crime upon myself, because I have to defend the honor of a priest, even of a dignitary in the Church, and also because I do not dare to suffer my purple to be soiled with even the suspicion of a lie, or an act of falsehood. It may be--and I fear it even myself--it may be, that in this matter, I myself was the deceived one, but I dare not bring suspicion upon my tiara that I was the deceiver, and, therefore, I have to meet the stern necessity of disclosing the secret of a lady and a queen."
"Besides this," said the president, solemnly--"besides this, your eminence may graciously consider, in presence of the authority given you by God, all the tender thoughts of the cardinal must be silent. The duty of a dignitary of the Church commands you to go before all other men in setting them a noble example, and one worthy of imitation. It is your sacred duty, in accordance with the demands of truth, to give the most detailed information regarding every thing that concerns this affair, and your eminence will have the goodness to remember that we are the secular priests of God, before whom every accused person must confess the whole truth with a perfect conscience."
"I thank you, Mr. President," said the cardinal, with so gentle and tremulous a voice, that you might hear after it a faint sob from some deeply-veiled ladies who sat on the spectators' seats, and so that even the eyes of President de l'Aigro filled with tears--" I thank you, Mr. President," repeated the cardinal, breathing more freely. "You take a heavy burden from my heart, and your wisdom instructs me as to my own duty."
The president blushed with pleasure at the high praises of the cardinal.
"And now," he said, "I take the liberty of repeating my question, did the Countess Lamotte-Valois succeed in procuring for your eminence a secret audience with the queen?"
"She did," replied the cardinal, "she did procure an interview for me."
And compelling himself to a quiet manner, he went on with his story: The Countess de Valois came to him after two days with a joyful countenance, and brought to him the request to accompany the Countess Valois two days after to Versailles, where, in the garden, in a place indicated by the countess, the meeting of the queen and the cardinal should take place. The cardinal was to put on the simple, unpretending dress of a citizen of Paris, a blue cloth coat, a round hat, and high leather boots. The cardinal, full of inexpressible delight at this, could, notwithstanding, scarcely believe that the queen would show him this intoxicating mark of her favor; upon which the Countess Valois, laughing, showed him a letter of the queen, directed to her, on gold-bordered paper, and signed like the note which he had received before--" Marie Antoinette of France." In this note the queen requested her dear friend to go carefully to work to warn the cardinal to speak softly during the interview, because there were ears lurking in the neighborhood, and not to come out from the thicket till the queen should give a sign.
After reading this letter, the cardinal had no more doubts, but surrendered himself completely to his joy, his impatience, and longed for the appointed hour to arrive. At last this hour came, and, in company with the countess, the cardinal, arrayed in the appointed dress, repaired in a simple hired carriage to Versailles. The countess led him to the terrace of the palace, where she directed the cardinal to hide behind a clump of laurel-trees, and then left him, in order to inform the queen, who walked every evening in the park, in company with the Count and Countess d'Artois, of the presence of the cardinal, and to conduct her to him. The latter now remained alone, and, with loud-beating heart, listened to every sound, and, moving gently around, looked down the long alley which ran between the two fountains, in order to catch sight of the approach of the queen. It was a delightful evening; the full moon shone in golden clearness from the deep-blue sky, and illuminated all the objects in the neighborhood with a light like that of day. It now disclosed a tall, noble figure, clad in a dark- red robe, and with large blue pins in her hair, hurrying to the terrace, and followed by the Countess Valois.
To the present moment the cardinal had slightly doubted as to his unmeasurable good fortune--now he doubted no more. It was the queen, Marie Antoinette, who was approaching. She wore the same dress, the same coiffure which she had worn the last Sunday, when after the mass he had gone to Versailles to drive.
Yes, it was the queen, who was hurrying across the terrace, and approaching the thicket behind which the cardinal was standing.
"Come," whispered she, softly, and the cardinal quickly emerged from the shade, sank upon his knee before the queen, and eagerly pressed the fair hand which she extended to him to his lips. "Your eminence," whispered the queen to him, "I can unfortunately spend only a moment here. I cherish nothing against you, and shall soon show you marks of my highest favor. Meantime, accept this token of my grace." And Marie Antoinette took a rose from her bosom and gave it to the cardinal. "Accept, also, this remembrancer," whispered the queen, again placing a little case in his hand. "It is my portrait. Look often at it, and never doubt me, I--" At this moment the Countess Valois, who had been waiting at some distance, hastily came up.
"Some one is coming," whispered she; "for God's sake, your majesty, fly!"
Voices were audible in the distance, and soon they approached. The queen grasped the hand of the Countess Lamotte.
"Come, my friend," said she. "Farewell, cardinal, au revoir!"
Full of joy at the high good fortune which had fallen to him, and at the same time saddened at the abrupt departure of the queen, the cardinal turned back to Paris. On the next day the Countess Valois brought a billet from the queen, in which she deeply regretted that their interview yesterday had been so brief, and promising a speedy appointment again. Some days after this occurrence, which constantly occupied the mind of the cardinal, he was obliged to go to Alsace, to celebrate a church festival. On the very next day, however, came the husband of the countess, Count Lamotte, sent as a courier by the countess. He handed the cardinal a letter from the queen, short and full of secrecy, like the earlier ones.
"The moment," wrote the queen--" the moment which I desired is not yet come. But I beg you to return at once to Paris, because I am in a secret affair, which concerns me personally, and which I shall intrust to you alone, and in which I need your assistance. The Countess Lamotte-Valois will give you the key to this riddle."
As if on the wings of birds, the cardinal returned to Paris, and at once repaired to the little palace which the countess had purchased with the fruits of his liberality. Here he learned of her the reason of his being sent for. The matter in question was the purchasing of a set of jewels, which the royal jewellers, Bohmer and Bassenge, had often offered to the queen. Marie Antoinette had seen the necklace, and had been enraptured with the size and beauty of the diamonds. But she had had the spirit to refuse to purchase the collar, in consequence of the enormous price which the jewellers demanded. She had, however, subsequently regretted her refusal, and the princely set of gems, the like of which did not exist in Europe, had awakened the most intense desire on the part of the queen to possess it. She wanted to purchase it secretly, without the knowledge of the king, and to pay for it gradually out of the savings of her own purse. But just then the jewellers Bohmer and Bassenge had it in view to send the necklace to Constantinople for the Sultan, who wanted to present it to the best-loved of his wives.
But before completing the sale, the crown jewellers made one more application to the queen, declaring that if she would consent to take the necklace, they would be content with any conditions of payment. In the mean time, the private treasury of the queen was empty. The severe winter had induced much suffering and misfortune, and the queen had given all her funds to the poor. But as she earnestly desired to purchase the necklace, she would give her grand almoner a special mark of her favor in granting to him the commission of purchasing it in her name. He should receive a paper from the queen's own hand authorizing the purchase, yet he should keep this to himself, and show it only to the court jewellers at the time of the purchase. The first payment of six hundred thousand francs the cardinal was to pay from his own purse, the remaining million the queen would pay in instalments of one hundred thousand francs each, at the expiration of every three months. In the next three months, the six hundred thousand francs advanced by the cardinal should be refunded.
The cardinal felt himself highly flattered by this token of the queen's confidence, and desired nothing more than the written authorization of the queen, empowering him to make the purchase at once. This document was not waited for long. Two days only passed before the Countess Lamotte-Valois brought it, dated at Trianon, and subscribed Marie Antoinette of France. Meanwhile some doubts arose in the mind of the cardinal. He turned to his friend and adviser, Count Cagliostro, for counsel. The latter had cured him years before while very sick, and since that time had always been his disinterested friend, and the prophet, so to speak, who always indicated the cardinal's future to him. This man, so clear in his foresight, so skilful in medicine, was now taken into confidence, and his advice asked. Count Cagliostro summoned the spirits that waited upon him, before the cardinal, one solitary night. He asked these invisible presences what their counsel was, and the oracle answered, that the affair was one worthy of the station of the cardinal; that it would have a fortunate issue; that it put the seal upon the favors of the queen, and would usher in the fortunate day which would bring the great talents of the cardinal into employment for the benefit of France and the world. The cardinal doubted and hesitated no longer. He went at once to the court jewellers Bohmer and Bassenge: he did not conceal from them that he was going to buy the necklace in the name of the queen, and showed them the written authorization. The jewellers entered readily into the transaction. The cardinal made a deposit of six hundred thousand francs, and Bohmer and Bassenge gave him the necklace. It was the day before a great festival, and at the festival the queen wanted to wear the necklace. In the evening a trusted servant of the queen was to take the necklace from the dwelling of the Countess Lamotte-Valois. The countess herself requested the cardinal to be present, though unseen, when the delivery should take place.
In accordance with this agreement, the cardinal repaired to the palace of the countess on the evening of February 1st, 1784, accompanied by a trusted valet, who carried the casket with the necklace. At the doorway he himself took the collar and gave it to the countess. She conducted the cardinal to an alcove adjoining her sitting-room. Through the door provided with glass windows he could dimly see the sitting-room.
After some minutes the main entrance opened, and a voice cried: "In the service of the queen!" A man in the livery of the queen, whom the cardinal had often seen at the countess's, and whom she had told was a confidential servant of the queen, entered and demanded the casket in the name of the queen. The Countess Valois took it and gave it to the servant, who bowed and took his leave. At the moment when the man departed, bearing this costly set of jewels, the cardinal experienced an inexpressible sense of satisfaction at having had the happiness of conferring a service upon the Queen of France, the wife of the king, the mother of the future king,--not merely in the purchase of the diamonds which she desired, but still more in preventing the young and impulsive woman from taking the unbecoming step of applying to any other gentleman of the court for this assistance.
At these words the spectators broke into loud exclamations, and one of the veiled ladies cried: "Lords Vaudreuil and Coigny would not have paid so much, but they would have demanded more." And this expression, too, was greeted with loud acclaims.
The first president of the court, Baron de L'Aigre, here cast a grave look toward the tribune where the spectators sat, but his reproach died away upon lips which disclosed a faint inclination to smile.
"I now beg your eminence," he said, "to answer the following question: " Did Queen Marie Antoinette personally thank you for the great service which, according to your showing, you did her? How is it with the payments which the queen pledged herself to make?"
The cardinal was silent for a short time, and looked sadly before him. "Since the day when I closed this unfortunate purchase, I have experienced only disquietudes, griefs, and humiliations. This is the only return which I have received for my devotion. The queen has never bestowed a word upon me. At the great festival she did not even wear the necklace which she had sent for on the evening before. I complained of this to the countess, and the queen had the goodness to write me a note, saying that she had found the necklace too valuable to wear on that day, because it would have attracted the attention of the king and the court. I confided in the words of the queen, and experienced no doubts about the matter till the unhappy day when the queen was to make the first payment to the jewellers, and when she sent neither to me nor to the jewellers a word. Upon this a fearful suspicion began to trouble me,--that my devotion to the queen might have been taken advantage of, in order to deceive and mislead me. When this dreadful thought seized me, I shuddered, and had not power to look down into the abyss which suddenly yawned beneath me. I at once summoned the Countess Lamotte, and desired her solution of this inexplicable conduct of the queen. She told me that she had been on the point of coming to me and informing me, at the request of the queen, that other necessary outlays had prevented the queen's paying me the six hundred thousand francs that I had disbursed to Bohmer at the purchase of the necklace, and that she must be content with paying the interest of this sum, thirty thousand francs. The queen requested me to be satisfied for the present with this arrangement, and to be sure of her favor. I trusted the words of the countess once more, took fresh courage, and sent word to the queen that I should always count myself happy to conform to her arrangements, and be her devoted servant. The countess dismissed me, saying that she would bring the money on the morrow. In the mean time, something occurred that awakened all my doubts and all my anxieties afresh. I visited the Duchess de Polignac, and while I was with her, there was handed her a note from the queen. I requested the duchess, in case the billet contained no secret, to show it to me, that I might see the handwriting of the queen. The duchess complied with my request, and--" The cardinal was silent, and deep inward excitement made his face pale. He bowed his head, folded his hands, and his lips moved in whispered prayer.
The judges, as well as the spectators, remained silent. No one was able to break the solemn stillness by an audible breath-by a single movement.
At length, after a long pause, when the cardinal had raised his head again, the president asked gently: "And so your eminence saw the note of the queen, and was it not the same writing as the letters which you had received?"
"No, it was not the same!" cried the cardinal, with pain. "No, it was an entirely different hand. Only the signature had any resemblance, although the letter to the duchess was simply subscribed 'Marie Antoinette.' I hastened home, and awaited the coming of the countess with feverish impatience. She came, smiling as ever, and brought me the thirty thousand francs. With glowing, passionate words, I threw my suspicions in her face. She appeared a moment alarmed, confused, and then granted that it was possible that the letters were not from the hand of the queen, but that she had dictated them. But the signatures were the queen's, she could take her oath of it. I again took a little courage; but soon after the countess had left me, the jewellers came in the highest excitement to me, to tell me that, receiving no payments from the queen, they had applied in writing to her several times, without receiving any answer; their efforts to obtain an audience were also all in vain, and so they had at last applied to the first lady-in-waiting on the queen, Madame de Campan, with whom they had just had an interview. Madame de Campan had told them that the queen did not possess the necklace; that no Countess Lamotte-Valois had ever had an interview with the queen; that she had told the jewellers with extreme indignation that some one had been deceiving them; that they were the victims of a fraud, and that she would at once go to Trianon to inform the queen of this fearful intrigue. This happened on a Thursday; on the following Sunday I repaired to Versailles to celebrate high mass, and the rest you know. I have nothing further to add."
"In the name of the court I thank your eminence for your open and clear exposition of this sad history," said the president, solemnly. "Your eminence needs refreshment, you are free to withdraw and to return to the Bastile."
The cardinal rose and bowed to the court. All the judges stood, and respectfully returned the salutation. [Footnote: 'Historical. --See "Memoires de l'Abbe Georgel," vol. i.] One of the veiled ladies, sitting on the spectators' seats, cried with trembling voice: "God bless the cardinal, the noble martyr of the realm!"
All the spectators repeated the cry; and, while the words yet rang, the cardinal, followed by the officers who were to take him to the Bastile, had left the hall.
"Guards!" cried President de L'Aigre, with a loud voice, "bring in the accused, the Countess de Lamotte-Valois!"
All eyes directed themselves to the door which the guards now opened, and through which the accused was to enter.
Upon the threshold of this door appeared now a lady of slim, graceful form, in a toilet of the greatest elegance, her head decorated with feathers, flowers, and lace, her cheeks highly painted, and her fine ruby lips encircled by a pert, and at the same time a mocking smile, which displayed two rows of the finest teeth. With this smile upon her lips she moved forward with a light and spirited step, turning her great blazing black eyes with proud, inquisitive looks now to the stern semicircle of judges and now to the tribune, whose occupants had not been able to suppress a movement of indignation and a subdued hiss.
"Gentlemen," said she, with a clear, distinct voice, in which not the faintest quiver, not the least excitement was apparent--" gentlemen, are we here in a theatre, where the players who tread the boards are received with audible signs of approval or of disfavor?"
The president, to whom her dark eyes were directed, deigned to give no answer, but turned with an expressive gesture to the officer who stood behind the accused.
He understood this sign, and brought from the corner of the hall a wooden seat of rough, clumsy form, to whose high back of unpolished dirty wood two short iron chains were attached.
This seat he placed near the handsome, gaudily-dressed countess with her air of assurance and self-confidence, and pointed to it with a commanding gesture.
"Be seated," he said, with a loud, lordly tore. She shrugged her shoulders, and looked at the offered seat with an expression of indignation. "How!" she cried, "who dares offer me the chair of criminals to sit in?"
"Be seated," replied the officer. "The seat of the accused is ready for you, and the chains upon it are for those who are not inclined to take it."
A cry of anger escaped from her lips, and her eyes flashed an annihilating glance upon the venturesome officer, but he did not appear to be in the least affected by the lightning from her eyes, but met it with perfect tranquillity.
"If you do not take it of yourself, madame," he said, "I shall be compelled to summon the police; we shall then compel you to take the seat, and in order to prevent your rising, the chains will be bound around your arms."
The countess answered only with an exclamation of anger, and fixed her inquiring looks upon the judges, the accusers, the defenders, and then again upon the spectators. Everywhere she encountered only a threatening mien and suspicious looks, nowhere an expression of sympathy. But it was just this which seemed to give her courage and to steel her strength. She raised her head proudly, forced the smile again upon her lips, and took her seat upon the chair with a grace and dignity as if she were in a brilliant saloon, and was taking her seat upon an elegant sofa. The president of the court now turned his grave, rigid face to the countess, and asked: "Who are you, madame? What is your name, and how old are you?"
The countess gave way to a loud, melodious laugh. "My lord president," answered she, "it is very clear that you are not much accustomed to deal with ladies, or else you would not take the liberty of asking a lady, like myself in her prime, after her age. I will pardon you this breach of etiquette, and I will magnanimously pretend not to have heard that question, in order to answer the others. You wish to know my name? I am the Countess Lamotte-Valois of France, the latest descendant of the former Kings of Prance; and if in this unhappy land, which is trodden to the dust by a stupid king and a dissolute queen, right and justice still prevailed, I should sit on the throne of France, and the coquette who now occupies it would be sitting here in this criminal's chair, to justify herself for the theft which she has committed, for it is Marie Antoinette who possesses the diamonds of the jeweller Bohmer, not I." At the spectators' tribune a gentle bravo was heard at these words, and this daring calumny upon the queen found no reproval even from the judges' bench.
"Madame," said L'Aigre, after a short pause, "instead of simply answering my questions you reply with a high-sounding speech, which contains an untruth, for it is not true that you can lay any claim to the throne of France. The descendants of bastards have claims neither to the name nor the rank of their fathers. Since, in respect to your name and rank, you have answered with an untruth, I will tell you who and what you are. Your father was a poor peasant in the village of Auteuil. He called himself Valois, and the clergyman of the village one day told the wife of the proprietor of Auteuil, Madame de Boulainvillier, that the peasant of Valois was in possession of family papers, according to which it was unquestionable that he was an illegitimate descendant of the old royal family.
The good priest at the same time recommended the poor, hungry children of the day-laborer Valois to the kindness of Madame de Boulainvillier, and the old lady hastened to comply with this recommendation. She had the daughter of Valois called to her to ask her how she could assist her in her misery."
"Say rather to gain for herself the credit that she had shown kindnesses to the descendants of the Kings of France," interrupted the countess, quickly.
"This would have been a sorry credit," replied President L'Aigre. "The Valois family had for a long time been extinct, and the last man of that name who is known, was detected in counterfeiting, sentenced, and executed. Your grandfather was an illegitimate son of the counterfeiter Valois. That is the sum total of your relation to the royal family of France. It is possible that upon this very chair on which you now sit, accused of this act of deception, your natural great-grandfather once sat, accused like you of an act of deception, in order, after conviction of his crime, to be punished according to the laws of France."
The countess made a motion as if she wanted to rise from the unfortunate seat, but instantly the heavy hand of the officer was laid upon her shoulder, and his threatening voice said, "Sit still, or I put on the chains!"
The Countess Lamotte-Valois of France sank back with a loud sob upon the chair, and for the first time a death-like paleness diffused itself over her hitherto rosy cheeks.
"So Madame de Boulainvillier had the children of the day-laborer Valois called," continued the president, with his imperturbable self-possession. "The oldest daughter, a girl of twelve years, pleased her in consequence of her lively nature and her attractive exterior. She took her to herself, she gave her an excellent education, she was resolved to provide for her whole future; when one day the young Valois disappeared from the chateau of Madame de Boulainvillier. She had eloped with the sub-lieutenant, Count Lamotte, and announced to her benefactress, in a letter which she left behind, that she was escaping from the slavery in which she had hitherto lived, and that she left her curse to those who wanted to hinder her marrying the man of her choice. But in order to accomplish her marriage, she confessed that she had found it necessary to rob the casket of Madame de Boulainvillier, and that out of this money she should defray her expenses. It was a sum of twenty thousand francs which the fugitive had robbed from her benefactress."
"I take the liberty of remarking to you, Mr. President, that you are there making use of a totally false expression," interrupted the countess. "It cannot be said that I robbed this sum. It was the dowry which Madame de Boulainvillier had promised to give me in case of my marriage, and I only took what was my own, as I was upon the point of marrying. Madame de Boulainvillier herself justified me in taking this sum, for she never asked me to return it or filed an accusation against me."
"Because she wanted to prevent the matter becoming town-talk," remarked the president, quietly. "Madame de Boulainvillier held her peace, and relinquished punishment to the righteous Judge who lives above the stars."
"And who surely has not descended from the stars to assume the president's chair of this court," cried Lamotte, with a mocking laugh.
President L'Aigre, without heeding the interruption, continued: "The daughter of the laborer Valois married the sub-lieutenant Lamotte, who lived in a little garrison city of the province, and sought to increase his meagre salary by many ingenious devices. He not merely gave instruction in fencing and riding, but he was also a very skilful card-player--so skilful, that fortune almost always accompanied him."
"My lord," cried the countess, springing up," you seem to want to hint that Count Lamotte played a false game. You surely would not venture to say this if the count were free, for he would challenge you for this insult, and it is well known that his stroke is fatal to those who stand in the way of his dagger."
"I hint at nothing, and I merely call things by their right names," replied the president, smiling. "In consequence of strong suspicions of false play, Count Lamotte was driven out of his regiment; and as the young pair had in the meantime consumed the stolen wedding- money, they must discover some new way of making a living. The young husband repaired to the south of France to continue his card- playing; the young wife, having for her fortune her youth and the splendor of her name, repaired to Paris, both resolved de corriger la fortune wherever and however they could. "This, madame," continued the president, after a pause, "this is the true answer to my question, how you are called, and who you are."
"The answer is, however, not yet quite satisfactory," replied Lamotte, in an impudent tone. "You have forgotten to add that I am the friend of the cardinal, Prince Louis de Rohan, the confidante and friend of Queen Marie Antoinette, and that both now want to do me the honor to make me their bete de souffrance, and to let me suffer for what they have done and are guilty of. My whole crime lies in this, that I helped the Queen of France gain the jewels for which her idle and trivial soul longed; that I helped the amorous and light-minded cardinal approach the object of his love, and procured for him an interview with the queen. That is all that can be charged upon me; I procured for the queen the fine necklace of Messrs. Bohmer and Bassenge; I gave the cardinal, as the price of a part of the necklace, a tender tete-a-tete with the queen. The cardinal will not deny that in the garden of Versailles he had a rendezvous with the queen, that he kissed her hand and received a rose from her; and the queen will be compelled to confess in the end that the necklace is in her possession. What blame can be laid on me for this?"
"The blame of deception, of defalcation, of forgery, of calumny, of theft," replied the president, with solemn earnestness. "You deceived Cardinal de Rohan in saying that you knew the queen, that you were intimate with her, that she honored you with her confidence. You forged, or got some one to forge, the handwriting of the queen, and prepared letters which you gave to the cardinal, pretending that they came from the queen. You misused the devotion of the cardinal to the royal family, and caused his eminence to believe that the queen desired his services in the purchase of the necklace; and after the cardinal, full of pleasure, had been able to do a service to the queen, had treated with Bohmer and Bassenge, had paid a part of the purchase money, and gave you the necklace in charge to be put into the queen's hands, you were guilty of theft, for the queen knows nothing of the necklace; the queen never gave you the honor of an audience, the queen never spoke with you, and no one of the queen's companions ever saw the Countess Lamotte."
"That means they disown me; they all disown me!" cried the countess, with flaming rage, stamping upon the floor with her little satin- covered foot. "But the truth will one day come to the light. The cardinal will not deny that the queen gave him a rendezvous at Versailles; that she thanked him personally for the necklace which she had procured through his instrumentality."
"Yes, the truth will come to the light," answered the president. "I summon the crown attorney, M. de Borillon, to present the charge against the Countess Lamotte-Valois."
On this the attorney-general, Borillon, rose, and amid the breathless silence of the assembly began to speak. He painted the countess as a crafty, skilful adventuress, who had come to Paris with the determined purpose of making her fortune in whatever way it could be done. He then spoke of the destitution in which she had lived at first, of the begging letters which she addressed to all people of distinction, and especially to Cardinal de Rohan, in consequence of his well-known liberality. He painted in lively and touching colors the scene where the cardinal, struck by the name of the suppliant, went in person to the attic to convince himself whether it were really true that a descendant of the Kings of France had been driven to such poverty and humiliation, and to give her assistance for the sake of the royal house, to which he was devoted heart and soul. He painted further how the cardinal, attracted by the lively spirits, amiability, and intellectual character of Lamotte-Valois, had given her his confidence, and believed what she told him about her favor with the queen, and her intimate relations with her. "The cardinal," continued the attorney-general, "did not doubt for a moment the trustworthiness of the countess; he had not the least suspicion that he was appointed to become the victim of an intriguer, who would take advantage of his noble spirit, his magnanimity, to deceive him and to enrich herself. The countess knew the boundless devotion of the cardinal to the queen; she had heard his complaints of the proud coldness, the public slights which she offered to him. On the other hand, she had heard of the costly diamond necklace which Bohmer and Bassenge had repeatedly offered to the queen, and that she had refused to take it on account of the enormous price which they demanded for it. On this the countess formed her plan and it succeeded perfectly. She caused the cardinal to hope that he would soon have an audience of the queen, if he would give solid assurances of his devotion, and when he professed himself ready, she proposed to him, as acting under the queen's instructions, the purchase of the necklace. The cardinal declared himself ready to accede, and the affair took the course already indicated with such touching frankness and lofty truthfulness by his eminence. He brought the purchase to a conclusion; he paid the first instalment of six hundred thousand francs, and gave the necklace to the friend of the queen, the Countess Lamotte-Valois, after he had availed himself of her assistance in receiving from the lips and hand of the queen in the garden of Versailles the assurance of the royal favor. The countess at once brought the cardinal a paper from the queen, stating that she had received the necklace, and conveying to him the warm thanks of his queen. The cardinal felt himself richly rewarded by this for all his pains and outlays, and in the joy of his heart wanted to repay her who, in so prudent and wise a manner, had effected his reconciliation with the queen. He settled upon her a yearly pension of four thousand francs, payable her whole life, and the countess accepted it with tears of emotion, and swore eternal gratitude to the cardinal. But while uttering this very oath she was conspiring against her benefactor, and laughing in her sleeve at the credulous prince who had fallen into the very net which she had prepared for him. Her most active ally was her husband, whom she had long before summoned to Paris, and who was the abetter of her intrigue. The countess had now become a rich lady, and was able to indulge all her cravings for splendor and luxury. She who, down to that time, had stood as a supplicant before the doors of the rich, could herself have a princely dwelling, and could devote great sums to its adornment. The most celebrated makers were called on, to furnish the furniture and the decorations, and, as if by a touch of magic, she was surrounded by fabulous luxury; the fairest equipages stood ready for her, the finest horses in her stable, and a troop of lackeys waited upon the beck of the fair lady who displayed her princely splendor before them. A choice silver service glittered upon her table, and she possessed valuables worth more than a hundred thousand francs. More than this, she enjoyed the best of all, a tender and devoted husband, who overloaded her with presents; from London, whither he was called by pressing family affairs, he sent his wife a medallion of diamonds, which was subsequently estimated at two hundred and thirty louis-d'ors, and a pearl bracelet worth two hundred louis-d'ors. Returning from his journey, he surprised his wife with a new and splendid present. He had purchased a palace in Bar-sur-Aube, and thither the whole costly furniture of his hired house was carried. Would you know where all these rare gifts wore drawn? The Countess Lamotte had broken the necklace, and taken the stones from their setting. For the gold alone which was used in the setting she received forty thousand francs; for one of the diamonds, which she sold in Paris, she received fifty thousand francs; for another, thirty-six thousand. The diamonds of uncommon size and immense worth she did not dare to dispose of in Paris, and her husband was compelled to journey to London to sell a portion of them there. On his return thence he was able to buy for his wife the house in Bar-sur-Aube, for the sum received in London was four hundred thousand francs in gold, in addition to the pearls and the diamond medallion which he brought his wife from London. And of all this luxury, this extravagance, Cardinal de Rohan had naturally no suspicion. When he visited her, where did the countess receive him? In a poorly-furnished attic- chamber of the house hired by her. In simple, modest attire, She met him there and told him with trembling voice that the rich countess who lived in the two lower stories of the house had allowed her to have this suite next to the roof gratis. But when danger approached, and Lamotte began to fear that Bohmer and Bassenge, in claiming their pay from the queen, would bring the history of the necklace to the light, the countess came to the cardinal to pay her parting respects, as she was going into the country to a friend to live in the greatest privacy. She left Paris merely to repair to Bar-sur- Aube and live in her magnificent palace. She tarried there so long as to allow the police detectives to discover in the rich and elegant lady the intriguer Lamotte-Valois, and to effect the imprisonment of her husband and his friend, the so-called Count Cagliostro. Her other abetters had put themselves out of sight, and were not to be discovered. However, their arrest was not specially necessary, for the facts were already sufficiently strong and clear. Some of the diamonds which Lamotte had sold in London were brought back to Paris, and had been recognized by Bohmer and Bassenge as belonging to the necklace which they had sold to the queen. The goldsmith had been discovered to whom the countess had sold the golden setting of the necklace, and Bohmer and Bassenge had recognized in the fragments which remained their own work. It is unquestionable that the Countess Lamotte-Valois, through her intrigues and cunning, had been able to gain possession of the necklace, and that she had appropriated it to her own use. The countess is therefore guilty of theft and deception. She is, moreover, guilty of forgery, for she has imitated the handwriting of the queen, and subscribed it with the royal name. But the hand is neither that of the queen, nor does the queen ever subscribe herself 'Marie Antoinette of France.' This makes Lamotte open to the charge of both forgery and contempt of majesty, for she has even dared to drag the sacred person of the Queen of France into her mesh of lies, and to make her majesty the heroine of a dishonorable love- adventure."
"My lord," cried Countess Lamotte, with a loud laugh, "you are not driven to the necessity of involving the queen in dishonorable love- adventures. The queen is in reality the heroine of so many adventures of this character, that you can have your choice of them. A queen who visits the opera-house balls incognito, drives thither masked and in a fiacre, and who appears incognito on the terraces of Versailles with strange soldiers, exchanging jocose words with them- -a queen of the type of this Austrian may not wonder to find her name identified with the heroine of a love-adventure. But we are speaking now not of a romance, but of a reality, and I am not to be accused of forgery and contempt of majesty without having the proofs brought forward. This cannot, however, be done, for I have the proofs of my innocence. The cardinal had an interview with the queen, and she gave him a receipt for the diamonds. If she wrote her signature differently from her usual manner, it is not my fault. It only shows that the queen was cunning enough to secure an alibi, so to speak, for her signature, and to leave a rear door open for herself, through which she could slip with her exalted name, in case the affair was discovered, and leave me to be her bete de souffrance. But I am by no means disposed to accept this part, for I declare here solemnly, before God and man, that I am innocent of the crime laid to my charge. I was only a too true and devoted friend, that is all! I sacrificed my own safety and peace to the welfare of my exalted friends, and I now complain of them that they have treated me unthankfully in this matter. But they must bear the blame, they alone. Let the queen show that she did not give the cardinal a rendezvous in the park of Versailles; let her further show that she did not sign the promissory note, and the letters to his eminence, and then I shall be exposed to the charge of being a deceiver and a traitor. But so long as this is not done--and it cannot be done, for God is just, and will not permit the innocent to suffer for the guilty--so long will all France, yes, all Europe, be convinced that the queen is the guilty one; that she received the jewels, and paid the cardinal for them as a coquette and light- minded woman does, with tender words, with smiles and loving looks, and, last of all, with a rendezvous!"
"You are right," said the attorney-general, as the countess ceased, and looked around her with a victorious smile--"you are quite right, God IS just, and He will not permit the innocent to suffer for the guilty. He will not let your infernal intrigue stand as truth; He will tear away the mask of innocence from your deceiver's face, and lot you stand forth in all your impudence and deception."
"My lord," cried the countess, smiling, "those are very high- sounding words, but they are no proofs."
"We will now give the proofs," answered the attorney-general, turning to one of the guards. "Let the lady enter who is waiting in the room outside."
The officer gave a sign to one of the men who stood near the door leading to the witness-room; he entered the adjoining apartment, but soon after returned alone and whispered something in the officer's ear.
"The lady asks the court's indulgence for a few moments," said the officer, aloud. "As she must be separated some hours from her child, she asks permission to suckle it a few moments."
The president cast an inquiring look at the judges, who all nodded affirmatively.
The law was silent before the voice of Nature; all waited noiselessly till the witness had quieted her child.
And now the door of the witness-room opened, and upon the threshold was seen a woman's figure, at whose unexpected appearance a cry of amazement rose from the lips of all the spectators on the tribune, and all eyes were aflame with curiosity.
It was the queen--no one but the queen who was entering the hall! It was her slim, fine figure, it was her fresh, voting, rosy countenance, with the fair, charming oval of her delicately-tinted cheeks; it was her finely-cut mouth, with the full, lower lips; there were her large, grayish-blue eyes; her high forehead; her beautiful, chestnut-brown hair, arranged in exactly the manner that Leonard, the queen's hair-dresser, was accustomed to dress hers. The rest of her toilet, also, was precisely like that of the queen when she appeared in the gardens of Versailles and dispensed with court etiquette. A bright dress of light linen flowed down in long, broad folds over her beautiful figure; her chest and the full shoulders were covered by a short white robe a l'enfant, and on the loftily dressed hair lay a white cap, trimmed with lace.
Yes, it was the queen, as she had often been seen wandering up and down in the broad walks of Versailles; and even the ladies on the tribune, who often enough had seen the monarch close at hand and had spoken with her, looked in astonishment at the entering figure, and whispered, "It is she! The queen herself is coming to give her evidence. What folly, what thoughtlessness!"
While all eyes were directed upon this unexpected figure, no one had thought of the Countess Lamotte-Valois, no one had noticed how she shrank back, and then started from her seat, as if she wanted to fly from the horror which so suddenly confronted her.
No, the officer who stood near her chair had noticed this movement, and with a quick and strong grasp seized her arm.
"What do you want, madame? Why do you rise from your chair after being told to sit still, if you do not want to be chained?"
At the touch of the officer, Lamotte had, as it appeared, regained her whole composure, and had conquered her alarm.
"I rose," she said calmly, "to pay my respects to the Queen of France, like a good subject; but as I see that no one else stands up, and that they allow the queen to enter without rising from their seats, I will take mine again." And the countess slowly sank into her chair.
"Come nearer," cried President de L'Aigre to the royal personage; and she stepped forward, allowing her eyes to wander unconstrainedly through the hall, and then, as she approached the table, behind which the president and the judges sat, greeting them with a friendly nod and smile which caused her lips to part. Again there passed through the hall a wave of amazement, for now, when the lady opened her mouth, the first dissimilarity to the queen appeared. Behind her cherry-red lips there were two rows of poor, broken teeth, with gaps between them, whereas Marie Antoinette had, on account of her faultless teeth, been the object of admiration and envy to all the ladies of her court.
"Who are you, madame, and what are you called?" asked the president.
"Who am I, sir?" replied the lady, with a slight flush, "Good Lord! that is hard to answer. I was a light-minded and idle girl, that did not like to work, but did like to live well, and had no objection to dress, and led a tolerably easy life, till one day my heart was surprised by love. After being enamoured of my Sergeant George, I resolved to lead an honorable and virtuous life; and since my little son was born I have tried to be merely a good mother and a good wife. Do you now want to know what I am called? Down to the present time I am called Mademoiselle Oliva. You had me arrested in Brussels and brought here exactly nine days before the appointed time of my marriage with my dear George. He had promised me that our child should be able to regard us as regularly married people, and he wanted to keep his promise, but you prevented him, and it is your fault that my dear little boy was born in prison, and that his father was not there to greet him. But you will confess that I am guilty of no crime, and then you will fulfil my wish, and give me a written certificate of my innocence--that is," she corrected herself, blushing, "of my innocence in this matter, that I may be able to justify myself to my son, when I have to tell him that he was born in prison. It is such a dreadful thing for a mother to have anything that she is ashamed to confess to her child!"
A murmur of applause ran through the hall, and the ladies upon the tribune looked with sympathy upon this fair woman, whose faithful love made her beautiful, and whose mother-feeling gave her dignity.
"So your name is Mademoiselle Oliva?" asked the president.
"Yes, sir, that unfortunately is the name I am called by," answered she, sighing, "but as soon as I leave the prison I shall be married, and then I shall be called Madame George. For my child's sake, you would do me a great kindness now if you would call me madame."
At these naive words a smile lighted up the stern faces of the judges, and sped like a ray of sunlight over all the countenances of the spectators. Even the rigid features of the attorney-general were touched for an instant with the glow; only those of the Countess Lamotte darkened.
"Your majesty plays to-day the NAIVE part of a paysanne perversee," cried she, with a hard, shrill voice. "It is well known that your majesty loves to play comedies, and that you are sometimes content with even the minor parts. Now, do not look at me, Mrs. Queen, with such a withering look. Do not forget that you are playing the part of Mademoiselle Oliva, and that you have come secretly from Versailles to save your honor and your diamonds."
"Officer," cried the president, "if the accused allows herself to speak a single word without being asked, lock her up and gag her."
The officer bowed in token of his unconditional obedience, and drew out the wooden gag, which he showed the countess, going straight to her chair.
"I will comply with your wish," said the president, turning to the living portrait of the queen. "I will call you madame, if you will promise me in return to answer all my questions faithfully."
"I promise you that, by my child," answered Mademoiselle Oliva, bowing slightly.
"Tell me, then, do you know the person who sits in that chair?"
Mademoiselle Oliva cast a quick look at Lamotte, who glared at her from her seat.
"Oh, yes, I know her," she said. "That is, I do not know her name, I only know that she lives in a splendid palace, that she is very rich, and has everything nice."
"How do you know this lady? Tell us that."
"I will tell you, gentlemen, and I swear to you that so sure as I want to be an honorable wife, I will tell you the whole truth. I was walking one day in the Palais Royal, when a tall, slim, gentlemanly man, who had passed me several times, came up to me, said some soft things, and asked permission to visit me. I answered him, smiling, that he could visit me at once if he would take me into one of the eating-houses and dine with me. He accepted my proposition, and we dined together, and were merry and jolly enough for a new acquaintance. When we parted we promised to meet there again on the morrow, and so we did. After the second dinner, the amiable gentleman conducted me home, and there told me that he was very distinguished and influential, that he had friends at court, and was very well acquainted with the king and queen. He told me that he would procure for me powerful patrons, and told me that a very distinguished lady, who had interested herself in my behalf through his description, would visit me and make my acquaintance. On the next day he really came in company with a lady, who greeted me very friendly, and was astonished at her first glimpse of me."
"Who was that lady?" asked the president.
Mademoiselle pointed with her thumb over her shoulder. "The lady yonder," said she.
"Are you sure of it?"
"As of my own life, Mr. President."
"Good. Good. You saw the lady quite frequently?"
"Yes, she visited me twice more, and told me about the queen, and the splendid way they lived at the court; she promised me that she would bring me to the court and make a great lady out of me, if I would do what she wanted me to do. I promised it gladly, and declared myself ready to do every thing that she should order me, if she would keep her promise and bring me to the court, that I might speak with the king and the queen."
"But why were you so curious to go to the court and speak with the king and the queen?"
"Why? Good Lord! that is very simple and natural. It is a very easy thing for the king to make a captain out of a sergeant, and as the king, so people say, does nothing but what the queen tells him to, I wanted of course before every thing to have a good word from the queen. I should have liked to see my dear George wearing epaulets, and it must have tremendously pleased my boy to have come into the world the child of a captain."
"Did you tell that to the lady?"
"Certainly I told her, and she promised me that the queen would undoubtedly do me the favor, provided that I would do every thing that she bade me do in the name of the queen. She told me, then, that the queen had ordered her to seek a person suitable to play a part in a little comedy, which she was privately preparing; that I was just the person to play this part, and if I would do it well and tell nobody in the world, not even George, when he should come home from Brussels, she would not only give me her help in the future, but pay me fifteen thousand francs for my assistance. I consented with great joy, of course, for fifteen thousand francs was a magnificent dowry for a marriage, and I was very happy in being able to earn so much without having to work very hard for it."
"But did it not occur to you that that was a dangerous game that they wanted yon to play, and for which they were going to pay such a high sum?"
"I did have such thoughts once in a while, but I suppressed them soon, so as not to be troubled about my good fortune; and besides that, the countess assured me that every thing was done at the command of the queen, and that it was the queen who was going to pay the fifteen thousand francs. That quieted me completely, for as an obedient and true subject it was my duty to obey the queen, and show devotion to her in all things, more particularly when she was going to pay so magnificently. Meantime, I comforted myself that it could be nothing bad and criminal that the queen could order done, and the countess assured me that too, and told me that every thing I had to do was to represent another person, and to make a lover believe that he was with his love, which would, of course, please him immensely, and make him very happy. Besides, I did not think it any sin to do my part toward making an unfortunate lover have happy thoughts. I was very much pleased with this part, and made my plan to speak to him in very tender and loving tones."
"But were you not curious to know for whom you were playing this part, and what lady you had to represent?"
"I should certainly have liked very much to know, but the countess forbade me to ask, and told me that I must suppress my curiosity; and, on the other hand, make an effort to notice nothing at all, else I should receive only half of the money; and, besides, if they noticed that I knew what I was doing, I might be sent to the Bastile. I was still upon that, and did not trouble myself about any thing further, and asked nothing more, and only thought of learning my lesson well, that I might get the fifteen thousand francs for my marriage portion."
"So they gave you a lesson to learn?"
"Yes, the countess, and the gentleman who brought her to me, came twice to me, and taught me how I ought to walk, how to hold my head, to nod, and reach my hand to kiss. After teaching me this, they came one day and carried me in a splendid coach to the house of the countess. There I dined with them, and then we drove to Versailles. They walked with me in the park, and at a place near the pavilion they stood still, and said to me: 'Here is where you will play your little comedy to-morrow; this is the spot which the queen has herself appointed, and every thing which takes place is at the express command of her majesty.' That entirely quieted me, arid I turned back to Paris overjoyed, in company with the countess and her companion. They kept me that night in their beautiful home, and on the next day we drove again to Versailles, where the countess had a small suite of apartments. She herself dressed me, and condescended to help me like a waiting-maid."
"What kind of a suit did she put upon you?"
"Exactly such a one as I am wearing to-day, only when we were ready, and it had begun to grow dark, the countess laid a white mantle over me, and covered my head with a cap. Then she drove me into the park, gave me a letter, and said: 'You will give this letter to a gentleman who will meet us.' We went in silence through the paths and alleys of the park, and I confess that my heart beat right anxiously, and that I had to think a great deal upon the fifteen thousand francs, in order to keep my courage up."
"Did you go with the countess alone, or was some one else with you?"
"The gentleman who first made my acquaintance, and who was, as I believe, the husband of the countess, accompanied us. After we had walked about for a while, he stopped and said: 'Now you must walk alone; I shall, however, be there at the right time to make a noise, and to put the amorous lover to flight.' Then he stepped into the thicket, and we were alone. On this the countess gave me a rose, and said: 'You will give this rose with the letter to the person, and say nothing more than this. You know what that signifies.' The countess made me repeat that three times, and then said: 'You need not add a single word to that. The queen herself has selected these words, and she will hear whether you repeat them correctly, for she will stand behind you, and be a spectator of the whole scene.' On this the countess withdrew, leading me into a thicket, and soon the gentleman came, and I came out of the place of my concealment. After he had made me some very deep reverences, I handed him the rose and the letter, and repeated the very words the countess had taught me. The gentleman sank upon his knee, and kissed the hand which I extended with the rose. At this moment we heard a noise, as if of men's steps approaching, and the countess came running up. 'For God's sake!' she cried, 'we are watched! Quick, quick, come!' and she drew me hurriedly away. We left the garden, and returned to the dwelling of the countess, and there I remained alone, for the countess and her husband said, laughing, that they must go and console the old gentleman for having so short a rendezvous, and for being so quickly disturbed. I asked whether I had done my part well, and the countess said that the queen was very well satisfied with me--that she had stood in the thicket, and had observed all. Early next morning we rode back to Paris, and when we had arrived at their hotel, the countess paid me the fifteen thousand francs all correctly; but she made this condition, that I must go to see my George as soon as possible, and that till I should go, I must remain in a little room in her house. I wrote at once to George and announced my coming, and the time seemed endless till I received his answer, although the countess paid a great deal of attention to me, and always invited me to her petits soupers, where we had a right merry time. As soon as the answer had come from my George, who wrote me that he was expecting me, I took my departure in an elegant post- carriage, like a lady; for the countess was not willing that I should travel in a diligence, and her husband had paid in advance for all relays of horses as far as Brussels, so that I had a very agreeable, comfortable ride. And this, I think, is all that I have to relate, and my son will not have an unquiet night, for I have kept my word, and told every thing truthfully."
"You have nothing to add to this?"
"What could I add to this?" asked Oliva, sighing. "You know as well as I the end of my history. You know, that a fortnight after that little scene at Versailles, I was arrested by police agents in Brussels, and brought to Paris. You know, also, that I swore to take my life if my dear George were not allowed to visit me daily in prison. You know that my dear child was born in prison, and that it is now half a year old, while his poor mother is accused, and not yet gained her freedom. You know that all! What have I that I could add to this? I beg you, let me go and return to my child, for my little George is certainly awake, and his father does not know how to quiet him when he cries."
"You may go to your child," said the president, with a gentle smile. "Officer, conduct Madame Oliva back to the witness-room."
Madame Oliva expressed her thanks for this by throwing a kiss of the hand to the president and the judges, and then hastily followed the officer, who opened the door of the adjoining room. As it swung back, a loud cry of a child was heard, and Madame Oliva, who was standing upon the threshold, turned her fair face back to the president with a triumphant expression, and smiled.
"Did I not tell you so?" she cried. "My son is calling, for he is longing for me. I am coming, my little George, I am coming!"
She sprang forward, and the door closed behind her.
"You have heard the statements of the witness," said the president, addressing Countess Lamotte. "You see now that we have the proof of the ignominious and treacherous intrigues which you have conducted. Will you, in the face of such proofs, still endeavor to deny the facts which have been given in evidence?"
"I have seen neither proofs nor facts," answered Lamotte, scornfully. "I have only been amazed at the self-possession with which the queen goes through her part, and wondered how far her light-mindedness will carry her. She is truly an adroit player, and she has played the part of Madame Oliva so well, that not a motion nor a tone would have betrayed the queen."
"How, madame?" asked the president, in amazement.
"Do you pretend to assert that this witness, who has just left the hall, is not Madame Oliva, but another person? Do you not know that this witness, this living portrait of the queen, has for ten months been detained at the Bastile, and that no change in the person is possible?"
"I only know that the queen has played her part well," said Lamotte, shrugging her shoulders. "She has even gone so far, in her desire to show a difference between Madame Oliva and the queen, as to make a very great sacrifice, and to disclose a secret of her beauty. She has laid aside her fine false teeth, and let us see her natural ones, in order that we may see a difference between the queen and Madame Oliva. Confess only, gentlemen, that it is a rare and comical sight to have a queen so like a courtesan, that you can only distinguish the one from the other by the teeth."
And the countess broke out into scornful laughter, which found a loud echo in some of the veiled ladies in the tribune.
"Moderate your pleasantry, madame," commanded the president. "Remember that you are in a grave and perilous situation, and that justice hangs over you like the sword of Damocles. You have already invoked your fate, in calling God to witness that the innocent shall not suffer for the guilty, and now this word is fulfilled in yourself. The whole edifice of your lies and intrigues crumbles over you, and will cover your head with the dust of eternal infamy."
"I experience nothing of it yet, God be thanked," cried Lamotte, shrugging her shoulders.
"You will be punished for these shameless deeds sooner than you expected," answered the president, solemnly.
"You said that you wanted proof that that was not the queen who gave the rendezvous to the cardinal in Versailles; that the promissory note was not subscribed by the queen, and that the letters to the cardinal were not written by her. If the proof of this were to be displayed to you, it would be right to accuse you of high-treason. We have already exhibited the proof that it was not Queen Marie Antoinette who made an appointment with the cardinal in Versailles, but that it was the comedy planned and brought out by yourself, with which you deceived the cardinal, and made him believe that he was going to buy the necklace of which you intended to rob him. It only remains to show you that the subscription of the queen and the letters to the cardinal were forged by you."
"And certainly," cried the countess, "I am very curious to have you exhibit the proofs of this!"
"That is a very simple matter," answered the president, calmly. "We confront you with him who at your direction imitated the handwriting of the queen and wrote the letters. Officer, summon the last witness!"
The officer threw open the door which led to the next room. A breathless silence prevailed in the great hall; every one was intensely eager to see this last witness who was to uncover the web of frauds of the countess's spinning. The great burning eyes of the accused, too, were turned to this door, and her compressed lips and her piercing glance disclosed a little of the anxiety of her soul, although her bearing and manner were still impudent and scornful.
And now the door opened, and a cry of amazement and rage broke from the lips of the countess.
"Retaux de Vilette," cried she madly, doubling up her little hands into fists and extending them toward the man who now entered the hall. "Shameful, shameful! He has turned against me!"
And losing for a moment her composure, she sank back upon the seat from which she had risen in her fright. A deathly paleness covered her cheeks, and, almost swooning, she rested her head on the back of the chair.
"You now see that God is just," said the president, after a brief pause. "Your own conscience testifies against you and compels you to confess yourself guilty."
She sprang up and compelled herself to resume her self-possessed manner, and to appear cool and defiant as before.
"No!" she said, "I do not confess myself guilty, and I have no reason to! My heart only shuddered when I saw this man enter, whom I have saved from hunger, overwhelmed with kindness, and whom my enemies have now brought up to make him testify against me! But it is over--I am now ready to see new lies, new infamies heaped upon me: M. Retaux de Vilette may now speak on, his calumnies will only drop from the undented mail of my conscience!"
And with possessed bearing and an air of proud scorn, Countess Lamotte looked at the man who, bowing and trembling, advanced by the side of the officer to the green table, and sedulously shunned meeting the eyes of Lamotte, which rested on him like two fiery daggers.
The president propounded the usual questions as to name and rank. He answered that his name was Retaux de Vilette, and that he was steward and secretary of the Countess Lamotte-Valois. On further questioning, he declared that after the count and the countess had been arrested he had fled, and had gone to Geneva in order to await the end of the trial. But as it lingered so long, he had attempted to escape to England, but had been arrested.
"Why do you wish to escape?" asked the attorney-general.
"Because I feared being involved in the affairs of the Countess Lamotte," answered Retaux de Vilette, in low tones.
"Say rather you knew that you would be involved with them. You have at a previous examination deposed circumstantially, and you cannot take back what you testified then, for your denial would be of no avail. Answer, therefore: What have you done? Why were you afraid of being involved in the trial of Countess Lamotte?"
"Because I had done a great wrong," answered Retaux, with vehemence. "Because I had allowed myself to be led astray by the promises, the seductive arts, the deceptions of the countess. I was poor; I lived unseen and unnoticed, and I wished to be rich, honored, and distinguished. The countess promised me all this. She would persuade the cardinal to advance me to honor; she would introduce me to the court, and through her means I should become rich and sought after. I believed all this, and like her devoted slave I did all that she asked of me."
"Slavish soul!" cried the countess, with an expression of unspeakable scorn.
"What did the countess desire of you?" asked the president. "What did you do in her service?"
"I wrote the letters which were intended for the cardinal," answered Retaux de Vilette. "The countess composed them, and I wrote them in the handwriting of the queen."
"How did you know her handwriting?"
"The countess gave me a book in which a letter of the queen's was printed in exact imitation of her hand. I copied the letters as nearly as I could, and so worked out my sentences."
"He lies, he lies!" cried the countess, with a fierce gesture.
"And how was it with the promissory note to the jewellers, Bohmer and Bassenge? Do you know about that?"
"Yes," answered Retaux, with a sigh, "I do know about it, for I wrote it at the direction of the countess, and added the signature."
"Had you a copy?"
"Yes, the signature of the fac-simile."
"In the printed letter was there the subscription which you inserted?"
"No, there was only the name 'Marie Antoinette,' nothing further; but the countess thought that this was only a confidential way of writing her name, as a daughter might use it in a letter to a mother (it was a letter written by the queen to her mother), but that in a document of a more business-like character there must be an official signature. We had a long discussion about it, which resulted in our coming to the conclusion that the proper form would be 'Marie Antoinette of France.' So I practised this several times, and finally wrote it on the promissory note."
"He lies!" cried the countess, stamping on the floor. "He is a born liar and slanderer."
"I am prepared to show the proof at once that I speak the truth," said Retaux de Vilette. "If you will give me writing-materials I will write the signature of the queen in the manner in which it is written on the promissory note."
The president gave the order for the requisite articles to be brought and laid on a side-table. Retaux took the pen, and with a rapid hand wrote some words, which he gave to the officer to be carried to the president.
The latter took the paper and compared it with the words which were written on the promissory note. He then passed the two to the attorney-general, and he to the judge next to him. The papers passed from hand to hand, and, after they came back to the president again, he rose from his seat: "I believe that the characters on this paper precisely accord with those on the note. The witness has given what seems to me irrefutable testimony that he was the writer of that signature, as well as of the letters to the cardinal. He was the culpable instrument of the criminal Lamotte-Valois. Those of the judges who are of my opinion will rise."
The judges arose as one man.
The countess uttered a loud cry and fell, seized with fearful spasms, to the ground.
"I declare the investigation and hearings ended," said the president, covering his head. "Let the accused and the witnesses be removed, and the spectators' tribune be vacated. We will adjourn to the council-room to prepare the sentence, which will be given to- morrow."
BOOK II.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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7
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THE BAD OMEN
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The day was drawing to a close. That endlessly long day, that 31st of August, 1786, was coming to a conclusion. All Paris had awaited it with breathless excitement, with feverish impatience. No one had been able to attend to his business. The stores were closed, the workshops of the artisans were empty; even in the restaurants and cafes all was still; the cooks had nothing to do, and let the fire go out, for it seemed as if all Paris had lost its appetite--as if nobody had time to eat.
And in truth, on this day, Paris had no hunger for food that could satisfy the body. The city was hungry only for news, it longed for food which would satisfy its curiosity. And the news which would appease its craving was to come from the court-room of the prison! It was to that quarter that Paris looked for the stilling of its hunger, the satisfying of its desires.
The judges were assembled in the hall of the prison to pronounce the decisive sentence in the necklace trial, and to announce to all France, yes, all Europe, whether the Queen of France was innocent in the eyes of God and His representatives on earth, or whether a shade of suspicion was thenceforth to rest upon that lofty brow!
At a very early hour of the morning, half-past five, the judges of the high court of Parliament, forty-nine in number, gathered at the council-room in order to pronounce sentence. At the same early hour, an immense, closely-thronged crowd gathered in the broad square in front of the prison, and gazed in breathless expectation at the great gate of the building, hoping every minute that the judges would come out, and that they should learn the sentence.
But the day wore on, and still the gates remained shut; no news came from the council-room to enlighten the curiosity of the crowd that filled the square and the adjacent streets.
Here and there the people began to complain, and loud voices were heard grumbling at the protracted delay, the long deliberations of the judges. Here and there faces were seen full of scornful defiance, full of laughing malice, working their way through the crowd, and now and then dropping stinging words, which provoked to still greater impatience. All the orators of the clubs and of the secret societies were there among the crowd, all the secret and open enemies of the queen had sent their instruments thither to work upon the people with poisonous words and mocking observations, and to turn public opinion in advance against the queen, even in case the judges did not condemn her; that is, if they did not declare the cardinal innocent of conspiracy against the sovereign, and contempt of the majesty of the queen.
It was known that in his resume, the attorney-general had alluded to the punishment of the cardinal. That was the only news which had worked its way out of the court-room. Some favored journalist, or some friend of the queen, had heard this; it spread like the wind all over Paris, and in thousands upon thousands of copies the words of the attorney-general were distributed.
His address purported to run as follows: that "Cardinal de Rohan is indicted on the accusation, and must answer the Parliament and the attorney-general respecting the following charges: of audaciously mixing himself up with the affairs of the necklace, and still more audaciously in supposing that the queen would make an appointment with him by night; and that for this he would ask the pardon of the king and the queen in presence of the whole court. Further, the cardinal is enjoined to lay down his office as grand almoner within a certain time, to remove to a certain distance from the royal residence and not to visit the places where the royal family may be living, and lastly, to remain in prison till the complete termination of the trial."
The friends and dependants of the cardinal, the enemies and persecutors of the queen, received this decision of the attorney- general with vexation and anger; they found fault with the servility of the man who would suffer the law to bow before the throne; they made dishonorable remarks and calumnious innuendoes about the queen, who, with her coquetry and the amount received from the jewels, had gained over the judges, and who would, perhaps have appointed a rendezvous with every one of them in order to gain him over to her side.
"Even if the judges clear her," cried the sharp voice of Marat from the heart of the crowd, "the people will pass sentence upon her. The people are always right; the people cannot be bribed--they are like God in this; and the people will not disown their verdict before the beautiful eyes and the seductive smiles of the Austrian woman. The people will not be made fools of; they will not believe in the story of the counterfeited letters and the forged signature."
"No," shouted the crowd, laughing in derision, "we will not believe it. The queen wrote the letters; her majesty understands how to write love-letters!"
"The queen loves to have a hand in all kinds of nonsense," thundered the brewer Santerre, in another group. "She wanted to see whether a pretty girl from the street could play the part of the Queen of France, and at the same time she wanted to avenge herself upon the cardinal because she knew that he once found fault with her before her mother the empress, on account of her light and disreputable behavior, and the bad manners which, as the dauphiness, she would introduce into this court. Since then she has with her glances, her smiles, and her apparent anger, so worked upon the cardinal as to make him fall over ears in love with the beautiful, pouting queen. And that was just what she wanted, for now she could avenge herself. She appointed a rendezvous with the cardinal, and while she secretly looked on the scene in the thicket, she allowed the pretty Mademoiselle Oliva to play her part. And you see that it is not such a difficult thing to represent a queen, for Mademoiselle Oliva performed her part so well that the cardinal was deceived, and took a girl from the streets to be the Queen of France."
"Oh, better times are coming, better times are coming!" cried Simon the cobbler, who was close by, with his coarse laugh. "The cardinal took a girl from the streets for the Queen of France; but wait a little and we shall see the time when she will have to sweep the streets with a broom, that the noble people may walk across with dry feet!"
In the loud laugh with which the crowd greeted this remark of the cobbler, was mingled one single cry of anger, which, however, was overborne by the rough merriment of the mass. It came from the lips of a man in simple citizen's costume, who had plunged into the mob and worked his way forward with strong arms, in order to reach a place as near as possible to the entrance-door of the prison, and to be among the first to learn the impending sentence.
No one, as just said, had heard this cry; no one had troubled himself about this young man, with the bold defiant face, who, with shrugged shoulders, was listening to the malicious speeches which were uttered all around him, and who replied to them all with flaming looks of anger, pressing his lips closely together, in order to hold back the words which could hardly be suppressed.
He succeeded at last in reaching the very door of the prison, and stood directing his eyes thither with gloomy looks of curiosity.
His whole soul lay in this look; he heard nothing of the mocking speeches which echoed around him; he saw nothing of what took place about him. He saw only this fatal door; he only heard the noises which proceeded from within the prison.
At last, after long waiting, and when the sun had set, the door opened a little, and a man came out. The people who, at his appearance, had broken into a loud cry of delight, were silent when it was seen that it was not the officer who would announce the verdict with his stentorian voice, but that it was only one of the ordinary servants of the court, who had been keeping watch at the outer gate.
This man ascended with an indifferent air the steps of the staircase, and to the loud questions which were hurled at him by the crowd, whether the cardinal were declared innocent, he answered quietly, "I do not know. But I think the officer will soon make his appearance. My time is up, and I am going home, for I am half dead with hunger and thirst."
"Let the poor hungry man go through," cried the young man, pressing up to him. "Only see how exhausted he is. Come, old fellow, give me your hand; support yourself on me."
And he took the man by the arm, and with his powerful elbows forced a way through the crowd. The people let them pass, and directed their attention again to the door of the prison.
"The verdict is pronounced?" asked the young man, softly.
"Yes, Mr. Toulan," he whispered, "the councillor gave me just now, as I was handing him a glass of water, the paper on which he had written it."
"Give it to me, John, but so that nobody can see; otherwise they will suspect what the paper contains, and they will all grab at it and tear it in bits."
The servant slid, with a quick motion, a little folded paper into the hand of the young man, who thanked him for it with a nod and a smile, and then quickly dropped his arm, and forced his way in another direction through the crowd. Soon, thanks to his youth and his skill, he had worked through the dense mass; then with a flying step he sped through the street next to the square, then more swiftly still through the side streets and alleys, till he reached the gate that led out to the street of Versailles. Outside of this there was a young man in a blue blouse, who, in an idle and listless manner, was leading a bridled horse up and down the road.
"Halloo, Richard, come here!" cried the young man.
"Ah! Mr. Toulan," shouted the lad in the blouse, running up with the horse. "You have come at last, Mr. Toulan. I have been already waiting eight hours for you."
"I will give you a franc for every hour," said Mr. Toulan, swinging himself into the saddle. "Now go home, Richard, and greet my sweetheart, if you see her."
He gave his horse a smart stroke, pressed the spurs into his flanks, and the powerful creature sped like an arrow from a bow along the road to Versailles.
In Versailles, too, and in the royal palace, this day had been awaited with anxious expectations. The king, after ending his daily duties with his ministers, had gone to his workshop in order to work with his locksmith, Girard, upon a new lock, whose skilful construction was an invention of the king.
The queen, too, had not left her room the whole day, and even her friend, the Duchess Julia de Polignac, had not been able to cheer up the queen by her pleasant talk.
At last, when she saw that all her efforts were vain, and that nothing could dissipate the sadness of the queen, the duchess had made the proposition to go to Trianon, and there to call together the circle of her intimate friends.
But the queen sorrowfully shook her head, and gazed at the duchess with a troubled look.
"You speak of the circle of my friends," she said. "Ah! the circle of those whom I considered my friends is so rent and broken, that scarcely any torn fragments of it remain, and I fear to bring them together again, for I know that what once is broken cannot be mended again."
"And so does your majesty not believe in your friends any more?" asked the duchess, reproachfully. "Do you doubt us? Do you doubt me?"
"I do not doubt you all, and, before all things else, not you," said Marie Antoinette, with a lingering, tender look. "I only doubt the possibility of a queen's having faithful friends. I always forgot, when I was with my friends, that I was the queen, but they never forgot it."
"Madame, they ought never to forget it," replied the duchess, softly. "With all their love for your majesty, your friends ought never to forget that reverence is due you as much as love, and subjection as much as friendship. They ought never to make themselves your majesty's equals; and if your majesty, in the grace of your fair and gentle heart, designs to condescend to us and make yourself like us, yet we ought never to be so thoughtless as to raise ourselves to you, and want to make ourselves the equals of our queen."
"Oh, Julia! you pain me--you pain me unspeakably," sighed Marie Antoinette, pressing her hand to her heart, as if she wanted to keep back the tears which would mount into her eyes.
"Your majesty knows," continued the duchess, with her gentle, and yet terribly quiet manner, "your majesty knows how modestly I make use of the great confidence which you most graciously bestow upon me; how seldom and how tremblingly my lips venture to utter the dear name of my queen, of whom I may rightly talk only in intimate converse with your exalted mother and your royal husband. Your majesty knows further--" "Oh! I know all, all," interrupted the queen, sadly. "I know that it is not the part of a queen to be happy, to love, to be loved, to have friends. I know that you all, whom I have so tenderly loved, feel yourselves more terrified than benefited; I know, that with this confession, happiness has withdrawn from me. I look into the future and see the dark clouds which are descending, and threatening us with a tempest. I see all; I have no illusions more. The fair days are all past--the sunshine of Trianon, and the fragrance of its flowers."
"And will your majesty not go there to-day?" asked the duchess. "It is such beautiful weather, the sun shines so splendidly, and we shall have such a glorious sunset."
"A glorious sunset!" repeated Marie Antoinette, with a bitter smile. "A queen is at least allowed to see the sun go down; etiquette has not forbidden a queen to see the sun set and night approach. But the poor creature is not allowed to see the sun rise, and rejoice in the beauty of the dawn. I have once, since I was a queen, seen the sun rise, and all the world cried 'Murder,' and counted it a crime, and all France laughed at the epigrams and jests with which my friends punished me for the crime that the queen of France, with her court, had seen the sun rise. And now you want to allow me to see it set, but I will not; I will not look at this sad spectacle of coming night. In me it is night, and I feel the storms which are drawing nigh. Go, Julia, leave me alone, for you can see that there is nothing to be done with me to-day. I cannot laugh, I cannot be merry. Go, for my sadness might infect you, and that would make me doubly sad."
The duchess did not reply; she only made a deep reverence, and went with light, inaudible step over the carpet to the door. The queen's face had been turned away, but as the light sound of the door struck her ear, she turned quickly around and saw that she was alone.
"She has left me--she has really gone," sighed the queen, bitterly. "Oh! she is like all the rest, she never loved me. But who does love me?" asked she, in despair. "Who is there in the world that loves me, and forgets that I am the queen? My God! my heart cries for love, yearns for friendship, and has never found them. And they make this yearning of mine a crime; they accuse me that I have a heart. 0 my God! have pity upon me. Veil at least my eyes, that I may not see the faithlessness of my friends. Sustain at least my faith in the friendship of my Julia. Let me not have the bitterness of feeling that I am alone, inconsolably alone."
She pressed her hands before her face, and sank upon a chair, and sat long there, motionless, and wholly given over to her sad, bitter feelings.
After a long time she let her hands fall from her face, and looked around with a pained, confused look. The sun had gone down, it began to grow dark, and Marie Antoinette shuddered within herself.
"By this time the sentence has been pronounced," she muttered, softly. "By this time it is known whether the Queen of France can be slandered and insulted with impunity. Oh! if I only could be sure. Did not Campan say--I will go to Campan." And the queen rose quickly, went with a decisive step out of her cabinet; then through the toilet-room close by, and opened the door which led to the chamber of her first lady-in-waiting, Madame de Campan.
Madame de Campan stood at the window, and gazed with such a look of intense expectation out into the twilight, that she did not notice the entrance of the queen till the latter called her loudly by name.
"The queen!" cried she, drawing back terrified from the window. "The queen! and--here, in my room!"
Marie Antoinette made a movement of impatience. "You want to say that it is not becoming for a queen to enter the room of her trusted waiting-maid, that it is against etiquette. I know that indeed, but these are days, my good Campan, when etiquette has no power over us, and when, behind the royal purple, the poor human heart, in all its need, comes into the foreground. This is such a day for me, and as I know you are true, I have come to you. Did you not tell me, Campan, that you should receive the news as soon as the sentence was pronounced?"
"Yes, your majesty, I do hope to, and that is the reason why I am standing at the window looking for my messenger."
"How curious!" said the queen, thoughtfully. "They call me Queen of France, and yet I have no one who hastens to give me news of this important affair, while my waiting-maid has devoted friends, who do for her what no one does for the queen."
"I beg your majesty's pardon," answered Madame de Campan, smiling. "What they do to-day for me, they do only because I am the waiting- maid of the queen. I was yesterday at Councillor Bugeaud's, in order to pay my respects to the family after a long interval, for his wife is a cousin of mine."
"That means," said the queen, with a slight smile, "that you went there, not to visit your cousin, the councillor's wife, but to visit the councillor himself. Now confess, my good Campan, you wanted to do a little bribery."
"Well, I confess to your majesty, I wanted to see if it was really true that Councillor Bugeaud has gone over to the enemy. Your majesty knows that Madame de Marsan has visited all the councillors, and adjured them by God and the Holy Church, not to condemn the cardinal, but to declare him innocent."
"That is, they will free the cardinal that I may be condemned," said the queen, angrily. "For to free him is the same as to accuse me and have my honor tarnished."
"That was what I was saying to my cousin, Councillor Bugeaud, and happily I found supporters in his own family. Oh, I assure your majesty that in this family there are those who are devoted, heart and soul, to your majesty."
"Who are these persons?" asked the queen. "Name them to me, that in my sad hours I may remember them."
"There is, in the first place, the daughter of the councillor, the pretty Margaret, who is so enthusiastic for your majesty that she saves a part of her meagre pocket-money that she may ride over to Versailles at every great festival to see your majesty; and then particularly there is the lover of this little person, a young man named Toulan, a gifted, fine young fellow, who almost worships your majesty--he is the one who promised me to bring news at once after the sentence is pronounced, and it is more owing to his eloquence than to mine that Councillor Bugeaud saw the necessity of giving his vote against the cardinal and putting himself on the right side."
At this instant the door which led into the antechamber was hastily flung open, and a lackey entered.
"The gentleman whom you expected has just arrived," he announced.
"It is Mr. Toulan," whispered Madame de Campan to the queen; "he brings the sentence. Tell the gentleman," she then said aloud to the lackey, "to wait a moment in the antechamber; I will receive him directly.
"Go, I beg your majesty," she continued as the lackey withdrew, "I beg your majesty to graciously allow me to receive the young man here."
"That is to say, my dear Campan," said the queen, smiling, "to vacate the premises and leave the apartment. But I am not at all inclined to, I prefer to remain here. I want to see this young man of whom you say that he is such a faithful friend, and then I should like to know the news as soon as possible that he brings. See here, the chimney-screen is much taller than I, and if I go behind, the young man will have no suspicion of my presence, especially as it is dark. Now let him come in. I am most eager to hear the news."
The queen quickly stepped behind the high screen, and Madame Campan opened the door of the antechamber.
"Come in, Mr. Toulan," she cried, and at once there appeared at the open door the tall, powerful figure of the young man. His cheeks were heated with the quick ride, his eyes glowed, and his breathing was rapid and hard. Madame Campan extended her hand to him and greeted him with a friendly smile. "So you have kept your word, Mr. Toulan," she said. "You bring me the news of the court's decision?"
"Yes, madame, I do," he answered softly, and with a touch of sadness. "I am only sorry that you have had to wait so long, but it is not my fault. It was striking eight from the tower of St. Jacques when I received the news."
"Eight," asked Madame de Campan, looking at the clock, "it is now scarcely nine. You do not mean to say that you have ridden the eighteen miles from Paris to Versailles in an hour?"
"I have done it, and I assure you that is nothing wonderful. I had four fresh horses stationed along the road, and they were good ones. I fancied myself sometimes a bird flying through the air, and it seems to me now as if I had flown. I beg your pardon if I sit down in your presence, for my feet tremble a little."
"Do sit down, my dear young friend," cried Campan, and she hastened herself to place an easy-chair for the young man.
"Only an instant," he said, sinking into it. "But believe me it is not the quick ride that makes my feet tremble, but joy and excitement. I shall perhaps have the pleasure to have done the queen a little service, for you told me that it would be very important for her majesty to learn the verdict as quickly as possible, and no one has got here before me, has there?"
"No, my friend, the queen will learn the news first through your means, and I shall say to her majesty that I have learned it through you."
"No, madame," he cried, quickly, "no, I would much rather you would not tell the queen, for who knows whether the news is good, or whether it would not trouble the noble heart of the queen, and then my name, if she should learn it, would only be disagreeable to her-- rather that she should never hear it than that it should be connected with unpleasant associations to her."
"Then you do not know what the sentence is?" replied Campan, astonished. "Have you come to bring me the sentence, and yet do not know yourself what it is?"
"I do not know what it is, madame. The councillor, the father of my sweetheart, has sent it by me in writing, and I have not allowed myself to take time to read it. Perhaps, too, I was too cowardly for it, for if I had seen that it contained any thing that would trouble the queen, I should not have had courage to come here and deliver the paper to you. So I did not read it, and thought only of this, that I might perhaps save the queen a quarter of an hour's disquiet and anxious expectation. Here, madame, is the paper which contains the sentence. Take it to her majesty, and may the God of justice grant that it contain nothing which may trouble the queen!"
He stood up, and handed Madame de Campan a paper. "And now, madame," he continued, "allow me to retire, that I may return to Paris, for my sweetheart is expecting me, and, besides, they are expecting some disturbance in the city. I must go, therefore, to protect my house."
"Go, my young friend," said Madame de Campan, warmly pressing his hand. "Receive my heartiest thanks for your devotion, and be sure the queen shall hear of it. farewell, farewell!"
"No," cried Marie Antoinette, emerging from behind the screen with a laugh, "no, do not go, sir! Remain to receive your queen's thanks for the disinterested zeal which you have displayed for me this day."
"The queen!" whispered Toulan, turning pale, "the queen!"
And falling upon his knee he looked at the queen with such an expression of rapture and admiration that Marie Antoinette was touched.
"I have much to thank you for, Mr. Toulan," she said. "Not merely that you are the bearer of important news--I thank you besides for convincing me that the Queen of France has faithful and devoted friends, and to know this is so cheering to me that even if you bring me bad news, my sorrow will be softened by this knowledge. I thank you again, Mr. Toulan!"
Toulan perceived that the queen was dismissing him; he stood up and retreated to the door, his eyes fixed on the queen, and then, after opening the door, he sank, as it were, overcome by the storm of his emotions, a second time upon his knee, and folding his hands, raised his great, beaming eyes to heaven.
"God in heaven," he said loudly and solemnly, "I thank Thee for the joy of this hour. From this moment I devote myself to the service of my queen. She shall henceforth be the divinity whom I serve, and to whom I will, if I can avail any thing, freely offer my blood and life. This I swear, and God and the queen have heard my oath!"
And without casting another glance at the queen, without saluting her, Toulan rose and softly left the room, tightly closing the door after him.
"Singular," murmured the queen, "really singular. When he took the oath a shudder passed through my soul, and something seemed to say to me that I should some time be very unhappy, and that this young man should then be near me."
"Your majesty is excited to-day, and so every thing seems to have a sad meaning," said Madame de Campan, softly.
"But the sentence, the sentence!" cried the queen. "Give me the paper, I will read it myself."
Madame de Campan hesitated. "Would your majesty not prefer to receive it in the presence of the king, and have it read by his majesty?"
"No, no, Campan. If it is favorable, I shall have pleasure in carrying the good news to the king. If it is unfavorable, then I can collect myself before I see him."
"But it is so dark here now that it will be impossible to read writing."
"You are right, let us go into my sitting-room," said the queen. "The candles must be lighted there already. Come, Campan, since I am indebted to you for this early message, you shall be the first to learn it. Come, Campan, go with me!"
With a quick step the queen returned to her apartments, and entered her sitting-room, followed by Madame de Campan, whose countenance was filled with sad forebodings. The queen was right; the candles had already been lighted in her apartments, and diffused a light like that of day throughout her large sitting-room. In the little porcelain cabinet, however, there was a milder light, as Marie Antoinette liked to have it when she was alone and sans ceremonial. The candles on the main chandelier were not lighted, and on the table of Sevres china and rosewood which stood before the divan were two silver candlesticks, each with two wax candles. These four were the only lights in the apartment.
"Now, Campan," said the queen, sinking into the armchair which stood before the table, near the divan, "now give me the paper. But no, you would better read it to me--but exactly as it stands. You promise me that?"
"Your majesty has commanded, and I must obey," said Campan, bowing.
"Read, read," urged Marie Antoinette. "Let me know the sentence."
Madame de Campan unfolded the paper, and went nearer to the light in order to see better. Marie Antoinette leaned forward, folded both hands in her lap, and looked at Campan with an expression of eager expectation.
"Read, read!" she repeated, with trembling lips. Madame de Campan bowed and read: "First. --The writing, the basis of the trial, the note and signatures, are declared to be forged in imitation of the queen's hand.
"Second. --Count Lamotte is sentenced in contumacion to the galleys for life.
"Third. --The woman Lamotte to be whipped, marked on both shoulders with the letter O, and to be confined for life.
"Fourth. --Retaux de Vilette to be banished for life from France.
"Fifth. --Mademoiselle Oliva is discharged.
"Sixth. --The lord cardinal--" "Well," cried the queen, passionately, "why do you stammer, why do you tremble? He has been discharged; I know it already, for we are already at the names of the acquitted. Read on, Campan."
And Madame de Campan read on: "The lord cardinal is acquitted from every charge, and is allowed to publish this acquittal."
"Acquitted!" cried the queen, springing from her seat, "acquitted! Oh, Campan, what I feared is true. The Queen of France has become the victim of cabals and intrigues. The Queen of France in her honor, dignity, and virtue, is injured and wounded by one of her own subjects, and there is no punishment for him; he is free. Pity me, Campan! But no, on the contrary, I pity you, I pity France! If I can have no impartial judges in a matter which darkens my character, what can you, what can all others hope for, when you are tried in a matter which touches your happiness and honor? [Footnote: The very words of the queen See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii., o. 23.] I am sad, sad in my inmost soul, and it seems to me as if this instant were to overshadow my whole life; as if the shades of night had fallen upon me, and--what is that? Did you blow out the light, Campan?"
"Your majesty sees that I am standing entirely away from the lights."
"But only see," cried the queen, "one of the candles is put out!"
"It is true," said Madame de Campan, looking at the light, over which a bluish cloud was yet hovering. "The light is put out, but if your majesty allows me, I--" She was silent, and her bearing assumed the appearance of amazement and horror.
The candle which had been burning in the other arm of the candlestick went out like the one before.
The queen said not a word. She gazed with pale lips and wide-opened eyes at both the lights, the last spark of which had just disappeared.
"Will your majesty allow me to light the candles again?" asked Madame de Campan, extending her hand to the candlestick.
But the queen held her hand fast. "Let them be," she whispered, "I want to see whether both the other lights--" Suddenly she was convulsed, and, rising slowly from her arm-chair, pointed with silent amazement at the second candlestick.
One of the two other lights had gone out.
Only one was now burning, and dark shadows filled the cabinet. The one light faintly illumined only the centre, and shone with its glare upon the pale, horrified face of the queen.
"Campan," she whispered, raising her arm, and pointing at the single light which remained burning, "if this fourth light goes out like the other three, it is a bad omen for me, and forebodes the approach of misfortune."
At this instant the light flared up and illumined the room more distinctly, then its flame began to die away. One flare more and this light went out, and a deep darkness reigned in the cabinet.
The queen uttered a loud, piercing cry, and sank in a swoon.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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8
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BEFORE THE MARRIAGE.
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The wedding guests were assembled. Madame Bugeaud had just put the veil upon the head of her daughter Margaret, and impressed upon her forehead the last kiss of motherly love. It was the hour when a mother holds her daughter as a child in her arms for the last time, bids adieu to the pleasant pictures of the past, and sends her child from her parents' house to go out into the world and seek a new home. Painful always is such an hour to a mother's heart, for the future is uncertain; no one knows any thing about the new vicissitudes that may arise.
And painful, too, to the wife of Councillor Bugeaud was this parting from her dearly-loved daughter, but she suppressed her deep emotion, restrained the tears in her heart, that not one should fall upon the bridal wreath of her loved daughter. Tears dropped upon the bridal wreath are the heralds of coming misfortune, the seal of pain which destiny stamps upon the brow of the doomed one.
And the tender mother would so gladly have taken away from her loved Margaret every pain and every misfortune! The times were threatening, and the horizon of the present was so full of stormy signs that it was necessary to look into the future with hope.
"Go, my daughter," said Madame Bugeaud, with a smile, regarding which only God knew how much it cost the mother's heart--" go out into your new world, be happy, and may you never regret the moment when yon left the threshold of your father's house to enter a new home!"
"My dear mother," cried Margaret, with beaming eyes, "the house to which I am going is the house of him I love, and my new home is his heart, which is noble, great, and good, and in which all the treasures in the earth for me rest."
"God grant, my daughter, that you may after many years be able to repeat those words!"
"I shall repeat them, mother, for in my heart is a joyful trust. I can never be unhappy, for Toulan loves me. But, hark! I hear him coming; it is his step, and listen! he is calling me!"
And the young girl, with reddening cheeks, directed her glowing eyes to the door, which just then opened, where appeared her lover, in a simple, dark, holiday-suit, with a friendly, grave countenance, his tender, beaming eyes turned toward his affianced.
He hastened to her, and kissed the little trembling hand which was extended to him.
"All the wedding guests are ready, my love. The carriages are waiting, and as soon as we enter the church the clergyman will advance to the altar to perform the ceremony."
"Then let us go, Louis," said Margaret, nodding to him, and arm-in- arm they went to the door.
But Toulan held back. "Not yet, my dear one. Before we go to the church, I want to have a few words with you."
"That is to say, my dear sir, that you would like to have me withdraw," said the mother, with a smile. "Do not apologize, my son, that is only natural, and I dare not be jealous. My daughter belongs to you, and I have no longer the right to press into your secrets. So I will withdraw, and only God may hear what the lover has to say to his affianced before the wedding."
She nodded in friendly fashion to the couple, and left the room.
"We are now alone, my Margaret," said Toulan, putting his arm around the neck of the fair young maiden, and drawing her to himself. "Only God is to hear what I have to say to you."
"I hope, Louis," whispered the young girl, trembling, "I hope it is not bad news that you want to tell me. Your face is so grave, your whole look so solemn. You love me still, Louis?"
"Yes, Margaret, I do love you," answered he, softly; "but yet, before you speak the word which binds you to me forever, I must open my whole heart to you, and you must know all I feel, in order that, if there is a future to prove us, we may meet it with fixed gaze and joyful spirit."
"My God! what have I to hear?" whispered the young girl, pressing her hand to her heart, that began to beat with unwonted violence.
"You will have to hear, my Margaret, that I love you, and yet that the image of another woman is cherished in my heart."
"Who is this other woman?" cried Margaret.
"Margaret, it is Queen Marie Antoinette."
The girl breathed freely, and laughed. "Ah! how you frightened me, Louis. I was afraid you were going to name a rival, and now you mention her whom I, too, love and honor, to whom I pay my whole tribute of admiration, and who, although you ought to live there alone, has a place in my heart. I shall never be jealous of the queen. I love her just as devotedly as you do."
A light, sympathetic smile played upon the lips of Toulan. "No, Margaret," said he, gravely, "you do not love her as I do, and you cannot, for your duty to her is not like mine. Listen, my darling, and I will tell you a little story--a story which is so sacred to me that it has never passed over my lips, although, according to the ways of human thinking, there is nothing so very strange about it. Come, my dear, sit down with me a little while, and listen to me."
He led the maiden to the little divan, and took a place with her upon it. Her hand lay within his, and with a joyful and tender look she gazed into the bold, noble, and good face of the man to whom she was ready to devote her whole life.
"Speak now, Louis, I will listen!"
"I want to tell you of my father, Margaret," said the young man, with a gentle voice--" of my father, who thirsted and hungered for me, in his efforts to feed, clothe, and educate me. He had been an officer in the army, had distinguished himself in many a battle, was decorated, on account of his bravery, with the Order of St. Louis, and discharged as an invalid. That was a sad misfortune for my father, for he was poor, and his officer's pay was his only fortune. But no--he had a nobler, a fairer fortune--he had a wife whom he passionately loved, a little boy whom he adored. And now the means of existence were taken away from this loved wife, this dear boy, and from him whose service had been the offering of his life for his king and country, the storming of fortifications, the defying of the bayonets of enemies; and who in this service had been so severely wounded, that his life was saved only by the amputation of his right arm. Had it not been just this right arm, he would have been able to do something for himself, and to have found some employment in the government service. But now he was robbed of all hope of employment; now he saw for himself and his family only destruction, starvation! But he could not believe it possible; he held it to be impossible that the king should allow his bold soldier, his knight of the Order of St. Louis, to die of hunger, after becoming a cripple in his service. He resolved to go to Paris, to declare his need to the king, and to implore the royal bounty. This journey was the last hope of the family, and my father was just entering on it when my mother sickened and died. She was the prop, the right arm of my father; she was the nurse, the teacher of his poor boy; now he had no hope more, except in the favor of the king and in death. The last valuables were sold, and father and son journeyed to Paris: an invalid whose bravery had cost him an arm, and whose tears over a lost wife had nearly cost him his eyesight, and a lad of twelve years, acquainted only with pain and want from his birth, and in whose heart, notwithstanding, there was an inextinguishable germ of hope, spirit, and joy. We went on foot, and when my shoes were torn with the long march, my feet swollen and bloody, my father told me to climb upon his back and let him carry me. I would not allow it, Suppressed my pain, and went on till I dropped in a swoon."
"Oh!" cried Margaret, with tears in her eyes, "how much you have suffered; and I am learning it now for the first time, and you never told me this sad history."
"I forgot every thing sad when I began to love you, Margaret, and I did not want to trouble you with my stories. Why should we darken the clear sky of the present with the clouds of the past? the future will unquestionably bring its own clouds. I tell you all this now, in order that you may understand my feelings. Now hear me further, Margaret! At last, after long-continued efforts, we reached Versailles, and it seemed to us as if all suffering and want were taken away from us when we found ourselves in a dark, poor inn, and lay down on the hard beds. On the next, my father put on his uniform, decorated his breast with the order of St. Louis, and, as the pain in his eyes prevented his going alone, I had to accompany him. We repaired to the palace and entered the great gallery which the court daily traversed on returning from mass in the royal apartments. My father, holding in his hand the petition which I had written to his dictation, took his place near the door through which the royal couple must pass. I stood near him and looked with curious eyes at the brilliant throng which filled the great hall, and at the richly-dressed gentlemen who were present and held petitions in their hands, in spite of their cheerful looks and their fine clothes. And these gentlemen crowded in front of my father, shoved him to the wall, hid him from the eye of the king, who passed through the hall at the side of the queen, and with a pleasant face received all the petitions which were handed to him. Sadly we turned home, but on the following day we repaired to the gallery again, and I had the courage to crowd back some of the elegantly-dressed men who wanted to press before my father, and to secure for him a place in the front row. I was rewarded for my boldness. The king came, and with a gracious smile took the petition from the hand of my father, and laid it in the silver basket which the almoner near him carried."
"Thank God," cried Margaret, with a sigh of relief, "thank God, you were saved!"
"That we said too, Margaret, and that restored my father's hope and made him again happy and well. We went the next day to the gallery. The king appeared, the grand almoner announced the names of those who were to receive answers to their petitions--the name of my father was not among them! But we comforted ourselves with the thought, it was not possible to receive answers so quickly, and on the next day we went to the gallery again, and so on for fourteen successive days, but all in vain; the name of my father was never called. Still we went every day to the gallery and took our old place there, only the countenance of my father was daily growing paler, his step weaker, and his poor boy more trustless and weak. We had no longer the means of stilling our hunger, we had consumed every thing, and my father's cross of St. Louis was our last possession. But that we dared not part with, for it was our passport to the palace, it opened to us the doors of the great gallery, and there was still one last hope. 'We go to-morrow for the last time,' said my father to me on the fifteenth day. 'If it should be in vain on the morrow, then I shall sell my cross, that you, Louis, may not need to be hungry any more, and then may God have mercy upon us!' So we went the next day to the gallery again. My father was to-day paler than before, but he held his head erect; he fixed his eye, full of an expression of defiance and scorn, upon the talkative, laughing gentlemen around him, who strutted in their rich clothes, and overlooked the poor chevalier who stood near them, despised and alone. In my poor boy's heart there was a fearful rage against these proud, supercilious men, who thought themselves so grand because they wore better clothes, and because they had distinguished acquaintances and relations, and yet were no more than my father--no more than suppliants and petitioners; tears of anger and of grief filled my eyes, and the depth of our poverty exasperated my soul against the injustice of fate. All at once the whispering and talking ceased,--the king and the queen had entered the gallery. The king advanced to the middle of the hall, the grand almoner called the names, and the favored ones approached the king, to receive from him the fulfilment of their wishes, or at least keep their hope alive. Near him stood the young queen, and while she was converging with some gentlemen of the court, her beautiful eyes glanced over to us, and lingered upon the noble but sad form of my father. I had noticed that on previous days, and every time it seemed to me as if a ray from the sun had warmed my poor trembling heart--as if new blossoms of hope were putting forth in my soul. To-day this sensation, when the queen looked at us, was more intense than before. My father looked at the king and whispered softly, 'I see him to-day for the last time!' But I saw only the queen, and while I pressed the cold, moist hand of my father to my lips, I whispered, 'Courage, dear father, courage! The queen has seen us.' She stopped short in her conversation with the gentleman and advanced through the hall with a quick, light step directly to us; her large gray- blue eyes beamed with kindness, a heavenly smile played around her rosy lips, her cheeks were flushed with feeling; she was simply dressed, and yet there floated around her an atmosphere of grace and nobleness. 'My dear chevalier,' said she, and her voice rang like the sweetest music, 'my dear chevalier, have you given a petition to the king?' 'Yes, madame,' answered my father trembling, 'fourteen days ago I presented a petition to the king.' 'And have you received no answer yet?' she asked quickly. 'I see you every day here with the lad there, and conclude you are still hoping for an answer.' 'So it is, madame,' answered my father, 'I expect an answer, that is I expect a decision involving my life or death.' 'Poor man!' said the queen, with a tone of deep sympathy. 'Fourteen days of such waiting must be dreadful! I pity you sincerely. Have you no one to present your claims?' 'Madame,' answered my father, 'I have no one else to present my claims than this empty sleeve which lacks a right arm--no other protection than the justice of my cause.' 'Poor man!' sighed the queen, 'you must know the world very little if you believe that this is enough. But, if you allow me, I will undertake your protection, and be your intercessor with the king. Tell me your name and address.' My father gave them, the queen listened attentively and smiled in friendly fashion. 'Be here to-morrow at this hour--I myself will bring you the king's answer.' We left the palace with new courage, with new hope. We felt no longer that we were tired and hungry, and heeded not the complaints of our host, who declared that he had no more patience, and that he would no longer give us credit for the miserable chamber which we had. His scolding and threatening troubled us that day no more. We begged him to have patience with us till to-morrow. We told him our hopes for the future, and we rejoiced in our own cheerful expectations. At length the next day arrived, the hour of the audience came, and we repaired to the great gallery. My heart beat so violently that I could feel it upon my lips, and my father's face was lighted up with a glow of hope; his eye had its old fire, his whole being was filled with new life, his carriage erect as in our happy days. At last the doors opened and the royal couple entered. 'Pray for me, my son,' my father whispered--'pray for me that my hopes be not disappointed, else I shall fall dead to the earth.' But I could not pray, I could not think. I could only gaze at the beautiful young queen, who seemed to my eyes as if beaming in a golden cloud surrounded by all the stars of heaven. The eyes of the queen darted inquiringly through the hall; at last she caught mine and smiled. Oh that smile! it shot like a ray of sunlight through my soul, it filled my whole being with rapture. I sank upon my knee, folded my hands, and now I could think, could pray: 'A blessing upon the queen! she comes to save my dear father's life, for she frees us from our sufferings.' The queen approached, so beautiful, so lovely, with such a beaming eye. She held a sealed paper in her hand and gave it to my father with a gentle inclination of her head. 'Here, sir,' she said, 'the king is happy to be able to reward, in the name of France, one of his best officers. The king grants you a yearly pension of three hundred louis-d'or, and I wish for you and your son that you may live yet many years to enjoy happiness and health. Go at once with this paper to the treasury, and you will receive the first quarterly payment.' Then, when she saw that my father was almost swooning, she summoned with a loud voice some gentlemen of the court, and commanded them to take care of my father; to take him out into the fresh air, and to arrange that he be sent home in a carriage. Now all these fine gentlemen were busy in helping us. Every one vied with the others in being friendly to us; and the poor neglected invalid who had been crowded to the wall, the overlooked officer Toulan, was now an object of universal care and attention. We rode home to our inn in a royal carriage, and the host did not grumble any longer; he was anxious to procure us food, and very active in caring for all our needs. The queen had saved us from misfortune, the queen had made us happy and well to do."
"A blessing upon the dear head of our queen!" cried Margaret, raising her folded hands to heaven. "Now I shall doubly love her, for she is the benefactor of him I love. Oh, why have you waited until now before telling me this beautiful, touching story? Why have I not enjoyed it before? But I thank you from my heart for the good which it has done me."
"My dear one," answered Toulan, gravely, "there are experiences in the human soul that one may reveal only in the most momentous epochs of life--just as in the Jewish temple the Holy of Holies was revealed only on the chief feast-days. Such a time, my dear one, is to-day, and I withdraw all veils from my heart, and let you see and know what, besides you, only God sees and knows. Since that day when I returned with my father from the palace, and when the queen had made us happy again--since that day my whole soul has belonged to the queen. I thanked her for all, for the contentment of my father, for every cheerful hour which we spent together; and all the knowledge I have gained, all the studies I have attempted, I owe to the beautiful, noble Marie Antoinette. We went to our home, and I entered the high-school in order to fit myself to be a merchant, a bookseller. My father had enjoined upon me riot to choose a soldier's lot. The sad experience of his invalid life hung over him like a dark cloud, and he did not wish that I should ever enter into the same. 'Be an independent, free man,' said he to me. 'Learn to depend on your own strength and your own will alone. Use the powers of your mind, become a soldier of labor, and so serve your country. I know, indeed, that if the hour of danger ever comes, you will be a true, bold soldier for your queen, and fight for her till your last breath.' I had to promise him on his death-bed that I would so do. Even then he saw the dark and dangerous days approach, which have now broken upon the realm--even then he heard the muttering of the tempest which now so inevitably is approaching; and often when I went home to his silent chamber I found him reading, with tears in his eyes, the pamphlets and journals which had come from Paris to us at Rouen, and which seemed to us like the storm-birds announcing the tempest. 'The queen is so good, so innocent,' he would sigh, 'and they make her goodness a crime and her innocence they make guilt! She is like a lamb, surrounded by tigers, that plays thoughtlessly with the flowers, and does not know the poison that lurks beneath them. Swear to me, Louis, that you will seek, if God gives you the power, to free the lamb from the bloodthirsty tigers. Swear to me that your whole life shall be devoted to her service.' And I did swear it, Margaret, not merely to my dear father, but to myself as well. Every day I have repeated, 'To Queen Marie Antoinette belongs my life, for every thing that makes life valuable I owe to her.' "When my father died, I left Rouen and removed to Paris, there to pursue my business as a bookseller. My suspicions told me that the time would soon come when the friends of the queen must rally around her, and must perhaps put a mask over their faces, in order to sustain themselves until the days of real danger. That time has now come, Margaret; the queen is in danger! The tigers have surrounded the lamb, and it cannot escape. Enemies everywhere, wherever you look! --enemies even in the palace itself. The Count de Provence, her own brother-in-law, has for years persecuted her with his epigrams, because he cannot forgive it in her that the king pays more attention to her counsels than he does to those of his brother, who hates the Austrian. The Count d'Artois, formerly the only friend of Marie Antoinette in the royal family, deserted her when the queen took ground against the view of the king's brothers in favor of the double representation of the Third Estate, and persuaded her husband to comply with the wishes of the nation and call together the States-General. He has gone over to the camp of her enemies, and rages against the queen, because she is inclined to favor the wishes of the people. And yet this very people is turned against her, does not believe in the love, but only in the hate of the queen, and all parties are agreed in keeping the people in this faith. The Duke d'Orleans revenges himself upon the innocent and pure queen for the scorn which she displays to this infamous prince. The aunts of the queen revenge themselves for the obscure position to which fate has consigned them, they having to play the second part at the brilliant court of Versailles, and be thrown into the shade by Marie Antoinette. The whole court--all these jealous, envious ladies-- revenge themselves for the favor which the queen has shown to the Polignacs. They have undermined her good name; they have fought against her with the poisoned arrows of denunciation, calumny, pamphlets, and libels. Every thing bad that has happened has been ascribed to her. She has been held responsible for every evil that has happened to the nation.
The queen is accountable for the financial troubles that have broken over us, and since the ministry have declared the state bankrupt, Parisians call the queen Madame Deficit. Curses follow her when she drives out, and even when she enters the theatre. Even in her own gardens of St. Cloud and Trianon men dare to insult the queen as she passes by. In all the clubs of Paris they thunder at the queen, and call her the destruction of Prance. The downfall of Marie Antoinette is resolved upon by her enemies, and the time has come when her friends must be active for her. The time has come for me to pay the vow which I made to my dying father and to myself. God has blessed my efforts and crowned my industry and activity with success. I have reached an independent position. The confidence of my fellow- citizens has made me a councillor. I have accepted the position, not out of vanity or ambition, but because it will give me opportunity to serve the queen. I wear a mask before my face. I belong to the democrats and agitators. I appear to the world as an enemy of the queen, in order to be able to do her some secret service as a friend; for I say to you, and repeat it before God, to the queen belong my whole life, my whole being, and thought. I love you, Margaret! Every thing which can make my life happy will come from you, and yet I shall be ready every hour to leave you--to see my happiness go to ruin without a complaint, without a sigh, if I can be of service to the queen. You my heart loves; her my soul adores. Wherever I shall be, Margaret, if the call of the queen comes to me, I shall follow it, even if I know that death lurks at the door behind which the queen awaits me. We stand before a dark and tempestuous time, and our country is to be torn with fearful strife. All passions are unfettered, all want to fight for freedom, and against the chains with which the royal government has held them bound. An abyss has opened between the crown and the nation, and the States-General and the Third Estate will not close it, but only widen it. I tell you, Margaret, dark days are approaching; I see them coming, and I cannot, for your sake, withdraw from them, for I am the soldier of the queen. I must keep guard before her door, and, if I cannot save her, I must die in her service. Know this, Margaret, but know, too, that I love you. Let me repeat, that from you alone all fortune and happiness can come to me, and then do you decide. Will you, after all that I have told you, still accept my hand, which I offer you in tenderest affection? Will you be my wife, knowing that my life belongs not to you alone, but still more to another? Will you share with me the dangers of a stormy time, of an inevitable future with me, and devote yourself with, me to the service of the queen? Examine yourself, Margaret, before you answer. Do not forget your great and noble heart; consider that it is a vast sacrifice to devote your life to a man who is prepared every hour to give his life for another woman--to leave the one he loves, and to go to his death in defence of his queen. Prove your heart; and, if you find that the sacrifice is too great, turn your face away from me, and I will quickly go my way--will not complain, will think that it happens rightly, will love you my whole life long, and thank you for the pleasant hours which your love has granted to me."
He had dropped from the divan upon his knee, and looked up to her with supplicating and anxious eyes. But Margaret did not turn her face away from him. A heavenly smile played over her features, her eye beamed with love and emotion. And as her glance sank deep into the heart of her lover, he caught the look as if it had been a ray of sunlight. She laid her arms upon his shoulders, and pressing his head to her bosom, she bowed over him and kissed his black, curly hair.
"Ah! I love you, Louis," she whispered. "I am ready to devote my life to you, to share your dangers with you, and in all contests to stand by your side. Soldier of the queen, in me you shall always have a comrade. With you I will fight for her, with you die for her, if it must be. We will have a common love for her, we will serve her in common, and with fidelity and love thank her for the good which she has done to you and your father."
"Blessings upon you, Margaret!" cried Toulan, as breaking into tears he rested his head upon the knee of his affianced. "Blessings on you, angel of my love and happiness!" Then he sprang up, and, drawing the young girl within his arms, he impressed a glowing kiss upon her lips.
"That is my betrothal kiss, Margaret; now you are mine; in this hour our souls are united in never-ending love and faithfulness. Nothing can separate us after this, for we journey hand in hand upon the same road; we have the same great and hallowed goal! Now come, my love, let us take our place before the altar of God, and testify with an oath to the love which we cherish toward our queen!"
He offered her his arm, and, both smiling, both with beaming faces, left the room, and joined the wedding guests who had long been waiting for them with growing impatience. They entered the carriages and drove to the church. With joyful faces the bridal pair pledged their mutual fidelity before the altar, and their hands pressed one another, and their eyes met with a secret understanding of all that was meant at that wedding. They both knew that at that moment they were pledging their fidelity to the queen, and that, while seeming to give themselves away to each other, they were really giving themselves to their sovereign.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, they left the church of St. Louis to repair to the wedding dinner, which Councillor Bugeaud had ordered to be prepared in one of the most brilliant restaurants of Versailles.
"Will you not tell me now, my dear son," he said to Toulan--"will you not tell me now why you wish so strongly to celebrate the wedding in Versailles, and not in Paris, and why in the church of St. Louis?"
"I will tell you, father," answered Toulan, pressing the arm of his bride closer to his heart. "I wanted here, where the country erects its altar, where in a few days the nation will meet face to face these poor earthly majesties; here, where in a few days the States- General will convene, to defend the right of the people against the prerogative of the sovereign, here alone to give to my life its new consecration. Versailles will from this time be doubly dear to me. I shall owe to it my life's happiness as a man, my freedom as a citizen. They have done me the honor in Rouen to elect me to a place in the Third Estate, and as, in a few days, the Assembly of the Nation will meet here in Versailles, I wanted my whole future happiness to be connected with the place. And I wanted to be married in St. Louis's church, because I love the good King Louis. He is the true and sincere friend of the nation, and he would like to make his people happy, if the queen, the Austrian, would allow it."
"Yes, indeed," sighed the councillor, who, in spite of his relation to Madame de Campan, belonged to the opponents of the queen--" yes, indeed, if the Austrian woman allowed it. But she is not willing that France should be happy. Woe to the queen; all our misery comes from her!
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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9
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THE OPENING OF THE STATES-GENERAL.
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On the morning of the 5th of May, 1789, the solemn opening of the States-General of France was to occur at Versailles. This early date was appointed for the convocation of the estates, in order to be able to protract as much as possible the ceremonial proceedings. But at the same time this occasion was to be improved in preparing a sensible humiliation for the members of the Third Estate.
In the avenue of the Versailles palace a large and fine hall was fixed upon as the most appropriate place for receiving the twelve hundred representatives of France, and a numerous company of spectators besides; and, being chosen, was appropriately fitted up. Louis XVI. himself, who was very fond of sketching and drawing architectural plans, had busied himself in the most zealous way with the arrangements and decorations of the hall.
It had long been a matter of special interest to the king to fit up the room which was to receive the representatives of the nation, in a manner which would be worthy of so significant an occasion. He had himself selected the hangings and the curtains which were to protect the audience from the too glaring light of the day.
When the members of the Third Estate arrived, they saw with the greatest astonishment that they were not to enter the hall by the same entrance which was appropriated to the representatives of the nobility and the clergy, who were chosen at the same time with themselves. While for the last two the entrance was appointed through the main door of the hall, the commoners were allowed to enter by a rear door, opening into a dark and narrow corridor, where, crowded together, they were compelled to wait till the doors were opened.
Almost two hours elapsed before they were allowed to pass out of this dark place of confinement into the great hall, at a signal from the Marquis de Brize, the master of ceremonies.
A splendid scene now greeted their eyes. The Salle de Menus, which had been fitted up for the reception of the nobility, displayed within two rows of Ionic pillars, which gave to the hall an unwonted air of dignity and solemnity. The hall was lighted mainly from above, through a skylight, which was covered with a screen of white sarcenet. A gentle light diffused itself throughout the room, making one object as discernible as another. In the background the throne could be seen on a richly ornamented estrade and beneath a gilded canopy, an easy-chair for the queen, tabourets for the princesses, and chairs for the other members of the royal family. Below the estrade stood the bench devoted to the ministers and the secretaries of state. At the right of the throne, seats had been placed for the clergy, on the left for the nobility; while in front were the six hundred chairs devoted to the Third Estate.
The Marquis de Brize, with two assistant masters of ceremonies, now began to assign the commoners to their seats, in accordance with the situation of the districts which they represented.
As the Duke d'Orleans appeared in the midst of the other deputies of Crespy, there arose from the amphitheatre, where the spectators sat, a gentle sound of applause, which increased in volume, and was repeated by some of the commoners, when it was noticed that the duke made a clergyman, who had gone behind him in the delegation from this district, go in front of him, and did not desist till the round-bellied priest had really taken his place before him. In the mean time the bench of the ministers had begun to fill. They appeared as a body, clothed in rich uniforms, heavy with gold. Only one single man among them appeared in simple citizen's clothing, and bearing himself as naturally as if he were engaged in business of the state, or in ordinary parlor conversation, and by no means as if taking part in an extraordinary solemnity. As soon as he was seen, there arose on all sides, as much in the assembly as on the tribune, a movement as of joy which culminated in a general clapping of hands.
The man who received this salutation was the newly-appointed minister of finance, Necker, to whom the nation was looking for a reestablishment of its prosperity and of its credit.
Necker manifested only by a thoughtful smile, which mounted to his earnest, thought-furrowed face, that he was conscious to whom the garland of supreme popularity was extended at this moment.
Next, the deputation of Provence appeared, in the midst of which towered Count Mirabeau, with his proud, erect bearing, advancing to take the place appointed for him. His appearance was the sign for a few hands to commence clapping in a distant part of the hall, in honor of a man so much talked of in Prance, and of whom such strange things were said. But at this instant the king appeared, accompanied by the queen, followed by the princes and princesses of the royal family.
At the entrance of the king, the whole assembly broke into a loud, enthusiastic shout of applause and of joy. The Third Estate as well, at a signal from Count Mirabeau, had quickly risen, but continued to stand without bending the knee, as had been, at the last time when all the estate were assembled, the invariable rule. Only one of the representatives of the Third Estate, a young man with energetic, proud face, and dark, glowing eyes, bent his knee when he saw the queen entering behind the king. But the powerful hand of his neighbor was laid upon his shoulder and drew him quickly up.
"Mr. Deputy," whispered this neighbor to him, "it becomes the representatives of the nation to stand erect before the crown."
"It is true, Count Mirabeau," answered Toulan. "I did not bend my knee to the crown, but to the queen as, a beautiful woman."
Mirabeau made no reply, but turned his flaming eyes to the king.
Louis XVI. appeared that day arrayed in the great royal ermine, and wore upon his head a plumed hat, whose band glistened with great diamonds, while the largest in the royal possession, the so-called Titt, formed the centre, and threw its rays far and wide. The king appeared at the outset to be deeply moved at the reception which had been given him. A smile, indicating that his feelings were touched, played upon his face. But afterward, when all was still, and the king saw the grave, manly, marked faces of the commoners opposite him, his manner became confused, and for an instant he seemed to tremble.
The queen, however, looked around her with a calm and self-possessed survey. Her fine eyes swept slowly and searchingly over the rows of grave men who sat opposite the royal couple, and dwelt a moment on Toulan, as if she recalled in him the young man who, two years before, had brought the message of Cardinal Rohan's acquittal. A painful smile shot for an instant over her fine features. Yes, she had recognized him; the young man who, at Madame de Campan's room, had sworn a vow of eternal fidelity to her. And now he sat opposite her, on the benches of the commoners, among her enemies, who gazed at her with angry looks. That was his way of fulfilling the vow which he had made of his own free will!
But Marie Antoinette wondered at nothing now; she had witnessed the falling away of so many friends, she had been forsaken by so many who were closely associated with her, and who were indebted to her, that it caused her no surprise that the young man who hardly knew her, who had admired her in a fit of youthful rapture, had done like all the rest in joining the number of her enemies.
Marie Antoinette sadly let her eyes fall. She could look at nothing more; she had in this solemn moment received a new wound, seen a new deserter!
Toulan read her thoughts in her sad mien, on her throbbing forehead, but his own countenance remained cheerful and bright.
"She will live to see the day when she will confess that I am her friend, am true to her," he said to himself. "And on that day I shall be repaid for the dagger-thrusts which I have just received from her eyes. Courage, Toulan, courage! Hold up your head and be strong. The contest has begun; you must fight it through or die!"
But the queen did not raise her head again. She looked unspeakably sad in her simple, unadorned attire--in her modest, gentle bearing-- and it was most touching to see the pale, fair features which sought in vain to disclose nothing of the painful emotions of her soul.
The king now arose from his throne and removed his plumed hat. At once Marie Antoinette rose from her armchair, in order to listen standing to the address of the king.
"Madame," said the king, bowing to her lightly, "madame, be seated, I beg of you."
"Sire," answered Marie Antoinette, calmly, "allow me to stand, for it does not become a subject to sit while the king is standing."
A murmur ran through the rows of men, and loud, scornful laughter from one side. Marie Antoinette shrank back as if an adder had wounded her, and with a flash of wrath her eyes darted in the direction whence the laugh had come. It was from Philip d'Orleans. He did not take the trouble to smooth down his features; he looked with searching, defiant gaze over to the queen, proclaiming to her in this glance that he was her death-foe, that he was bent on revenge for the scorn which she had poured out on the spendthrift- revenge for the joke which she had once made at his expense before the whole court. It was at the time when the Duke d'Orleans, spendthrift and miser at the same time, had rented the lower rooms of his palace to be used as stores. On his next appearance at Versailles, Marie Antoinette said: "Since you have become a shopkeeper, we shall probably see you at Versailles only on Sundays and holidays, when your stores are closed!" Philip d'Orleans thought of this at this moment, as he stared at the queen with his laughing face, while his looks were threatening vengeance and requital.
The king now began the speech with which he proposed to open the assembly of his estates. The queen listened with deep emotion; a feeling of unspeakable sorrow filled her soul, and despite all her efforts her eyes filled with tears, which leisurely coursed down her cheeks. When, at the close of his address, the king said that he was the truest and most faithful friend of the people, and that France had his whole love, the queen looked up with a gentle, beseeching expression, and her eyes seemed as if they wanted to say to the deputies, "I, too, am a friend of the people! I, too, love France!"
The king ended his address; it was followed by a prolonged and lively clapping of hands, and sitting down upon the chair of the throne, he covered his head with the jewelled chapeau.
At the same moment all the noblemen who were in the hall put on their own hats. At once Count Mirabeau, the representative of the Third Estate, put on his hat; other deputies followed his example, but Toulan, whom Mirabeau had before hindered from kneeling--Toulan now wanted to prevent the proud democrats covering themselves in presence of the queen.
"Hats off!" he cried, with aloud voice, and here and there in the hall the same cry was repeated.
But from other sides there arose a different cry, "Hats on! Be covered!"
Scarcely had the ear of the king caught the discordant cry which rang up and down the hall, when he snatched his hat from his head, and at once the whole assembly followed his example.
Toulan had gained his point, the assembly remained uncovered in presence of the queen.
At last, after four long, painful hours, the ceremony was ended; the queen followed the example of the king, rising, greeting the deputies with a gentle inclination of her head, and leaving the hall at the side of the king.
Some of the deputies cried, "Long live the king!" but their words died away without finding any echo. Not a single voice was raised in honor of the queen! But outside, on the square, there were confused shouts; the crowd of people pressed hard up to the door, and called for the queen. They had seen the deputies as they entered the hall; they had seen the king as he had attended divine service at the church of St. Louis. Now the people were curious to see the queen!
A joyful look passed over the face of the queen as she heard those cries. For a long time she had not heard such acclaims. Since the unfortunate 1786, since the necklace trial, they had become more rare; at last, they had ceased altogether, and at times the queen, when she appeared in public, was hailed with loud hisses and angry murmurs.
"The queen! The queen!" sounded louder and louder in the great square. Marie Antoinette obeyed the cry, entered the great hall, had the doors opened which led to the balcony, went out and showed herself to the people, and greeted them with friendly smiles.
But, instead of the shouts of applause which she had expected, the crowd relapsed at once into a gloomy silence. Not a hand was raised to greet her, not a mouth was opened to cry "Long live the queen!"
Soon, however, there was heard a harsh woman's voice shouting, "Long live the Duke d'Orleans! Long life to the friend of the people!"
The queen, pale and trembling, reeled back from the balcony, and sank almost in a swoon into the arms of the Duchess de Polignac, who was behind her. Her eyes were closed, and a convulsive spasm shook her breast.
Through the opened doors of the balcony the shouts of the people could be heard all the time, "Long live the Duke d'Orleans!"
The queen, still in her swoon, was carried into her apartments and laid upon her bed; only Madame de Campan remained in front of it to watch the queen, who, it was supposed, had fallen asleep.
A deep silence prevailed in the room, and the stillness awoke Marie Antoinette from her half insensibility. She opened her eyes, and seeing Campan kneeling before her bed, she threw her arms around the faithful friend, and with gasping breath bowed her head upon her shoulder.
"Oh, Campan," she cried, with loud, choking voice, "ruin is upon me! I am undone! All my happiness is over, and soon my life will be over too! I have to-day tasted of the bitterness of death! We shall never be happy more, for destruction hangs over us, and our death-sentence is pronounced!"
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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10
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THE INHERITANCE OF THE DAUPHIN.
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For four weeks the National Assembly met daily at Versailles; that is to say, for four weeks the political excitement grew greater day by day, the struggle of the parties more pronounced and fierce, only with this qualification, that the party which attacked the queen was stronger than that which defended her. Or rather, to express the exact truth, there was no party for Marie Antoinette; there were only here and there devoted friends, who dared to encounter the odium which their position called down upon them--dared face the calumnies which were set in circulation by the other parties: that of the people, the democrats; that of Orleans; that of the princes and princesses of the royal family. All these united their forces in order to attack the "Austrian," to obscure the last gleams of the love and respect which were paid to her in happier days.
When Mirabeau made the proposition in the National Assembly that the person of the king should be declared inviolable, there arose from all these four hundred representatives of the French nation only one man who dared to declare with a loud voice and with defiant face, "The persons of the king and queen shall be declared inviolable!"
This was Toulan, the "soldier of the queen." But the Assembly replied to this demand only with loud murmurs, and scornful laughter; not a voice was raised in support of this last cry in favor of the queen, and the Assembly decreed only this: "The person of the king is inviolable."
"That means," said the queen to the police minister Brienne, who brought the queen every morning tidings of what had occurred at Paris and Versailles, "that means that my death-warrant was signed yesterday."
"Your majesty goes too far!" cried the minister in horror, "I think that this has an entirely different meaning. The National Assembly has not pronounced the person of the queen inviolable, because they want to say that the queen has nothing to do with politics, and therefore it is unnecessary to pass judgment upon the inviolability of the queen."
"Ah!" sighed the queen, "I should have been happy if I had not been compelled to trouble myself with these dreadful politics. It certainly was not in my wish nor in my character. My enemies have compelled me to it; it is they who have turned the simple, artless queen into an intriguer."
"Ah! madam!" said the minister, astonished, "you use there too harsh a word; you speak as if they belonged to your enemies."
"No, I use the right word," cried Marie Antoinette, sadly. "My enemies have made an intriguer of me. Every woman who goes beyond her knowledge and the bounds of her duty in meddling with politics is nothing better than an intriguer. You see at least that I do not flatter myself, although it troubles me to have to give myself so bad a name. The Queens of France are happy only when they have nothing to trouble themselves about, and reserve only influence enough to give pleasure to their friends, and reward their faithful servants. Do you know what recently happened to me?" continued the queen, with a sad smile. "As I was going into the privy council chamber to have a consultation with the king, I heard, while passing OEil de Boeuf, one of the musicians saying so loud that I had to listen to every word, 'A queen who does her duty stays in her own room and busies herself with her sewing and knitting.' I said within myself, 'Poor fellow, you are right, but you don't know my unhappy condition; I yield only to necessity, and my bad luck urges me forward." [Footnote: The queen's own words. --See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol ii., p. 32.]
"Ah! madame," said the minister with a sigh, "would that they who accuse you of mingling in politics out of ambition and love of power--would that they could hear your majesty complain of yourself in these moving words!"
"My friend," said Marie Antoinette, with a sad smile, "if they heard it they would say that it was only something learned by heart, with which I was trying to disarm the righteous anger of my enemies. It is in vain to want to excuse or justify myself, for no one will hear a word. I must be guilty, I must be criminal, that they who accuse me may appear to have done right; that they may ascend while they pull me down. But let us not speak more of this! I know my future, I feel it clear and plain in my mind and in my soul that I am lost, but I will at least fight courageously and zealously till the last moment; and, if I must go down, it shall be at least with honor, true to myself and true to the views and opinions in which I have been trained. Now, go on; let me know the new libels and accusations which have been disseminated about me." The minister drew from his portfolio a whole package of pamphlets, and spread them upon a little table before the queen.
"So much at once!" said the queen, sadly, turning over the papers. "How much trouble I make to my enemies, and how much they must hate me that I have such tenacity of life! Here is a pamphlet entitled 'Good advice to Madame Deficit to leave France as soon as possible.' 'Madame Deficit!' that means me, doesn't it?"
"It is a name, your majesty, which the wickedness of the Duke d'Orleans has imposed upon your majesty, answered the minister, with a shrug of his shoulders.
The eyes of the queen flashed in anger. She opened her lips to utter a choleric word, but she governed herself, and went on turning over the pamphlets and caricatures. While doing that, while reading the words charged with poison of wickedness and hate, the tears coursed slowly over her cheeks, and once in a while a convulsive gasp forced itself from her breast.
Brienne pitied the deep sorrow of the queen. He begged her to discontinue this sad perusal. He wanted to gather up again the contumelious writings, but Marie Antoinette held his hand back.
"I must know every thing, every thing," said she. "Go on bringing me every thing, and do not be hindered by my tears. It is of course natural that I am sensitive to the evil words that are spoken about me, and to the bad opinion that is cherished toward me by a people that I love, and to win whose love I am prepared to make every sacrifice." [Footnote: The queen's own words. --See Malleville, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 197] At this moment the door of the cabinet was dashed open without ceremony, and the Duchess de Polignac entered.
"Forgiveness! your majesty, forgiveness that I have ventured to disturb you, but--" "What is it?" cried the queen, springing up. "You come to announce misfortune to me, duchess. It concerns the dauphin, does it not? His illness has increased?"
"Yes, your majesty, cramps have set in, and the physicians fear the worst."
"O God! O God!" cried the queen, raising both her hands to heaven, "is every misfortune to beat down upon me? I shall lose my son, my dear child! Here I sit weeping pitiful tears about the malice of my enemies, and all this while my child is wrestling in the pains of death! Farewell, sir, I must go to my child."
And the queen, forgetting every thing else, thinking only of her child--the sick, dying dauphin--hurried forward, dashing through the room with such quick step that the duchess could scarcely follow her.
"Is he dead?" cried Marie Antoinette to the servant standing in the antechamber of the dauphin. She did not await the reply, but burst forward, hastily opened the door of the sick-room, and entered.
There upon the bed, beneath the gold-fringed canopy, lay the pale, motionless boy, with open, staring eyes, with parched lips, and wandering mind--and it was her child, it was the Dauphin of France.
Around his bed stood the physicians, the quickly-summoned priests, and the servants, looking with sorrowful eyes at the poor, deathly- pale creature that was now no more than a withered flower, a son of dust that must return to dust; then they looked sadly at the pale, trembling wife who crouched before the bed, and who now was nothing more than a sorrow-stricken mother, who must bow before the hand of Fate, and feel that she had no more power over life and death than the meanest of her subjects.
She bent over the bed; she put her arms tenderly around the little shrunken form of the poor child that had long been sick, and that was now confronting death. She covered the pale face of her son with kisses, and watered it with her tears.
And these kisses, these tears of his mother, awakened the child out of his stupor, and called him back to life. The Dauphin Louis roused up once more, raised his great eyes, and, when he saw the countenance of his mother above him bathed in tears, he smiled and sought to raise his head and move his hand to greet her. But Death had already laid his iron bands upon him, and held him back upon the couch of his last sufferings.
"Are you in pain, my child?" whispered Marie Antoinette, kissing him affectionately. "Are you suffering?"
The boy looked at her tenderly. "I do not suffer," he whispered so softly that it sounded like the last breath of a departing spirit. "I only suffer if I see you weep, mamma." [Footnote: The very words of the dying dauphin. --See Weber, "Memoires," vol. L, p. 209.]
Marie Antoinette quickly dried her tears, and, kneeling near the bed, found power in her motherly love to summon a smile to her lips, in order that the dauphin, whose eyes remained fixed upon her, might not see that she was suffering.
A deep silence prevailed now in the apartment; nothing was heard but the gently-whispered prayers of the spectators, and the slow, labored breathing of the dying child.
Once the door was lightly opened, and a man's figure stole lightly in, advanced on tiptoe to the bed, and sank on his knees close by Marie Antoinette. It was the king, who had just been summoned from the council-room to see his son die.
And now with a loud voice the priest began the prayers for the dying, and all present softly repeated them. Only the queen could not; her eyes were fastened upon her son, who now saw her no more, for his eyes were fixed in the last death-struggle.
Still one last gasp, one last breath; then came a cry from Marie Antoinette's lips, and her head sank upon the hand of her son, which rested in her own, and which was now stiff. A few tears coursed slowly over the cheeks of the king, and his hands, folded in prayer, trembled.
The priest raised his arms, and with a loud, solemn voice cried: "The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord. Amen."
"Amen, amen," whispered all present.
"Amen," said the king, closing with gentle pressure the open eyes of his son. "God has taken you to Himself, my son, perhaps because He wanted to preserve you from much trouble and sorrow. Blessed be His name!"
But the queen still bowed over the cold face of the child, and kissed his lips. "Farewell, my son," she whispered, "farewell! Ah! , why could I not die with you--with you fly from this pitiful, sorrow-stricken world?"
Then, as if the queen regretted the words which the mother had spoken with sighs, Marie Antoinette rose from her knees and turned to the priest, who was sprinkling the corpse of the dauphin with holy water.
"Father," said she, "the children of poor parents, who may be born to-day in Versailles, are each to receive from me the sum of a thousand francs. I wish that the death-bed of my son may be a day of joy for the poor who have not, like me, lost a child, but gained one, and that the lips of happy mothers may bless the day on which my boy died. Have the goodness to bring me to-morrow morning a list of the children born to-day."
"Come, Marie," said the king, "the body of our son belongs no more to the living, but to the grave of out ancestors in St. Denis; his soul to God. The dauphin is dead! Long live the dauphin! Madame de Polignac, conduct the dauphin to us in the cabinet of his mother."
And with the proud and dignified bearing which was peculiar to the king in great and momentous epochs, he extended his arm to the queen and conducted her out of the death-chamber, and through the adjacent apartments, to her cabinet.
"Ah!" cried the queen, "here we are alone; here I can weep for my poor lost child."
And she threw her arms around the neck of her husband, and, leaning her head upon his breast, wept aloud.
The king pressed her closely to his heart, and the tears which flowed from his own eyes fell in hot drops upon the head of the queen.
Neither saw the door beyond lightly open, and the Duchess de Polignac appear there. But when she saw the royal pair in close embrace, when she heard their loud weeping, she drew back, stooped down to the little boy who stood by her side, whispered a few words to him, and, while gently pushing him forward, drew back herself, and gently closed the door behind them. The little fellow stood a moment irresolutely at the door, fixing his eyes now upon his father and mother, now upon the nosegay of violets and roses which he carried in his hand. The little Louis Charles was of that sweet and touching beauty that brings tears into one's eyes, and fills the heart with sadness, because the thought cannot be suppressed, that life, with its rough, wintry storms, will have no pity on this tender blossom of innocence, and that the beaming, angel-face of the child must one day be changed into the clouded, weather-beaten, furrowed face of the man. A cheering sight to look upon was the little, delicate figure of the four-year-old boy, pleasing in his whole appearance. Morocco boots, with red tips, covered his little feet; broad trousers, of dark-blue velvet, came to his knees, and were held together at the waist by a blue silk sash, whose lace- tipped ends fell at his left side. He wore a blue velvet jacket, with a tastefully embroidered lace ruffle around the neck. The round, rosy face, with the ruby lips, the dimple in the chin, the large blue eyes, shaded by long, dark lashes, and crowned by the broad, lofty brow, was rimmed around with a profusion of golden hair, which fell in long, heavy locks upon his shoulders and over his neck. The child was as beautiful to look upon as one of the angels in Raphael's "Sistine Madonna," and he might have been taken for one, had it not been for the silver-embroidered, brilliant star upon his left side. This star, which designated his princely rank, was for the pretty child the seal of his mortality--the seal which ruin had already impressed upon his innocent child's breast.
One moment the boy stood indecisively there, looking at his weeping parents; then he turned quickly forward, and, holding up his nosegay, he said: "Mamma, I have brought you some flowers from my garden."
Marie Antoinette raised her head, and smiled through her tears as she looked at her son. The king loosened his embrace from the queen, in order to lift up the prince.
"Marie," said he, holding him up to his wife, "Marie, this is our son--this is the Dauphin of France."
Marie Antoinette took his head between her hands, and looked long, with tears in her eyes, and yet smiling all the while, into the lovely, rosy face of her boy. Then she stooped down, and impressed a long, tender kiss upon his smooth forehead.
"God love you, my child!" said she, solemnly. "God bless you, Dauphin of France! May the storms which now darken our horizon, have long been past when you shall ascend the throne of your fathers! God bless and defend you, Dauphin of France!"
"But, mamma," asked the boy, timidly, "why do you call me dauphin to-day? I am your little Louis, and I am called Duke de Normandy."
"My son," said the king, solemnly, "God has been pleased to give you another name and another calling. Your poor brother, Louis, has left us forever. He has gone to God, and you are now Dauphin of France!"
"And God grant that it be for your good," said the queen, with a sigh.
The little prince slowly shook his locks. "It certainly is not for my good," said he, "else mamma would not weep."
"She is weeping, my child," said the queen--" she is weeping, because your brother, who was the dauphin, has left us."
"And will he never come back?" asked the child, eagerly.
"No, Louis, he never will come back."
The boy threw both his arms around the neck of the queen. "Ah!" he cried, "how can any one ever leave his dear mamma and never come back? I will never leave you, mamma!"
"I pray God you speak the truth," sighed the queen, pressing him tenderly to herself. "I pray God I may die before you both!"
"Not before me--oh, not before me!" ejaculated the king, shuddering. "Without you, my dear one, my life were a desert; without you, the King of France were the poorest man in the whole land!"
He smiled sadly at her. "And with me he will perhaps be the most unfortunate one," she whispered softly, as if to herself.
"Never unfortunate, if you are with me, and if you love me," cried the king, warmly. "Weep no more; we must overcome our grief, and comfort ourselves with what remains. I say to you once more: the dauphin is dead, long live the dauphin!"
"Papa king," said the boy, quickly, "you say the dauphin is dead, and has left us. Has he taken every thing away with him that belongs to him?"
"No, my son, he has left every thing. You are now the dauphin, and some time will be King of France, for you are the heir of your brother."
"What does that mean, his heir?" asked the child.
"It means," answered the king, "that to you belong now the titles and honors of your brother."
"Nothing but that?" asked the prince, timidly. "I do not want his titles and honors."
"You are the heir to the throne; you have now the title of Dauphin of France."
The little one timidly grasped the hand of his mother, and lifted his great blue eyes supplicatingly to her.
"Mamma queen," he whispered, "do you not think the title of Duke de Normandy sounds just as well, or will you love me more, if I am called Dauphin of France?"
"No, my son," answered the queen, "I shall not love you better, and I should be very happy if you were now the Duke de Normandy."
"Then, mamma," cried the boy, eagerly, "I am not at all glad to receive this new title. But I should like to know whether I have received any thing else from my dear sick brother."
"Any thing else?" asked the king in amazement; "what would you desire, my child?"
The little prince cast down his eyes. "I should not like to tell, papa. But if it is true that the dauphin has left us and is not coming back again, and yet has not taken away every thing which belongs to him, there is something which I should very much like to have, and which would please me more than that I am now the dauphin."
The king turned his face inquiringly to the queen. "Do you understand, Marie, what he wants to say?" he whispered.
"I think I can guess," answered Marie Antoinette softly, and she walked quickly across the room, opened the door of the adjoining apartment, and whispered a few words to the page who was there. Then she returned to the king, but while doing so she stepped upon the bouquet which had fallen out of the boy's hands when his father lifted him up.
"Oh, my pretty violets, my pretty roses," cried the prince, sadly, and his face put on a sorrowful expression. But he quickly brightened, and, looking up at the queen, he said, smiling, "Mamma queen, I wish you always walked on flowers which I have planted and plucked for you!"
At this moment the door softly opened, and a little black dog stepped in, and ran forward, whining, directly up to the prince.
"Moufflet," cried the child, falling upon his knee, "Moufflet!"
The little dog, with its long, curly locks of hair, put its fore- paws upon the shoulders of the boy and eagerly and tenderly licked his laughing, rosy face.
"Now, my Louis," asked the queen, "have I guessed right? --wasn't it the doggy that you wanted so much?"
"Mamma queen has guessed it," cried the boy joyfully, putting his arms around the neck of the dog. "Does Moufflet belong to my inheritance too? Do I receive him, since my brother has left him behind?"
"Yes, my son, the little dog belongs to your inheritance," answered the king, with a sad smile.
The child shouted with pleasure, and pressed the dog close to his breast. "Moufflet is mine!" he cried, glowing with joy, "Moufflet is my inheritance!"
The queen slowly raised to heaven her eyes, red with weeping. "Oh, the innocence of childhood, the happiness of childhood!" said she, softly, "why do they not go with us through life? why must we tread them under feet like the violets arid roses of my son? A kingdom falls to him as his portion, and yet he takes pleasure in the little dog which only licks his hands! Love is the fairest inheritance, for love remains with us till death!"
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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11
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KING LOUIS THE SIXTEENTH.
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The 14th of July had broken upon Paris with its fearful events. The revolution had for the first time opened the crater, after subterranean thunder had long been heard, and after the ground of Paris had long been shaken. The glowing lava-streams of intense excitement, popular risings, and murder, had broken out and flooded all Paris, and before them judgment, discretion, and truth even, had taken flight.
The people had stormed the Bastile with arms, killed the governor, and for the first time the dreadful cry "To the lamp-post!" was heard in the streets of Paris; for the first time the iron arms of the lamp-posts had been transformed to gallows, on which those were suspended whom the people had declared guilty.
Meanwhile the lava-streams of revolution had not yet flowed out as far as Versailles.
On the evening of the 14th of July, peace and silence had settled early upon the palace, after a whole day spent in the apartments of the king and queen with the greatest anxiety, and after resolution had followed resolution in the efforts to come to a decision.
Marie Antoinette had early withdrawn to her rooms. The king, too, had retired to rest, and had already fallen into a deep slumber upon his bed. He had only slept a few hours, however, when he heard something moving near his bed, with the evident intention of awakening him. The king recognized his valet, who, with signs of the greatest alarm in his face, announced the Duke de Liancourt, grand maitre de la garde-robe of his majesty, who was in the antechamber, and who pressingly urged an immediate audience with the king. Louis trembled an instant, and tried to think what to do. Then he rose from his bed with a quick and energetic motion, and ordered the valet to dress him at once. After this had been done with the utmost rapidity, the king ordered that the Duke de Liancourt should be summoned to the adjacent apartment, when he would receive him.
As the king went out in the greatest excitement, he saw the duke, whose devotion to the person of the king was well known, standing before him with pale, distorted countenance and trembling limbs.
"What has happened, my friend?" asked the king, in breathless haste.
"Sire," answered the Duke de Liancourt, with suppressed voice, "in the discharge of my office, which permits the closest approach to your majesty, I have undertaken to bring you tidings which are now so confirmed, and which are so important and dreadful, that it would be a folly to try to keep what has happened longer from your knowledge."
"You speak of the occurrences in the capital?" asked the king, slightly drawing back.
"I have been told that your majesty has not yet been informed," continued the duke, "and yet in the course of yesterday the most dreadful events occurred in Paris. The head of the army had not ventured to send your majesty and the cabinet any report. It was known yesterday in Versailles at nightfall that the people, with, arms in their hands, had stormed and destroyed the Bastile. I have just received a courier from Paris, and these tidings are confirmed with the most horrible particularity. Sire, I held it my duty as a faithful servant of the crown to break the silence which has hitherto hindered your majesty from seeing clearly and acting accordingly. In Paris, not only has the Bastile been stormed by the people, but truly dreadful crimes and murders have taken place. The bloody heads of Delaunay and Flesselles were carried on pikes through the city by wild crowds of people. A part of the fortifications of the Bastile have been levelled. Several of the invalides, who were guarding the fort, have been found suspended from the lantern-posts. A want of fidelity has begun to appear in the other regiments. The armed people now arrayed in the streets of Paris are estimated at two hundred thousand men. They fear this very night a rising of the whole population of the city."
The king had listened standing, as in a sad dream. His face had become pale, but his bearing was unchanged.
"There is then a revolt!" said Louis XVI., after a pause, as if suddenly awakening from deep thought.
"No, sire," answered the duke, earnestly, "it is a revolution."
"The queen was right," said the monarch, softly, to himself; "and now rivers of blood would be necessary to hide the ruin that has grown so great. But my resolution is taken; the blood of the French shall not be poured out."
"Sire," cried Liancourt, with a solemn gesture, "the safety of France and of the royal family lies in this expression of your majesty. I ought to be and I must be plain-spoken this hour. The greatest danger lies in your majesty's following the faithless counsels of your ministers. How I bless this hour which is granted me to stand face to face with your majesty, and dare to address myself to your own judgment and to your heart! Sire, the spirit of the infatuated capital will make rapid and monstrous steps forward. I conjure you make your appearance in the National Assembly to-day, and utter there the word of peace. Your appearance will work wonders; it will disarm the parties and make this body of men the truest allies of the crown."
The king looked at him with a long, penetrating glance. The youthful fire in which the noble duke had spoken appeared to move the king. He extended his hand and pressed the duke's in his own. Then he said softly: "You are yourself one of the most influential members of this National Assembly, my lord duke. Can you give me your personal word that my appearance there will be viewed as indicating the interest of the crown in the welfare of France?"
At this moment the first glow of the morning entered the apartment, and overpowered the pale candle-light which till then had illuminated the room.
"The Assembly longs every day and every hour for the conciliatory words of your majesty," cried Liancourt. "The doubts and disquiet into which the National Assembly is falling more and more every day are not to be dispelled in any other way than by the appearance of your majesty's gracious face. I beseech you to appear to-day at the National Assembly. The service of to-day, which begins in a few hours, may take the most unfortunate turn, if you, sire, do not take this saving step."
Just then the door opened, and Monsieur, together with Count d'Artois, entered. Both brothers of the king appeared to be in the greatest excitement. From their appearance and gestures it could be inferred that the news brought by the Duke de Liancourt had reached the palace of Versailles.
Liancourt at once approached the Count d'Artois, and said to him in decisive tones: "Prince, your head is threatened by the people. I have with my own eyes seen the poster which announces this fearful proscription."
The prince uttered a cry of terror at these words, and stood in the middle of the room like one transfixed.
"It is good, if the people think so," he said then, recovering himself. "I am, like the people, for open war. They want my head, and I want their heads. Why do we not fire? A fixed policy, no quarter to the so-called freedom ideas-cannon well served! These alone can save us!"
"His majesty the king has come to a different conclusion!" said the Duke de Liancourt, bowing low before the king, who stood calmly by with folded arms.
"I beg my brothers, the Count de Provence and the Count d'Artois, to accompany me this morning to the Assembly of States-General," said the king, in a firm tone.
"I wish to go thither in order to announce to the Assembly my resolution to withdraw my troops. At the same time I shall announce to them my decided wish that they may complete the work of their counsels in peace, for I have no higher aim than through them to learn the will of the nation."
Count d'Artois retreated a step in amazement. Upon his mobile face appeared the sharp, satirical expression which was peculiar to the character of the prince. It was different with Provence, who, at the king's words, quickly approached him to press his hand in token of cordial agreement and help.
At this moment the door of the chamber was opened, and the queen, accompanied by several persons, her most intimate companions, entered in visible excitement.
"Does your majesty know what has happened?" she asked, with pale face and tearful eyes, as she violently grasped the king's hand.
"It will be all well yet," said the king, with gentle dignity; "it will prove a help to us that we have nothing as yet to accuse ourselves with. I am resolved to go to-day to the National Assembly, and to show it a sign of my personal confidence, in announcing the withdrawal of my troops from Paris and Versailles."
The queen looked at her husband with the greatest amazement; then, like one in a trance, she dropped his hand and stood supporting her fair head upon her hand, with a thoughtful, pained expression.
"By doing so your majesty will make the revolution an irrevocable fact," she then said, slowly raising her eyes to him; "and it troubles me, sire, that you will again set foot in an Assembly numbering so many dreadful and hostile men, and in which the resolution made last month to disband it ought to have been carried into effect long ago."
"Has the Assembly, in fact, so many dreadful members?" asked the king, with his good-natured smile. "Yet I see before me here two extremely amiable members of that Assembly, and their looks really give me courage to appear there. There is my old, true friend, the Duke de Liancourt, and even in the train of your majesty there is the valiant Count de la Marck, whom I heartily welcome. May I not, Count de la Marck, depend upon some favor with your colleagues in the National Assembly?" asked the king, with an amiable expression.
"Sire," answered the count, in his most perfect court manner, "in the variety of persons constituting the Assembly, I do not know a single one who would be able to close his heart to the direct word of the monarch, and such condescending grace. The nobility, to whose side I belong, would find itself confirmed thereby in its fidelity; the clergy would thank God for the manifestation of royal authority which shall bring peace; and the Third Estate would have to confess in its astonishment that safety comes only from the monarch's hands."
The king smiled and nodded in friendly manner to the count.
"It seems to me," he said, "that the time is approaching for us to go to the Assembly. Their royal highnesses Count de Provence and Count d'Artois will accompany me. I commission the Duke de Liancourt to go before us to the Salle des Menus, and to announce to the Assembly, directly after the opening of the session, that we shall appear there at once in person."
On this the king dismissed all who were present. The queen took tender leave of him, in a manner indicating her excited feelings. She had never seen her royal husband bearing himself in so decided and confident a manner, and it almost awakened new confidence in her troubled breast. But at the same moment all the doubts and cares returned, and sadly, with drooping head, the queen withdrew.
In the mean time, close upon the opening of the National Assembly that morning, stormy debates had begun about the new steps which they were going to take with the monarch.
Count Mirabeau had just been breaking out into an anathema in flaming words about the holiday which the king had given to the new regiments, when the Duke de Liancourt, who that moment entered the hall, advanced to the speaker's desk and announced that the king was just on the point of coming to the Assembly. The greatest amazement, followed immediately by intense disquiet, was expressed on all sides at hearing this. Men sprang up from their places and formed scattered groups to talk over this unexpected circumstance and come to an understanding in advance. They spoke in loud, angry words about the reception which should be given to the king in the National Assembly, when Mirabeau sprang upon the tribune, and, with his voice towering above every other sound, cried that "mere silent respect should be the only reception that we give to the monarch. In a moment of universal grief, silence is the true lesson of kings." [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words. --See "Memoires du Comte de Mirabeau," vol. ii., p. 301.]
A resounding bravo accompanied these words, which appeared to produce the deepest impression upon all parties in the Assembly.
Before the room was silent, the king, accompanied by his brothers, but with no other retinue besides, entered the hall. Notwithstanding all the plans and efforts which had been made, his appearance at this moment wrought so powerfully that, as soon as they saw him, the cry "Long live the king!" was taken up and repeated so often as to make the arched ceiling ring.
The king stood in the midst of the Assembly, bearing himself modestly and with uncovered head. He did not make use of an arm- chair which was placed for him, but remained standing, as, without any ceremony, he began to address the Assembly with truly patriarchal dignity. When at the very outset he said that as the chief of the nation, as he called himself, he had come with confidence to meet the nation's representatives, to testify his grief for what had happened, and to consult them respecting the re- establishing of peace and order, a pacified expression appeared upon almost all faces.
With gentle and almost humble bearing the king then entered upon the suspicions that had been breathed, that the persons of the deputies were not safe. With the tone of an honest burgher he referred to his own "well-known character," which made it superfluous for him to dismiss such a suspicion. "Ah!" he cried, "it is I who have trusted myself to you! Help me in these painful circumstances to strengthen the welfare of the state. I expect it of the National Assembly."
Then with a tone of touching kindness he said: "Counting upon the love and fidelity of my subjects, I have given orders to the troops to withdraw from Paris and Versailles. At the same time I commission and empower you to convey these my orders to the capital."
The king now closed his address, which had been interrupted by frequent expressions of delight and enthusiasm, but which was received at the close with a thunder of universal applause. After the Archbishop of Brienne had expressed the thanks of the Assembly in a few words, the king prepared to leave the hall. At that instant all present rose in order to follow the king's steps. Silently the whole National Assembly became the retinue of the king, and accompanied him to the street.
The king wished to return on foot to the palace. Behind him walked the National Assembly in delighted, joyful ranks. The startling importance of the occasion seemed to have overpowered the most hostile and the most alienated An immense crowd of people, which had gathered before the door of the hall, seeing the king suddenly reappear in the midst of the whole National Assembly, broke into jubilant cries of delight. The shouts, "Long live the king! Long live the nation!" blended in a harmonious concord which rang far and wide. Upon the Place d'Armes were standing the gardes du corps, both the Swiss and the French, with their arms in their hands. But they, too, were infected with the universal gladness, as they saw the procession, whose like had never been seen before, move on.
The cries which to-day solemnized the happy reconciliation of the king and the people now were united with the discordant clang of trumpets and the rattle of drums on all sides.
Upon the great balcony of the palace at Versailles stood the queen, awaiting the return of the king. The thousands of voices raised in behalf of Louis XVI. and the nation had drawn Marie Antoinette to the balcony, after remaining in her own room with thoughts full of evil forebodings. She held the dauphin in her arms, and led her little daughter. Her eyes, from which the heavy veils of sadness were now withdrawn, cast joyful glances over the immense, shouting crowds of people approaching the palace, at whose head she joyfully recognized her husband, the king, wearing an expression of cheerfulness which for a time she had not seen on his face.
When the king caught sight of his wife, he hastened to remove his hat and salute her. But few of the deputies followed the royal example, and silently, without any salutation, without any cries of acclamation, they looked up at the queen. Marie Antoinette turned pale, and stepped hack with her children into the hall.
"It is all over," she said, with a gush of tears, "it is all over with my hopes. The Queen of France is still to be the poorest and most unhappy woman in France, for she is not loved, she is despised."
Two soft young arms were laid around her neck, and with a face full of sorrow, and with tears in his great blue eyes, the dauphin looked up to the disturbed countenance of his mother.
"Mamma queen," he whispered, pressing fondly up to her, "mamma queen, I love you and everybody loves you, and my dear brother in heaven prays for you."
With a loud cry of pain, that escaped her against her will, the queen pressed her son to her heart and covered his head with her kisses.
"Love me, my son, love me," she whispered, choking, "and may thy brother in heaven pray for me that I may soon be released from the pains which I suffer!"
But as she heard now the voice of the king without, taking leave of his retinue with friendly words, Marie Antoinette hastily dried her tears, and putting down the dauphin, whispered to him, "Do not tell papa that I have been crying," and in her wonted lofty bearing, with a smile upon her trembling lips, she went to meet her husband.
As it grew late and dark in the evening, several baggage-wagons heavily laden and tightly closed moved noiselessly and hastily from the inner courts of the palace, and took the direction toward the country. In these carriages were the Count d'Artois, the Duke d'Angouleme, and the Duke de Berry, the Prince de Conde, the Duke de Bourbon, and the Duke d'Enghein, who were leaving the kingdom in secret flight.
Louis XVI. had tried to quiet the anxieties of his brother, the Count d'Artois, by advising him to leave France for some time, and to remain in a foreign land, until the times should be more quiet and peaceful. The other princes, although not so sorely threatened with popular rage as the Count d'Artois, whose head had already been demanded at Paris, had, with the exception of the king's other brother, been so overcome with their anxieties as to resolve upon flight. They were followed on the next day by the new ministers, who now, yielding to the demands of the National Assembly, had handed in their resignation to the king, but did not consider it safe to remain within range of the capital.
But another offering, and one more painful to the queen, had to be made to the hatred of the people and the hostile demands of the National Assembly. Marie Antoinette herself felt it, and had the courage to express it.
Her friends the Polignacs must be sent away. In all the libellous pamphlets which had been directed against the queen, and which Brienne had sedulously given to her, it was one of the main charges which had been hurled against her, that the queen had given to her friends enormous sums from the state's treasury; that the Duchess Julia, as governess of the royal children, and her husband the Duke de Polignac, as director of the royal mews, received a yearly salary of two million francs; and that the whole Polignac family together drew nearly six million francs yearly from the national treasury.
Marie Antoinette knew that the people hated the Polignacs on this account, and she wanted at least to put her friends in a place of safety.
At the same hour in which the brothers of the king and the princes of the royal family left Versailles, the Duke and the Duchess de Polignac were summoned to the queen, and Marie Antoinette had told them with trembling voice that they too must fly, that they must make their escape that very night. But the duchess, as well as the duke, refused almost with indignation to comply with the request of the queen. The duchess, who before had been characterized by so calm a manner, now showed for the first time a glow of affection for her royal friend, and unreckoning tenderness. "Let us remain with you, Marie," she said, choking, and throwing both her arms around the neck of the queen. "Do not drive me from you. I will not go, I will share your perils and will die for you, if it must be."
But Marie Antoinette found now in her great love the power to resist these requests--the power to hold back the tears which started from her heart and to withdraw herself from the arms of her friend.
"It must be," she said. "In the name of our friendship I conjure you, Julia, take your departure at once, for, if you are not willing to, I shall die with anxiety about you. There is still time for you and yours to escape the rage of my enemies. They hate you not for your own sake, and how would it be possible to hate my Julia? It is for my sake, and because they hate me, that they persecute my dearest friend. Go, Julia, you ought not to be the victim of your friendship for me."
"No, I remain," said the duchess, passionately. "Nothing shall separate me from my queen."
"Duke," implored the queen, "speak the word, say that it is necessary for you to fly!"
"Your majesty," replied the duke, gravely, "I can only repeat what Julia says: nothing shall separate us from our queen. If we have in the days of prosperity enjoyed the favor of being permitted to be near your majesty, we must claim it as the highest favor to be permitted to be near you in the days of your misfortune!"
Just then the door opened and the king entered.
"Sire," said the queen, as she advanced to meet him, "help me to persuade these noble friends that they ought to leave us!"
"The queen is right," said Louis, sadly, "they must go at once. Our misfortune compels us to part with all who love and esteem us. I have just said farewell to my brother, now I say the same to you; I command you to go. Pity us, but do not lose a minute's time. Take your children and your servants with you. Reckon at all times upon me. We shall meet again in happier days, after our dangers are past, and then you shall both resume your old places. Farewell! Once more I command you to go!" [Footnote: The king's own words. This intense parting scene is strictly historical, according to the concurrent communications of Montjoie in his "Histoire de Marie Antoinette." Campan, Mem., ii. Weber, Mem., i.] And as the king perceived that the tears were starting into his eyes, and that his voice was trembling, he silently bowed to his friends, and hastily withdrew.
"You have heard what the king commands," said Marie Antoinette, eagerly, "and you will not venture to disobey him. Hear also this: I too, the Queen of France, command you to take your departure this very hour."
The duke bowed low before the queen, who stood with pale cheeks, but erect, and with a noble air.
"Your majesty has commanded, and it becomes us to obey. We shall go."
The duchess sank, with a loud cry of grief, on her knee before the queen, and buried her face in the royal robe.
Marie Antoinette did not disturb her, did not venture to speak to her, for she knew that, with the first word which she should utter, the pain of her heart would find expression on her lips, and she would be composed; she would not let her friend see how severe the sacrifice was which her love compelled her to make.
"Let me remain with you," implored the duchess, "do not drive me from you, Marie, my Marie!"
The queen turned her great eyes upward, and her looks were a prayer to God to give her power and steadfastness. Twice then she attempted to speak, twice her voice refused to perform its duty, and she remained silent, wrestling with her grief, and at last overcoming it.
"Julia," she said--and with every word her voice became firmer and stronger--" Julia, we must part. I should be doubly unhappy to draw you and yours into my misfortunes; it will, in all my troubles, be a consolation to me, that I have been able to save you. I do not say, as the king did, that we shall meet again in happier days, and after our perils are past--for I do not believe in any more happy days--we shall not be able to survive those perils, but shall perish in them. I say, farewell, to meet not in this, but in a better world! Not a word more. I cannot bear it! Your queen commands you to go at once! Farewell!"
She extended her hand firmly to her, but she could not look at her friend, who lay at her feet weeping and choking; she saluted the duke with a mere wave of the hand, turned quickly away, and hastened into the adjoining room, and then on till she reached her own toilet-room, where Madame de Campan was awaiting her.
"Campan," she cried, in tones of anguish, "Campan, it is done! I have lost my friend! I shall never see her again. Close the door, draw the bolt, that she cannot come in, I--I shall die!" And the queen uttered a loud cry, and sank in a swoon.
At midnight two well-packed carriages drove out of the inner courts of the palace. They were the Polignacs; they were leaving France, to take refuge in Switzerland.
In the first carriage was the Duchess de Polignac, with her husband and her daughter. She held two letters in her hand. Campan had given her both, in the name of the queen, as she was stepping into the carriage.
One was directed to Minister Necker, who, after his dismissal, had withdrawn to Basle. Since the National Assembly, the clubs, the whole population of Paris, desired Necker's return, and declared him to be the only man who could restore the shattered finances of the country; the queen had persuaded her husband to recall the minister, although an opponent of hers, and appoint him again minister of finance. The letter of the queen, which the Duchess Julia was commissioned to give to Necker, contained his recall, announced to him in flattering words.
The second letter was a parting word from the queen to her friend, a last cry from her heart. "Farewell," it ran--" farewell, tenderly- loved friend! How dreadful this parting word is! But it is needful. Farewell! I embrace thee in spirit! Farewell!"
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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12
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THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER, 1789.
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The morning dawned--a windy October morning, surrounding the sun with thick clouds; so the daylight came late to Paris, as if fearing to see what had taken place on the streets and squares. The national guard, summoned together by the alarm-signal of drum-beats and the clangor of trumpets and horns, collected in the gray morning light, for a fearful rumor had been spread through Paris the evening before, and one has whispered to another that tomorrow had been appointed by the clubs and by the agitators for a second act in the revolution, and the people are too quiet, they must be roused to new deeds.
"The people are too quiet," that was the watchword of the 4th of October, in all the clubs, and it was Marat who had carried it.
On the platform of the Club de Cordeliers, the cry was raised loudly and hoarsely: "Paris is in danger of folding its hands in its lap, praying and going to sleep. They must wake out of this state of lethargy, else the hateful, tyrannical monarchy will revive, and draw the nightcap so far over the ears of the sleeping capital, that it will stick as if covered with pitch, and suffer itself to relapse into bondage. We must awaken Paris, my friends; Paris must not sleep."
And on the night of the 4th of October, Paris had not slept, for the agitators had kept it awake. The watch-cry had been: "The bakers must not bake to-night! Paris must to-morrow morning be without bread, that the people may open their eyes again and awake. The bakers must not bake to-night!"
All the clubs had caught up their watch-cry, and their emissaries had spread it through the whole city, that all the bakers should be informed that whoever should "open his store in the morning, or give any other answer than this: 'There is no more meal in Paris; we have not been able to bake!' will be regarded as a traitor to the national cause, and as such, will be punished. Be on your guard!"
The bakers had been intimidated by this threat, and had not baked. When Paris awoke on the morning of the 5th of October, it was without bread. People lacked their most indispensable article of food.
At the outset, the women, who received these dreadful tidings at the bake-shops, returned dumb with horror to their families, to announce to their households and their hungry children: "There is no bread to-day! The supply of flour is exhausted! We must starve! There is no more bread to be had!"
And from the dark abode of the poor, the sad cry sounded out into the narrow and dirty streets and all the squares, "Paris contains no bread! Paris must starve!"
The women, the children uttered these cries in wild tones of despair. The men repeated the words with clinched fists and with threatening looks: "Paris contains no more bread! Paris must starve!"
"And do you know why Paris must starve?" croaked out a voice into the ears of the people who were crowding each other in wild confusion on the Place de Carrousel.
"Do you know who is the cause of all this misery and want?"
"Tell us, if you know!" cried a rough man's voice.
"Yes, yes, tell us!" shouted other voices. "We want to know!"
"I will tell you," answered the first, in rasping tones; and now upon the stones, which indicated where the carriage-road crossed the square, a little, shrunken, broad-shouldered figure, with an unnaturally large head, and ugly, crafty face, could be seen.
"Marat!" cried some man in the crowd. "Marat!" yelled the cobbler Simon, who had been since August the friend and admirer of Marat, and was to be seen everywhere at his side. "Listen, friends, listen! Marat is going to speak to us; he will tell us how it happens that Paris has bread no more, and that we shall all have to starve together! Marat is going to speak!"
"Silence, silence!" scattered men commanded here and there. "Silence!" ejaculated a gigantic woman, with broad, defiant face, around which her black hair hung in dishevelled masses, and which was gathered up in partly-secured knots under her white cap. With her broad shoulders and her robust arms she forced her way through the crowd, directing her course toward the place where Marat was standing, and near him Simon the cobbler, on whose broad shoulders, as upon a desk, Marat was resting one hand.
"Silence!" cried the giantess. "Marat, the people's friend, is going to speak! Let us listen, for it will certainly do us good. Marat is clever and wise, and loves the people!"
Marat's green, blazing eyes fixed themselves upon the gigantic form of the woman; he shrank back as if an electrical spark had touched him, and with a wonderful expression of mingled triumph and joy. "Come nearer, goodwife!" he exclaimed; "let me press your hand, and bring all the excellent, industrious, well-minded women of Paris to take Marat, the patriot, by the hand!"
The woman strode to the place where Marat was standing and reached him her hand. No one in the crowd noticed that this hand of unwonted delicacy and whiteness did not seem to comport well with the dress of a vender of vegetables from the market; no one noticed that on one of the tapering fingers a jewel of no ordinary size glistened.
Marat was the only one to notice it, and while pressing the offered hand of the woman in his bony fist, he stooped down and whispered in her ear: "Monseigneur, take this jewelled ring off, and do not press forward too much, you might be identified!"
"I be identified!" answered the woman, turning pale. "I do not understand you, Doctor Marat!"
"But I do," whispered Marat, still more softly, for he saw that Simon's little sparkling eyes were turned toward the woman with a look of curiosity. "I understand the Duke Philip d'Orleans very well. He wants to rouse up the people, but he is unwilling to compromise his name or his title. And that may be a very good thing. But you are not to disown yourself before Marat, for Marat is your very good friend, and will keep your secret honorably."
"What are you whispering about?" shouted Simon. "Why do you not speak to the people? You were going to tell us why Paris has no bread, and who is to blame that we must all starve."
"Yes, yes, that is what you were going to tell us!" was shouted on all sides. "We want to know it."
"Tell us, tell us!" cried the giantess. "Give me your hand once more, that I may press it in the name of all the women of Paris!"
Marat with an assuring smile reached his great, bony hand to the woman, who held it in both of her own for a moment, and then retreated and was lost in the crowd.
But in Marat's hand now blazed the jewelled ring which had a moment before adorned the large, soft hand of the woman. He, perhaps, did not know it himself; he paid no attention to it, but turned all his thoughts to the people who now filled the immense square, and hemmed him in with thousands upon thousands of blazing eyes.
"You want to know why you have no bread?" snarled he. "You ask why you starve? Well, my friends and brothers, the answer is an easy one to give. The baker of France has shut up his storehouse because the baker's wife has told him to do so, because she hates the people and wants them to starve! But she does not intend to starve, and so she has called the baker and the little apprentices to Versailles, where are her storehouses, guarded by her paid soldiers. What does it concern her if the people of Paris are miserably perishing? She has an abundance of bread, for the baker must always keep his store open for her, and her son eats cake, while your children are starving! You must always keep demanding that the baker, the baker's wife, and the whole brood come to Paris and live in your midst, and then you will see how they keep their flour, and you will then compel them to give you of their superfluous supplies."
"Yes, we will make her come!" cried Simon the cobbler, with a coarse laugh. "Up, brothers, up! We must compel the baker and his wife to open the flour-store to us!"
"Let us go to Versailles!" roared the great woman, who had posted herself among a group of fishwives. "Come, my friends, let us go to Versailles, and we will tell the baker's wife that our children have no bread, while she is giving her apprentices cakes. We will demand of her that she give our children bread, and if she refuses it, we will compel her to come with her baker and her whole brood to Paris and starve with us! Come, let us go to Versailles!"
"Yes, yes, let us go to Versailles!" was the hideous cry which echoed across the square; "the baker's wife shall give us bread!"
"She keeps the keys to the stores!" howled Marat, "she prevents the baker opening them."
"She shall give us the keys!" yelled the great woman.
"All the mothers and all the women of Paris must go to Versailles to the baker's wife!"
"All mothers, all women to Versailles!" resounded in a thousand- voiced chorus over the square, and then through the streets, and then into the houses.
And all the mothers and wives caught up these thundering cries, which came to them like unseen voices from the air, commissioning them to engage in a noble, an exalted mission, calling to them to save Paris and procure bread for their children.
"To Versailles, to Versailles! All mothers and women to Versailles!"
Who was able to resist obeying this command, which no one had given, which was heard by no single ear, yet was intelligible to every heart--who could resist it?
The men had stormed the Bastile, the women must storm the heart of the baker's wife in Versailles, till it yield and give to the children of the poor the bread for which they hunger.
"Up, to Versailles! All wives and mothers!"
The cry sweeps like a hurricane through the streets, and everywhere finds an echo in the maddened, panic-stricken, despairing, raging hearts of the women who see their children hunger, and suffer hunger themselves.
"The baker's wife feeds her apprentices with cakes, and we have not a crumb of bread to give to our poor little ones!"
In whole crowds the women dashed into the largest squares, where were the men who fomented the revolution, Marat, Danton, Santerre, Chaumette, and all the rest, the speakers at the clubs; there they are, giving their counsels to the maddened women, and spurring them on!
"Do not be afraid, do not be turned aside! Go to Versailles, brave women! Save your children, your husbands, from death by starvation! Compel the baker's wife to give bread to you and for us all! And if she conceals it from you, storm her palace with violence; there will be men there to help you. Only be brave and undismayed, God will go with mothers who are bringing bread to their children, and your husbands will protect you!"
They were brave and undismayed, the wives and mothers of Paris. In broad streams they rushed on; they broke over every thing which was in their way; they drew all the women into their seething ranks. "To Versailles! To Versailles!"
It was to no avail that De Bailly, the mayor of Paris, encountered the women on the street, and urged them with pressing words to return to their families and their work, and assured them that the bakers had already opened their shops, and had been ordered to bake bread. It was in vain that the general of the National Guard, Lafayette, had a discussion with the women, and tried to show them how vain and useless was their action.
Louder and louder grew the commanding cry, "To Versailles! We will bring the baker and his wife to Paris! To Versailles!"
The crowds of women grew more and more dense, and still mightier was the shout, "To Versailles!"
Bailly went with pain to General Lafayette. "We must pacify them, or you, general, must prevent them by force!" "It is impossible," replied Lafayette. "How could we use force against defenceless women? Not one of my soldiers would obey my commands, for these women are the wives, the mothers, the sisters of my soldiers! They have no other weapons than their tongues with which to storm the heart of the queen! How could we conquer them with weapons of steel? We must let them go! But we must take precautions that the king and the queen do not fall into danger."
"That will be all the more necessary, general, as the women will certainly be accompanied by armed crowds of men, and excitement and confusion will accompany them all the way to Versailles. Make haste, general, to defend Versailles. The columns of women are already in motion, and, as I have said to you, they will be accompanied by armed men!"
"It would not be well for me to take my soldiers to Versailles," said Lafayette, shaking his head. "You know, M. De Bailly, to what follies the reactionaries of Versailles have already led the royal family. All Paris speaks of nothing else than of the holiday which the king and queen have given to the royal troops, the regiment of Flanders, which they have summoned to Versailles. The king and the queen, with the dauphin, were present. The tri-colored cockade was trodden under foot, and the people were arrayed in white ribbons. Royalist songs were sang, the National Guard was bitterly talked of, and an oath was given to the king and queen that commands would only be received of them. My soldiers are exasperated, and many of my officers have desired of me to-day that we should repair to Versailles and attack the regiment of Flanders and decimate them. It is, therefore, perilous to take these exasperated National Guards to Versailles."
"And yet something must be done for the protection of the king," said Bailly; "believe me, these raging troops of women are more dangerous than the exasperated National Guards. Come, General Lafayette, we will go to the city hall, and summon the magistracy and the leaders of the National Guard, to take counsel of them."
An hour later the drums beat through all the streets of Paris, for in the city hall the resolve had been taken that the National Guard of Paris, under the lead of General Lafayette, should repair to Versailles to protect the royal family against the attacks of the people, but at the same time to protect the National Assembly against the attacks of the royalist troops.
But long before the troops were in motion, and had really begun their march to Versailles, the troops of women were already on their way. Soldiers of the National Guard and armed men from the people accompanied the women, and secured among them a certain military discipline. They marched in ten separate columns, every one of which consisted of more than a thousand women.
Each column was preceded by some soldiers of the National Guard, with weapons on their shoulders, who, of their own free will, had undertaken to be the leaders. On both sides of each column marched the armed men from the people, in order to inspire the women with courage when they grew tired, but at the same time to compel those who were weary of the long journey, or sick of the whole undertaking, and who wanted to return to Paris, to come back into the ranks and complete what they had begun, and carry the work of revolution still further. "On to Versailles!"
All was quiet in Versailles that day. No one suspected the horrors which it was to bring forth. The king had gone with some of his gentlemen to Meudon to hunt: the queen had gone to Trianon alone-- all alone!
No one of her friends was now at her side, she had lost them all. No one was there to share the misery of the queen of all who had shared her happiness. The Duchess de Polignac, the princesses of the royal house, the cheery brother of the king, Count d'Artois, the Count de Coigny, Lords Besenval and Lauzun, where are they all now, the friends, the suppliants of former days? Far, far away in distant lands, flown from the misfortune that, with its dark wings sinking, was hovering lower and lower over Versailles, and darkening with its uncanny shadows this Trianon which had once been so cheerful and bright. All now is desolate and still! The mill rattles no more, the open window is swung to and fro by the wind, and the miller no more looks out with his good-natured, laughing face; the miller of Trianon is no longer the king, and the burdens and cares of his realm have bowed his head. The school-house, too, is desolate, and the learned master no longer writes his satires and jokes upon the great black-board in the school-room. He now writes libels and pamphlets, but they are now directed against the queen, against the former mistress of Trianon. And there is the fish-pond, along whose shores the sheep used to pasture, where the courtly company, transformed into shepherds and shepherdesses, used to lie on the grass, singing songs, arranging tableaux, and listening to the songs which the band played behind the thicket. All now is silent. No joyous tone now breaks the melancholy stillness which fills the shady pathways of the grove where Marie Antoinette, the mistress of Trianon, now walks with bended head and heart-broken spirit; only the recollection of the past resounds as an echo in her inner ear, and revives the cheerful strains which long have been silent.
At the fish-pond all is still, no flocks grazing on the shore, no picturesque groups, no songs. The spinning-wheel no longer whirls, the hand of the queen no longer turns the spindle; she has learned to hold the sceptre and the pen, and to weave public policy, and not a net of linen. The trees with their variegated autumn foliage are reflected in the dark water of the pond; some weeping-willows droop with their tapering branches down to the water, and a few swans come slowly sailing across with their necks raised in their majestic fashion. As they saw the figure on the shore, they expanded their wings and sailed quicker on, to pick up the crumbs which the white hands of the queen used to throw to them.
But these hands have to-day no gifts for the solitary, forgotten swans. All the dear, pleasant customs of the past are forgotten, they have all ceased.
Yet the swans have not forgotten her; they sail unquietly hither and thither along the shore of the pond, they toss up their slender necks, and then plunge their red beaks down into the dark water seeking for the grateful bits which were not there. But when they saw that they were disappointed, they poured forth their peculiarly mournful song and slowly sailed away down the lakelet into the obscurity of the distance, letting their complaining notes be heard from time to time.
"They are singing the swan's song of my happiness," whispered the queen, looking with tearful eyes at the beautiful creatures. "They too turn away from me, and now I am alone, all alone."
She had spoken this loudly, and her quivering voice wakened the echo which had been artistically contrived there, to repeat cheery words and merry laughter.
"Alone!" sounded back from the walls of the Marlborough Tower at the end of the fish-pond. "Alone!" whispered the water stirred with the swans. "Alone!" was the rustling cry of the bushes. "Alone!" was heard in the heart of the queen, and she sank down upon the grass, covered her face with her hands, and wept aloud. All at once there was a cry in the distance, "The queen, where is the queen? "
Marie Antoinette sprang up and dried her eyes. No one should see that she had wept. Tears belong only to solitude, but she has no longer even solitude. The voice comes nearer and nearer, and Marie Antoinette follows the sound. She knows that she is going to meet a new misfortune. People have not come to Trianon to bring her tidings of joy; they have come to tell her that destruction awaits her in Versailles, and the queen is to give audience to it.
A man came with hurried step from the thicket down the winding footpath. Marie Antoinette looked at him with eager, sharp eye. Who is he, this herald of misfortune? No one of the court servants, no one of the gentry.
He wears the simple garments of a citizen, a man of the people, of that Third Estate which has prepared for the poor queen so much trouble and sorrow.
He had perhaps read her question in her face, for, as he now sank breathless at her feet, his lips murmured: "Forgive me, your majesty, forgive me that I disturb you. I am Toulan, your most devoted servant, and it is Madame de Campan who sends me."
"Toulan, yes, I recognize you now," said the queen, hastily. "It was you, was it not, who brought me the sad news of the acquittal of Rohan?"
"It appears, your majesty, that a cruel misfortune has always chosen me to be the bearer of evil tidings to my exalted queen. And to-day I come only with such."
"What is it?" cried the queen, eagerly. "Has any thing happened to my husband? Are my children threatened? Speak quickly, say no or yes. Let me know the whole truth at once. Is the king dead? Are my children in danger?"
"No, your majesty."
"No," cried the queen, breathing a breath of relief. "I thank you, air. You see that you accused Fate falsely, for you have brought me good tidings. And yet again I thank you, for, I remember, I have much to thank you for. It was you who raised your voice in the National Assembly, and voted for the inviolability of the queen. It was not your fault, and believe me not mine either, that your voice was alone, that no one joined you. The king has been declared inviolable, but not the queen, and now I am to be attacked, am I not? Tell me what is it? Why does my faithful Campan send you to me?"
"Your majesty, to conjure you to come to Versailles."
"What has happened there?"
"Nothing as yet, your majesty, but--I was early this morning in Paris, and what I saw there determined me to come hither at once, to bring the news and warn your majesty."
"What is it? Why do you hesitate? Speak out freely."
"Your majesty, all Paris is in motion, all Paris is marching upon Versailles!"
"What do you mean by that?" asked Marie Antoinette, passionately. "What does Paris want? Does it mean to threaten the National Assembly? Explain yourself, for you see I do not understand you."
"Your majesty, the people of Paris hunger. The bakers have made no bread, for they assert that there is no more meal. The enemies of the realm have taken advantage of the excitement to stir up the masses and even the women. The people are hungry; the people are coming to Versailles to ask the king for bread. Ten thousand women are on the road to Versailles, accompanied by armed bodies of men."
"Let us hasten, sir, I must go to my children," said the queen, and with quick steps she went forward. Not a glance back, not a word of farewell to the loved plantation of Trianon, and yet it is the last time that Marie Antoinette is to look upon it. She will never return hither, she turns her back forever upon Trianon.
With flying steps she hurries on; Toulan does not venture to address her, and she has perhaps entirely forgotten his presence. She does not know that a faithful one is near her; she only knows that her children are in Versailles, and that she must go to them to protect them, and to the king too, to die with him, if it must be.
When they were not far from the great mall of the park at Versailles, the Count de St. Priest came running, and his frightened looks and pale face confirmed the news that Mr. Toulan had brought.
"Your majesty," cried the count, breathless, "I took the liberty of looking for your majesty at Trianon. Bad news has arrived."
"I know it," answered the queen, calmly. "Ten thousand women are marching upon Versailles, Mr. Toulan has informed me, and you see I am coming to receive the women."
All at once she stood still and turned to Toulan, who was walking behind her like the faithful servant of his mistress.
"Sir," said she, "I thank you, and I know that I may reckon upon you. I am sure that to-day as always you have thought upon our welfare, and that you will remain mindful of the oath of fidelity which you once gave me. Farewell! Do you go to the National Assembly. I will go to the palace, and may we each do our duty." She saluted Toulan with a gentle inclination of her head and with beaming looks of gratitude in her beautiful eyes, and then hurried on up the grand mall to the palace.
In Versailles all was confusion and consternation. Every one had lost his senses. Every one asked, and no one answered, for the only one who could answer, the king, was not there. He had not yet returned from the hunt in Meudon.
But the queen was there, and with a grand calmness and matchless grasp of mind she undertook the duties of the king. First, she sent the chief equerry, the Marquis de Cubieres, to meet the king and cause him to hasten home at once. She intrusted Count St. Priest, minister of the interior, with a division of the guards in the inner court of the palace. She inspired the timid women with hope. She smiled at her children, who, timid and anxious at the confusion which surrounded them, fled to the queen for refuge, and clung to her.
Darker and darker grew the reports that came meanwhile to the palace. They were the storm-birds, so to speak, that precede the tempest. They announced the near approach of the people of Paris, of the women, who were no longer unarmed, and who had been joined by thousands of the National Guard, who, in order to give the train of women a more imposing appearance, had brought two cannon with them, and who, armed with knives and guns, pikes and axes, and singing wild war-songs, were marching on as the escort of the women.
The queen heard all without alarm, without fear. She commanded the women, who stood around her weeping and wringing their hands, to withdraw to their own apartments, and protect the dauphin and the princess, to lock the doors behind them and to admit no one--no one, excepting herself. She took leave of the children with a kiss, and bade them be fearless and untroubled. She did not look at them as the women took them away. She breathed firmly as the doors closed behind them.
"Now I have courage to bear every thing," she said to St. Priest. "My children are in safety! Would only that the king were here!"
At the same instant the door opened and the king entered. Marie Antoinette hastened to meet him, threw herself with a cry of joy into his arms, and rested her head, which had before been erect with courage, heavily on his shoulder.
"Oh, sire, my dear sire! thank God that you are here. Now I fear nothing more! You will not suffer us to perish in misery! You will breathe courage into these despairing ones, and tell the inexperienced what they have to do. Sire, Paris is marching against us, but with us there are God and France. You will defend the honor of France and your crown against the rebels?"
The king answered confusedly, and as if in a yielding frame of mind. "We must first hear what the people want," he said; "we must not approach them threateningly, we must first discuss matters with them."
"Sire," answered the queen, in amazement, "to discuss with the rebels now is to imply that they are in the right, and you will not, you cannot do that!"
"I will consult with my advisers," said the king, pointing at the ministers, who, summoned by St. Priest, were then entering the room.
But what a consultation was that! Every one made propositions, and yet no one knew what to do. No one would take the responsibility of the matter upon himself, and yet every one felt that the danger increased every minute. But what to do? That was the question which no one was able to answer, and before which the king was mute. Not so the queen, however.
"Sire!" cried she, with glowing cheeks, "sire, you have to save the realm, and to defend it from revolution. The contest is here, and we cannot withdraw from it. Call your guards, put yourself at their head, and allow me to remain at your side. We ought not to yield to revolution, and if we cannot control it, we should suffer it to enter the palace of the kings of France only over our dead bodies. Sire, we must either live as kings, or know how to die as kings!"
But Louis replied to this burst of noble valor in a brave woman's soul, only with holding back and timidity. Plans were made and cast aside. They went on deliberating till the wild yells of the people were heard even within the palace.
The queen, pale and yet calm, had withdrawn to the adjoining apartment. There she leaned against the door and listened to the words of the ministers, and to the new reports which were all the time coming in from the streets.
The crowd had reached Versailles, and was streaming through the streets of the city in the direction of the palace. The National Guard of Versailles had fraternized with the Parisians. Some scattered soldiers of the royal guard had been threatened and insulted, and even dragged from their horses!
The queen heard all, and heard besides the consultation of the king and his ministers--still coming to no decisive results, doubting and hesitating, while the fearful crisis was advancing from the street.
Already musket-shots were heard on the great square in front of the palace, wild cries, and loud, harsh voices. Marie Antoinette left her place at the door and hurried to the window, where a view could be had of the whole square. She saw the dark dust-cloud which hung over the road to Paris; she saw the unridden horses, running in advance of the crowd, their riders, members of the royal guard, having been killed; she heard the raging discords, which surged up to the palace like a wave driven by the wind; she saw this black, dreadful wave sweep along the Paris road, roaring as it went.
What a fearful mass! Howling, shrieking women, with loosened hair, and with menacing gestures, extended their naked arms toward the palace defiantly, their eyes naming, their mouths overflowing with curses. Wild men's figures, with torn blouses, the sleeves rolled up over dusty and dirty arms, and bearing pikes, knives, and guns, here and there members of the National Guard marching with them arm in arm, pressed on toward the palace. Sometimes shrieks and yells, sometimes coarse peals of laughter, or threatening cries, issued from the confused crowd. Nearer and nearer surged the dreadful wave of destruction to the royal palace. Now it has reached it. Maddened fists pounded upon the iron gates before the inner court, and threatening voices demanded entrance: hundreds and hundreds of women shrieked with wild gestures: "We want to come in! We want to speak with the baker! We will eat the queen's guts if we cannot get any thing else to eat!"
And thousands upon thousands of women's voices repeated--"Yes, we will eat the queen's guts, if we get nothing else to eat!"
Marie Antoinette withdrew from the window; her bearing was grave and defiant, a laugh of scorn played over her proudly-drawn-up upper- lip, her head was erect, her step decisive, dignified.
She went again to the king and his ministers. "Sire," said she, "the people are here. It is now too late to supplicate them, as you wanted to do. Nothing remains for you except to defend yourself, and to save the crown for your son the dauphin, even if it falls from your own head."
"It remains for us," answered the king, gravely, "to bring the people back to a sense of duty. They are deceived about us. They are excited. We will try to conciliate them, and to show them our fatherly interest in them."
The queen stared in amazement at the pleasant, smiling face of the king; then, with a loud cry of pain, which escaped from her breast like the last gasp of a dying man, she turned around, and went up to the Prince de Luxemburg, the captain of the guard, who just then entered the hall.
"Do you come to tell us that the people have taken the palace?" cried the queen, with an angry burst from her very soul.
"Madame," answered the prince, "had that been the case, I should not have been here alive. Only over my body will the rabble enter the palace."
"Ah," muttered Marie Antoinette to herself, "there are men in Versailles yet, there are brave men yet to defend us!"
"What news do you bring, captain?" asked the king, stepping up.
"Sire, I am come to receive your commands," answered the prince, bowing respectfully. "This mob of shameless shrews is growing more maddened, more shameless every moment. Thousands and thousands of arms are trying the gates, and guns are fired with steady aim at the guards. I beg your majesty to empower me to repel this attack of mad women!"
"What an idea, captain!" cried Louis, shrugging his shoulders. "Order to attack a company of women! You are joking, prince!" [Footnote: The king's own words. --See Weber, "Memoires," vol. t, p. 433.]
And the king turned to Count de la Marck, who was entering the room. "You come with new news. What is it, count?"
"Sire, the women are most desirous of speaking with your majesty, and presenting their grievances."
"I will hear them," cried the king, eagerly. "Tell the women to choose six of their number and bring them into my cabinet. I will go there myself."
"Sire, you are going to give audience to revolution," cried Marie Antoinette, seizing the arm of the king, who was on the point of leaving the room. "I conjure you, my husband, do not be overpowered by your magnanimous heart! Let not the majesty of the realm be defiled by the raging hands of these furies! Remain here. Oh, sire, if my prayers, my wishes have any power with you, remain here! Send a minister to treat with these women in your name. But do not confront their impudence with the dignity of the crown. Sire, to give them audience is to give audience to revolution; and from the hour when it takes place, revolution has gained the victory over the kingly authority! Do not go, oh do not go!"
"I have given my word," answered Louis, gently. "I have sent word to the women that I would receive them, and they shall not say that the first time they set foot in the palace of their king, they were deceived by him. And see, there comes the count to take me!"
And the king followed with hasty step Count de la Marck, who just then appeared at the door.
Six women of wild demeanor, with dusty, dirty clothes, their hair streaming out from their round white caps, were assembled in the cabinet of the king, and stared at him with defiant eyes as he entered. But his gentle demeanor and pleasant voice appeared to surprise them; and Louise Chably, the speaker, who had selected the women, found only timid, modest words, with which to paint to the king the misfortune, the need, and the pitiable condition of the people, and with which to entreat his pity and assistance.
"Ah, my children," answered the king with a sigh, "only believe me, it is not my fault that you are miserable, and I am still more unhappy than you. I will give directions to Corbeil and D'Estampes, the controllers of the grain-stores, to give out all that they can spare. If my commands had always been obeyed, it would be better with us all! If I could do every thing, could see to it that my commands were everywhere carried into effect, you would not be unhappy; and you must confess, at least, that your king loves you as a father his children, and that nothing lies so closely at his heart as your welfare. Go, my children, and tell your friends to prove worthy of the love of their king, and to return peaceably to Paris." [Footnote: The king's own words. --See. A. de Beauchesne, "Louis XVI. . sa Vie, son Agonie, "etc., vol. i., p. 43.]
"Long live the king! Long live our father!" cried the touched and pacified women, as trembling and with tears in their eyes, they left the royal cabinet, in order to go to the women below, and announce to them what the king had said.
But the royal words found no response among the excited masses. "We are hungry, we want bread," shouted the women. "We are not going to live on words any more. The king shall give us bread, and then we shall see it proved that he loves us like a father; then we will go back to Paris. If the baker believes that he can satisfy us with words and fine speeches, he is mistaken."
"If he has no bread, he shall give us his wife to eat!" roared a man with a pike in his hand and a red cap on his head. "The baker's wife has eaten up all our bread, and it is no more than fair that we should eat her up now."
"Give us the heart of the queen," was now the cry, "give us the heart of the queen!"
Marie Antoinette heard the words, but she appeared not to be alarmed. With dignity and composure, she cast a look at the ministers and gentlemen, who, pale and speechless, had gathered around the royal couple.
"I know that this crowd has come from Paris to demand my head! I learned of my mother not to fear death, and I shall meet it with courage and steadfastness." [Footnote: The words of the queen. --See "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 194.]
And firmly and fearlessly Marie Antoinette remained all this dreadful evening, which was now beginning to overshadow Versailles. Outside of the palace raged the uproar; revolutionary songs were sung; veiled forms, the leaders of the revolution, stole around, and fired the people with new rage against the baker and the baker's wife. Torches were lighted to see by, and the blood-red glare shone into the faces there, and tended to exasperate them still more. What dances were executed by the women, with torches in their hands! and the men roared in accompaniment, ridiculing the king and threatening the queen with death.
At times the torches threw their flickering glare into the windows of the palace, where were the ministers and servants of the king, in silent horror. Among all those counsellor of the king, there was at this time but one Man, Marie Antoinette! She alone preserved her steadfastness and discretion; she spoke to every one friendly, inspiriting words. She roused up the timid; at times she even attempted to bring the king to some decisive action, and yet she did not complain when she found herself unable to do so.
Once her face lighted up in hope and joy. That was when a company of deputies, headed by Toulan, entered the hall, to offer their services to the royal couple, and to ask permission to be allowed to remain around the king and queen.
But scarcely had this request been granted, when both the secretaries of the president of the National Assembly entered, warning the members, in the name of the president, to return at once to the hall and to take part in the night session which was to be held.
"They call our last friends away from us," murmured the queen, "for they want us to be entirely defenceless!"
All at once the cries on the square below were more violent and loud; musket-shots were heard; at the intervals between rose the thousand-voiced clamor, and at one time the thunder of a cannon. There was a rush of horses, and clash of arms, more musket-shots, and then the cry of the wounded.
The king had withdrawn to hold a last consultation with his ministers and a few faithful friends. At this fearful noise, this sound of weapons, this shout of victory, his first thought was of the queen. He rose quickly and entered the hall.
No one was there; the red glare of the torches was thrown from below into the deserted room, and showed upon the wall wondrous shadows of contorted human figures, with clinched fists and with raised and threatening arms.
The king walked hastily through the fearfully illuminated hall, called for the queen with a loud voice, burst into the cabinet, then into her sleeping-room, but no Marie Antoinette was to be found--no one gave reply to the anxious call of the king.
More dreadful grew the wild shrieks and howls, the curses and maledictions which came in from without.
The king sprang up the little staircase which led to the rooms of the children, and dashed through the antechamber, where the door was open that led to the dauphin's sleeping-room.
And here Louis stood still, and looked with a breath of relief at the group which met his tearful eyes. The dauphin was lying in his bed fast asleep, with a smile on his face. Marie Antoinette stood erect before the bed in an attitude of proud composure.
"Marie," said the king, deeply moved--"Marie, I was looking for you."
The queen slowly turned her head toward him and pointed at the sleeping prince.
"Sire," answered she calmly, "I was at my post." [Footnote: This conversation, as well as this whole scene, is historical. --See Beauchesne's "Louis XVII.," vol. i.] Louis, overcome by the sublimity of a mother's love, hastened to his wife and locked her in his arms.
"Remain with me, Marie," he said. "Do not leave me. Breathe your courage and your decision into me."
The queen sighed and sadly shook her head. She had not a word of reproach; she did not say that she no longer believed in the courage and decision of the king, but she had no longer any hope.
But the doors of the room now opened. Through one came the maids of the queen and the governess of the dauphin; through the other, some gentlemen of the court, to call the king back into the audience- hall.
After the first panic, every one had come back to consciousness again, and all vied in devoting themselves to the king and the queen. The gentlemen brought word that something new had occurred, and that this was the cause of the dreadful tumult below upon the square. The National Guard of Paris had arrived; they had fraternized with the National Guard of Versailles, and with the people; they had been received by the women with shouts of applause, and by the men with a volley of musket-shots in salutation. General Lafayette had entered the palace to offer his services to the king, and he now asked for an audience.
"Come, madame," said Louis quickly, cheered up, "let us receive the general. You see that things are not so bad with us as you think. We have faithful servants yet to hasten to our assistance."
The queen made no reply. Quietly she followed the king into the hall, in which Lafayette, surrounded by the ministers and gentlemen, was standing. On the entrance of the royal couple, the general advanced to meet them with a reverential salutation.
"Sire," said Lafayette, with cheerful confidence--" sire, I have come to protect your majesties and the National Assembly against all those who shall venture to threaten you."
"Are you assured of the fidelity and trustworthiness of your troops?" asked the queen, whose flaming eyes rested upon Lafayette's countenance as if she wanted to read his utmost thoughts.
But these eyes did not confuse the cheerful calmness of the general.
"I know, madame, that I can rely upon the fidelity of my soldiers," answered he, confidently. "They are devoted to me to the death, and as I shall command them, they will watch over the security of the king and queen, and keep all injury from them."
The queen detected the touch of scorn in these loud-sounding words, but she pretended to believe them. At last she really did believe them, for Lafayette repeated emphatically that from this time nothing more was to be feared for the royal family, and that all danger was past. The guard should be chosen this night from his own troops; the Paris National Guard should restore peace again in Versailles, and keep an eye upon the crowds which had encamped upon the great square before the palace.
Lafayette promised well for his army, for the howling, shrieking women, for the cursing, raging men.
And the king was satisfied with these assurances of General Lafayette, and so, too, was Marie Antoinette at last.
Louis ordered the garde du corps to march to Rambouillet, and reserved only the necessary sentinels in the palace. In the immediate neighborhood the soldiers of Lafayette were stationed. The general once more made the rounds, and then, as if every thing was in a position of the greatest security, he went into the palace to spend the night there, and in peaceful slumbers to refresh himself for the labors of the day.
The king, too, had retired to his apartments, and the valets who had assisted his majesty to undress had not left the sleeping-room, when the loud, uniform breathing which issued from the silken curtains of the bed told them that the king had already fallen asleep. The queen, too, had gone to rest, and while laying her wearied and heavy head upon the cushions, she tenderly besought both her maids to lie down too. All was quiet now in the dark palace of Versailles. The king and the queen slept.
But through the dark, deserted halls which that day had witnessed so much pain and anxiety, resounded now the clang of the raging, howling voices which came up from the square, and hurled their curses against the queen.
In the palace of Versailles they were asleep, but without, before the palace, Uproar and Hate kept guard, and with wild thoughts of murder stalked around the palace of the Kings of France.
How soon were these thoughts to become fact! Sleep, Marie Antoinette, sleep! One last hour of peace and security!
One last hour! Before the morning dawns Hate will awaken thee, and Murder's terrible voice will resound through the halls of the Kings of France!
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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13
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THE NIGHT OF HORROR.
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Marie Antoinette slept! The fearful excitement of the past day and of the stormy evening, crowded with its events, had exhausted the powers of the queen, and she had fallen into that deep, dreamless sleep which sympathetic and gracious Nature sometimes sends to those whom Fate pursues with suffering and peril.
Marie Antoinette slept! In the interior of the palace a deep calm reigned, and Lafayette had withdrawn from the court in order to sleep too. But below, upon this court, Revolution kept her vigils, and glared with looks of hatred and vengeance to the dark walls behind which the queen was sleeping.
The crown of France had for centuries sinned so much, and proved false so much, that the love of the people had at last been transformed into hate. The crown had so long sown the wind, that it could not wonder if it had to reap the whirlwind. The crimes and innovations which Louis XIV. and Louis XV. had sown upon the soil of France, had created an abyss between the crown and the people, out of which revolution must arise to avenge those crimes and sins of the past upon the present. The sins of the fathers had to be visited upon the children to the third and fourth generation.
Marie Antoinette did not know it; she did not see the abyss which had opened between the crown and the people; the courtiers and flatterers had covered it with flowers, and with the sounds of festivity the cries of a distressed people had been drowned.
Now the flowers were torn away, the festive sounds had ceased, and Marie Antoinette saw the abyss between the crown and the people; she heard the curses, the raging cries of these exasperated men, who had been changed from weak, obedient subjects into threatening, domineering rebels. She looked with steady eye down into the abyss, and saw the monster rise from the depths to destroy herself and her whole house; but she would not draw back, she would not yield. She would rather be dragged down and destroyed than meekly and miserably to make her way to the camp of her enemies, to take refuge with them.
Better to die with the crown on her head than to live robbed of her crown in lowliness and in a, subject condition. Thus thought Marie Antoinette, as at the close of that dreadful day she went to rest; this was her prayer as she sank upon her couch: "Give me power, O God, to die as a queen, if I can no longer live as a queen! And strengthen my husband, that he may not only be a good man, but a king too!"
With this prayer on her trembling lips, she had fallen asleep. But when Campan stole on tiptoe to the queen's bed to watch her mistress while she slept, Marie Antoinette opened her eyes again, and spoke in her friendly way to her devoted servant.
"Go to bed, Campan," said she, "and the second maid must lie down too. You all need rest after this evil day, and sleep is so refreshing. Go, Campan, good-night!"
Madame de Campan had to obey, and stepped out into the antechamber, where were the two other maids.
"The queen is asleep," she said, "and she has commanded us to go to rest too. Shall we do so?"
The two women answered only with a shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulders.
"I know very well that we are agreed," said Madame de Campan, reaching her hand to them. "For us there must be no sleep to-night, for we must watch the queen. Come, my friends, let us go into the antechamber. We shall find Mr. Varicourt, who will tell us what is going on outside."
On tiptoe the three women stole out into the second ante-chamber, which was lighted only with a couple of glimmering wax tapers, and in its desolate disorder, with the confusion of chairs, divans, and tables, brought back sad recollections of the wild women who had on the day before pressed into this apartment in their desire to speak with the queen. Somebody had told them that this was the antechamber of the queen, and they had withdrawn in order to go to the antechamber of the king. But they now knew the way that led to the apartments of the queen; they knew now that if one turned to the left side of the palace, he would come at once into the apartments occupied by the royal family, and that the queen occupied the adjacent rooms, directly behind the hall of the Swiss Guard.
Madame de Campan thought of this, as she cast her glance over this antechamber which adjoined the Swiss hall, and this thought filled her with horror.
Varicourt had not yet come in; nothing disturbed the silence around her, except the dreadful shouting and singing outside of the palace.
"Let us go back into the waiting-room," whispered her companions, "it is too gloomy here. Only hear how they shout and laugh! O God, it is a fearful night!"
"Yes, a fearful night," sighed Madame de Campan, "and the day that follows it may be yet more fearful. But we must not lose our courage. All depends upon our having decision, upon our defying danger, and defending our mistress. And see, there comes Mr. Varicourt," she continued, earnestly, as the door quickly opened, and an officer of the Swiss guard came in with great haste.
"Tell us, my friend, what news do you bring us?"
"Bad news," sighed Varicourt. "The crowd is increasing every moment. New columns have arrived from Paris, and not only the common people, but the speakers and agitators are here. Everywhere are groups listening to the dreadful speeches which urge on to regicide and revolution. It is a dreadful, horrible night. Treachery, hatred, wickedness around the palace, and cowardice and desertion pass out from the palace to them, and open the doors. Many of the royal soldiers have made common cause with the people, and walk arm in arm with them around the square."
"And what do these dreadful men want?" asked Campan. "Why do they encamp around the palace? What is their object?"
Mr. Varicourt sadly bowed his head, and a loud sigh came from his courageous breast. "They want what they shall never have while I am alive," he then said, with a decided look. "I have sworn fidelity to the king and queen, and I shall keep it to death. My duty calls me, for the hour of changing guards is near, and my post is below at the great staircase which leads up here. We shall meet at daylight, if I am then alive. But till then we shall do our duty. I shall guard the grand staircase, do you guard the sleeping-room of the queen."
"Yes, we will do our duty," answered Madame de Campan, extending her hand to him. "We will watch over those to whom we have devoted ourselves, and to whom we have vowed fidelity. No one shall pass into the chamber of the queen while we are alive, shall there?"
"Never," replied both of the women, with courageous decision.
"And no one shall ascend the great staircase so long as I live," said Varicourt. "Adieu now, ladies, and listen carefully to every sound. If a voice calls to you, 'It is time,' wake the queen and save her, for danger will then be right upon her. Hark, it is striking three, that is the hour of changing guard. Farewell!"
He went quickly to the door, but there he stood still, and turned once more around. His glance encountered that of his friend, and Madame de Campan understood its silent language well, for she hastened to him.
"You have something to say to me?"
"Yes," he whispered softly, "I have a presentiment that I shall not survive the horrors of this night. I have one whom I love, who, as you know, is betrothed to me. If I fall in the service of the king, I ask you to see my Cecilia, and tell her that I died with her name upon my lips! Tell her not to weep for me, but at the same time not to forget me. Farewell."
He hurriedly opened the door and hastened away. Madame de Campan repressed the tears which would fill her eyes, and turned to the two maids.
"Now," said she, with decisive tones, "let us return to the waiting- room and watch the door of the queen's chamber."
With a firm step she walked on, and the ladies followed. Without any noise they entered the little hall, where in the mornings those ladies of the court used to gather who had the right to be present while the queen dressed herself. Madame de Campan locked the door through which they had entered, behind her, drew out the key and hid it in her pocket.
"No one will enter here with my will," said she. "Now we will place chairs before the door of the sleeping-room, and sit there. We shall then have erected a barricade before our queen, a wall which will be as strong as any other, for there beat three courageous hearts within it."
They sat down upon the chairs, whose high backs leaned against the door of the queen's room, and, taking one another's hands, began their hallowed watch.
All was still and desolate around them. No one of the women could break the silence with a word or a remark. With dumb lips, with open eyes, the three watchers sat and hearkened to the sounds of the night. At times, when the roaring without was uncommonly loud and wild, they pressed one another's hands, and spoke to one another in looks; but when the sounds died away, they turned their eyes once more to the windows and listened.
Slowly, dreadfully slowly moved the fingers of the great clock above on the chimney. Madame de Campan often fixed her gaze upon it, and it seemed to her as if time must have ceased to go on, for it appeared to be an eternity since Varicourt had taken leave of her, and yet the two longer fingers on the dial had not indicated the fourth hour after midnight. But the pendulum still continued its regular, even swinging; the time went forward; only every moment made the horror, the fear of unknown danger seem like an eternity!
At last, slowly, with calm stroke, the hour began to strike four o'clock. And amid the dreadful sounds outside the palace, the women could recognize the deep tones of the great clock on the Swiss hall. Four o'clock! One solitary, dreadful hour is passed! Three hours more, three eternities before daylight comes!
But hark! what new, fearful noise without? That is no more the sound of singing and shouting, and crying--that is the battle-cry-that is the rattle and clatter of muskets. The three women sprang up, moved as if by one thought, animated by one purpose. They moved the chairs back from the door, ready, as soon as danger should approach, to go into the chamber of the queen and awaken her. Campan then slipped across the room to the door of the antechamber, which she had looked before. She laid her ear to the key-hole, and listened. All was still and quiet in the next room; no one was in the antechamber. There was no immediate danger near, for Varicourt's voice had not yet uttered the cry of warning.
But more fearful grew the noise outside. The crackle of musketry was more noticeable, and every now and then there seemed to be heavy strokes as if directed against the palace, sounding as if the people were attempting to force the iron gate of the front court.
"I must know what is going on," whispered Campan, and with cool decision she put the key into the door, turned it, entered the antechamber, and flew to the window, where there was a view of the whole court; and a fearful sight met her there. The crowd had broken the gate, pressed into the court, and was surging in great masses toward the palace doors. Here and there torches threw their glare over these masses, disclosing men with angry gestures, and women with streaming hair, swinging their arms savagely, and seeming like a picture of hell, not to be surpassed in horror even by the phantasms of Dante. Women changed to furies and bacchanalians, roaring and shouting in their murderous desires; men, like blood- thirsty tigers, preparing to spring upon their prey, and give it the death-stroke; swinging pikes and guns, which gleamed horribly in the glare of the torches; arms and fists bearing threatening daggers and knives! All this was pressing on upon the palace--all these clinched fists would soon be engaged in hammering upon the walls which separated the king and queen from the people--the executioner from his victim!
All at once there rang out a fearful, thundering cry, which made the windows rattle, and called forth a terrible echo above in the deserted hall; for through all these shrieks and howls, there resounded now a piercing cry, such as only the greatest pain or the most instant need can extort from human lips.
"That was a death-cry," whispered Madame de Campan, trembling, and drawing back from the window. "They have certainly killed the Swiss guards, who are keeping the door; they will now pour into the palace. O God! what will become of Varicourt? I must know what is going on!"
She flew through the antechamber and opened the door of the Swiss hall. It was empty, but outside of it could be heard a confused, mixed mass of sounds, cries, and the tramping as of hundreds and hundreds of men coming on. Nearer and nearer came the sound, more distinct every moment. All at once the door was flung open on the other side of the Swiss hall, the door which led out, and Varicourt appeared in it, pushed backward by the raging, howling mass. He still sought to resist the oncoming tramp of these savage men, and, with a movement like lightning, putting his weapon across the door, he was able for one minute to hold the place against the tide--just so long as the arms which held the weapon had in them the pulse of life! Varicourt looked like a dying man; his uniform was torn and cut, his face deathly pale, and on one side disfigured by the blood which was streaming down from a broad wound in his forehead.
"It is time, it is time!" he cried, with a loud tremulous voice, and, as he saw for an instant the face of Campan at the opposite door, a flash of joy passed over his face.
"Save the queen! They will murder her!" [Varicourt's last words. -- See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii., p. 77. ]
Madame de Campan hastily closed the door, drew the great bolt, and then sprang through the antechamber into the waiting-room, and bolted its door too. Then, after she had done that--after she had raised this double wall between the sleeping queen and the raging mob--she sank upon her knees like one who was utterly crushed, and raised her folded hands to heaven.
"Have mercy on his soul, O God! take him graciously to heaven!" whispered she, with trembling lips.
"For whom are you praying?" asked the two women, in low voices, hurrying up to her. "Who is dead?"
"Mr. Varicourt," answered Campan, with a sigh. "I heard his death- cry, as I was bolting the door of the antechamber. But we cannot stop to weep and lament. We must save the queen!"
And she sprang up from her knees, flew through the room, and opened the door leading to the queen's chamber.
At that moment a fearful crash was heard, then a loud shout of triumph in the outer antechamber.
"The queen! We want the heart of the queen!"
"They have broken down the door of the antechamber--they are in the waiting-room!" whispered Campan. "There is no time to be lost. Come, friends, come!"
And she hastened to the bed of the queen, who was still lying in that heavy, unrefreshing sleep which usually follows exhaustion and intense excitement.
"Your majesty, your majesty, wake!"
"What is it, Campan?" asked Marie Antoinette, opening her eyes, and hastily sitting up in bed. "Why do you waken me? What has happened?"
The fearful sounds without, the crashing of the door of the little waiting-room, gave answer. The rough, hard voices of the exasperated women, separated now from the queen by only one thin door, quickly told all that had happened.
Marie Antoinette sprang from her bed. "Dress me quick, quick!"
"Impossible! There is no time. Only hear how the gunstocks beat against the door! They will break it down, and then your majesty is lost! The clothes on without stopping to fasten them! Now fly, your majesty, fly! Through the side-door-through the OEil de Boeuf!"
Madame de Campan went in advance; the two women supported the queen and carried her loose clothes, and then they flew on through the still and deserted corridors to the sleeping-room of the king.
It was empty--no one there!
"O God! Campan, where is the king? I must go to him. My place is by his side! Where is the king?"
"Here I am, Marie, here!" cried the king, who just then entered and saw the eager, anxious face of his wife. "I hurried to save our most costly possessions!"
He laid the dauphin, only half awake, and lying on his breast, in the arms which Marie Antoinette extended to him, and then led her little daughter to her, who had been brought in by Madame Tourzel.
"Now," said the king, calmly, "now that I have collected my dearest treasures, I will go and see what is going on."
But Marie Antoinette held him back. "There is destruction, treachery, and murder outside. Crime may break in here and overwhelm us, but we ought not to go out and seek it."
"Well," said the king, "we will remain here and await what comes." And turning to his valet, who was then entering, Louis continued: "Bring me my chocolate, I want to take advantage of the time to breakfast, for I am hungry!"
"Sire, now? shall we breakfast now?" asked the queen, amazed.
"Why not?" answered Louis calmly. "If the body is strengthened, we look at every thing more composedly and confidently. You must take breakfast too, Marie, for who knows whether we shall find time for some hours after this?"
"I! oh, I need no breakfast," cried Marie Antoinette; and as she saw Louis eagerly taking a cup of chocolate from the hands of a valet, and was going to enjoy it, she turned away to repress the tears of anger and pain which in spite of herself pressed into her eyes.
"Mamma queen," cried the dauphin, who was yet in her arms, "I should like my breakfast too. My chocolate--I should like my chocolate too!"
The queen compelled herself to smile, carried the child to its father, and softly set him down on the king's knee.
"Sire," said she, "will the King of France teach his son to take breakfast, while revolution is thundering without, and breaking down, with treasonable hands, the doors of the royal palace? Campan, come here--help me arrange my toilet; I want to prepare myself to give audience to revolution!"
And withdrawing to a corner of the room, the queen finished her toilet, for which her women fortunately had in their flight brought the materials.
While the queen was dressing and the king breakfasting with the children, the cabinet of the king began to fill. All Louis's faithful servants, then the ministers and some of the deputies, had hurried to the palace to be at the side of the king and queen at the hour of danger.
Every one of them brought new tidings of horror. St. Priest told how he, entering the Swiss room, at the door leading into the antechamber of the queen, had seen the body of Varicourt covered with wounds. The Duke de Liancourt had seen a dreadful man, of gigantic size, with heavy beard, the arms of his blouse rolled up high, and bearing a heavy hatchet-knife in his hand, springing upon the person of the faithful Swiss, in order to sever his head from his body. The Count de Borennes had seen the corpse of the Swiss officer, Baron de Deshuttes, who guarded the iron gate, and whom the people murdered as they entered. The Marquis de Croissy told of the heroism with which another Swiss, Miomandre of St. Marie, had defended the door between the suites of the king and queen, and had gained time to draw the bolt and barricade the door. And during all these reports, and while the cabinet was filling more and more with pale men and women, the king went composedly on dispatching his breakfast.
The queen, who had long before completed her toilet, now went up to him, and with gentle, tremulous voice conjured him to declare what should be done--to come at last out of this silence, and to speak and act worthy of a king.
Louis shrugged his shoulders and set the replenished cup which he was just lifting to his mouth, on the silver waiter. At once the queen beckoned to the valet Hue to come up.
"Sir," said she, commandingly, "take these things out. The king has finished his breakfast."
Louis sighed, and with his eye followed the valet, who was carrying the breakfast into the garde-robe.
"Now, sire," whispered Marie Antoinette, "show yourself a king."
"My love," replied the king, quietly, "it is very hard to show myself a king when the people do not choose to regard me as one. Only hear that shouting and yelling, and then tell me what I can do as a king to bring these mad men to peace and reason?"
"Sire, raise your voice as king; tell them that you will avenge the crimes of this night, take the sword in your hand and defend the throne of your fathers and the throne of your son, and then you will see these rebels retire, and you will collect around you men who will be animated with fresh courage, and who will take new fire from your example. Oh, sire, disregard now the pleadings of your noble, gentle heart; show yourself firm and decided. Have no leniency for traitors and rebels!"
"Tell me what I shall do," murmured the king, with a sigh.
Marie Antoinette stooped down to his ear. "Sire," whispered she, "send at once to Vincennes, and the other neighboring places. Order the troops to come hither, collect an army, put yourself at its head, march on Paris, declare war on the rebellious capital, and you will march as conqueror into your recaptured city. Oh, only no yielding, no submission! Only give the order, sire; say that you will do so, and I will summon one of my faithful ones to give him orders to hasten to Vincennes."
And while the queen whispered eagerly to the king, her flashing glance sped across to Toulan, who, in the tumult, had found means to come in, and now looked straight at the queen. Now, as her glance came to him as an unspoken command, he made his way irresistibly forward through the crowd of courtiers, ministers, and ladies, and now stood directly behind the queen.
"Has your majesty orders for me?" he asked, softly. She looked anxiously at the king, waiting for an answer, an order. But the king was dumb; in order not to answer his wife, he drew the dauphin closer to him and caressed him.
"Has your majesty commands for me?" asked Toulan once more.
Marie Antoinette turned to him, her eyes suffused with tears, and let Toulan see her face darkened with grief and despair.
"No," she whispered, "I have only to obey; I have no commands to give!"
"Lafayette," was now heard in the corridor--"General Lafayette is coming!"
The queen advanced with hasty steps toward the entering general.
"Sir," she cried, "is this the peace and security that you promised us, and for which you pledged your word? Hear that shouting without, see us as if beleaguered here, and then tell me how it agrees with the assurances which you made to me!"
"Madame, I have been myself deceived," answered Lafayette. "The most sacred promises were made to me; all my requests and propositions were yielded to. I succeeded in pacifying the crowd, and I really believed and hoped that they would continue quiet; that-- "Sir," interrupted the queen, impatiently, "Whom do you mean by 'they?' Of whom are you speaking in such tones of respect?"
"Madame, I am speaking of the people, with whom I came to an understanding, and who promised me to keep the peace, and to respect the slumbers of your majesty."
"You are not speaking of the people, but of the rebels, the agitators," cried Marie Antoinette, with flashing eyes. "You speak of high traitors, who break violently into the palace of the king; of murderers, who have destroyed two of our faithful subjects. Sir, it is of such crime that you speak with respect; it is with such a rabble that you have dealt, instead of ordering your soldiers to cut them down."
"Madame," said Lafayette, turning pale, "had I attempted to do that, your majesty would not have found refuge in this chamber. For the anger of the mob is like the lightning and thunder of the tempest, it heeds neither door nor bolt, and if it has once broken loose, nothing can restrain or stop it."
"Oh," cried the queen, with a mocking laugh, "it is plain that Mr. Lafayette has been pursuing his studies in America, at the university of revolutions. He speaks of the people with a deference as if it were another majesty to bow to."
"And in that Lafayette is right," said the king, rising and approaching them. "Hear the yell, madame! it sounds like the roaring of lions, and you know, Marie, that the lion is called the king of beasts. Tell us, general, what does the lion want, and what does his roaring mean?"
"Sire, the enemies of the royal family, the agitators and rebels, who have within these last hours come from Paris, have urged on the people afresh, and kindled them with senseless calumnies. They have persuaded the people that your majesty has summoned hither the regiments from all the neighboring stations; that you are collecting an army to put yourself at its head and march against Paris."
Louis cast a significant look at his wife, which was answered with a proud toss of her head.
"I have sought in vain," continued Lafayette, "to make the poor, misguided men conscious of the impossibility of such a plan."
"Yet, sir," broke in Marie Antoinette, fiercely, "the execution of this plan would save the crown from dishonor and humiliation!"
"Only, madame, that it is exactly the execution of it which is impossible," answered Lafayette, gently bowing.
"If you could give wings to the soldiers of the various garrisons away from here, the plan might be good, and the army might save the country! But as, unfortunately, this cannot be, we must think of other means of help, for your majesty hears the danger knocking now at the door, and we must do with pacificatory measures what we cannot do with force."
"How will you use pacificatory measures, sir?" asked Marie Antoinette, angrily.
Lafayette cast upon her a sad, pained look, and turned to the king. "Sire," said he, with loud, solemn voice, "sire, the people are frightfully carried away. Stimulating speeches have driven them to despair and to madness. It is only with difficulty that we have succeeded in keeping the mob out of the palace, and closing the door again. 'Paris shall be laid in ashes!' is the horrible cry which drives all these hearts to rage, and to which they give unconditional belief!"
"I will show myself to the people," said Louis. "I will tell them that they have been deceived. I will give them my royal word that I have no hostile designs whatever against Paris."
General Lafayette sighed, and dropped his head heavily upon his breast.
"Do you counsel me not to do this?" asked the king, timidly.
"Sire," answered the general, with a shrug, "the people are now in such an excited, unreasonable state, that words will no longer be sufficient to satisfy them. Your majesty might assure them ever so solemnly that you entertain no hostile intentions whatever against Paris, and that you will not call outside help to your assistance, and the exasperated people would mistrust your assurances! For in all their rage the people have a distinct consciousness of the crimes they are engaged in committing in creating this rebellion against the crown, and they know that it were not human, that it were divine, for your majesty to forgive such crimes, and therefore they would not credit such forgiveness."
"How well General Lafayette knows how to interpret the thoughts of this fanatical rabble, whom he calls 'the people!' "ejaculated the queen, with a scornful laugh. At this instant a loud, thundering cry was heard below, and thousands upon thousands of voices shouted, "The king! We want to see the king!"
Louis's face lighted up. With quick step he hurried to the window and raised it. The people did not see him at once, but the king saw. He saw the immense square in front of the palace, which had been devoted to the rich equipages of the nobility, occupied by the humbler classes--the troops of his staff marching up in their gala uniforms--he saw it filled with a dense mass of men whom Lafayette had called "the people," whom the queen had termed a "riotous rabble," surging up and down, head pressed to head, here and there faces distorted with rage, eyes blazing, fists clinched, arms bare, and pikes glistening in the morning light, while a great roar, like that which comes from the sea in a tempest, filled the air.
"You are right, Lafayette," said the king, who looked calmly at this black sea of human life--"you are right, this is the people; there are here probably twenty thousand men, and Heaven defend me from regarding all as criminals and rabble! I believe--" A tremendous shout now filled the air. The king had been seen, some one had noticed him at the open window, and now all heads and all looks were directed to this window, and twenty thousand voices cried, "Long live the king! Long live the king!"
Louis turned with a proud, happy look to the gentlemen and ministers who stood near him, Marie Antoinette having withdrawn to the farthest corner of the room, where, throwing her arms around both of the children, and drawing them to her bosom, she had sunk into a chair.
"What do you say now, gentlemen?" asked the king.
"Did they not want to make me believe that my good people hate their king, and wish him ill? But when I show myself to them, hear how they shout to greet me!"
"To Paris!" was now the roar of the mob below. "We want the king should go to Paris!"
"What do they say? What do they want?" asked Louis, turning to Lafayette, who now stood close beside him.
"Sire, they are shouting their wishes to you, that you and the royal family should go to Paris."
"And you, general, what do you say?" asked the king.
"Sire, I have taken the liberty already to say that words and promises are of no more avail to quiet this raving, maddened people, and to make them believe that you have no hostile designs against Paris."
"But if I go to Paris and reside there for a time, it is your opinion, as I understand it, that the people would be convinced that I have no evil intentions against the city--that I should not undertake to destroy the city in which I might live. That is your meaning, is it not?"
"Yes, sire, that is what I wanted to say."
"To Paris, to Paris!" thundered up from below. "The king shall go to Paris!"
Louis withdrew from the window and joined the circle of his ministers, who, with their pale faces, surrounded him.
"Gentlemen," said the king, "you are my counsellors. Well, give me your counsel. Tell me now what I shall do to restore peace and quiet."
But no one replied. Perplexed and confused they looked down to the ground, and only Necker found courage to answer the king after a long pause.
"Sire," he said, "it is a question that might be considered for days which your majesty has submitted to us, and on its answer depends, perhaps, the whole fate of the monarchy. But, as you wish to know the opinions of your ministers, I will venture to give mine: that it would be the safest and most expedient course for your majesty to comply with the wishes of the people, and go to Paris!"
"I supposed so," whispered the king, dropping his head.
"To Paris!" cried the queen, raising her head. "It is impossible. You cannot be in earnest in being willing to go of your own accord down into the abyss of revolution, in order to be destroyed there! To Paris!"
"To Paris!" was the thundering cry from below, as if the words of the queen had awakened a fearful, thousand-voiced echo. "To Paris! The king and the queen shall go to Paris!"
"And never come from there!" cried the queen, with, bursting tears.
"Speak, Lafayette!" cried the king. "What do you think?"
"Sire, I think that there is only one way to restore peace and to quiet the people, and that is, for your majesty to go to-day with the royal family to Paris."
"It is my view, too," said Louis, calmly. "Then go, Lafayette, tell the people that the king and queen, together with the dauphin and the princess, will journey today to Paris."
The simple and easily spoken words had two very different effects in the cabinet on those who heard them. Some faces lightened up with joy, some grew pale with alarm; there were sighs of despair, and cries of fresh hope. Every one felt that this was a crisis in the fate of the royal family--some thinking that it would bring disaster, others deliverance.
The queen alone put on now a grave, decided look; a lofty pride lighted up her high brow, and with an almost joyful expression she looked at her husband, who had been induced to do something--at least, to take a decisive step.
"The king has spoken," she said, amid the profoundest silence, "and it becomes us to obey the will of the king, and to be subject to it. Madame de Campan, make all the preparations for my departure, and do it in view of a long stay in Paris!"
"Now, Lafayette," asked the king, as the general still delayed in the room, "why do you not hasten to announce my will to the people?"
"Sire," answered Lafayette, solemnly, "there are moments when a people can only be pacified by the voice either of God or of its king, and where every other human voice is overwhelmed by the thunder of the storm!"
"And you think that this is such a moment?" asked the king. "You think that I ought myself to announce to the people what I mean to do?"
Lafayette bowed and pointed to the window, which shook even then with the threatening cry, "The king! We will see the king! He shall go to Paris! The king, the king!"
Louis listened awhile in thoughtful silence to this thundering shout, which was at once so full of majesty and horror; then he quickly raised his head.
"I will follow your advice, general," said he, calmly. "I will announce my decision to the people. Give me your hand, madame, we will go into the balcony-room. And you, gentlemen, follow me!"
The queen took the hand of her husband without a word, and gave the other to the little dauphin, who timidly clung to her, while her daughter Therese quietly and composedly walked near them.
BOOK III
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{
"id": "3451"
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14
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TO PARIS.
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Without speaking a word, and with hasty steps, the royal couple, followed by the ministers and courtiers, traversed the two adjoining apartments, and entered the balcony-room, which, situated at the centre of the main building, commanded a wide view of the inner court and the square in front of it.
The valet Hue hastened, at a motion from the king, to throw open the great folding doors, and the king, parting with a smile from Marie Antoinette, stepped out upon the balcony. In an instant, as if the arm of God had been extended and laid upon this raging sea, the roaring ceased; then, as soon as the king was recognized, a multitudinous shout went up, increasing every moment, and sending its waves beyond the square, out into the adjoining streets.
"The king! Long live the king!"
Louis, pale with emotion and with tears in his eyes, went forward to the very edge of the balcony, and, as a sign that he was going to speak, raised both hands. The motion was understood, and the loud cries were hushed which now and then burst from the mighty mass of people. Then above the heads of the thousands there who gazed breathlessly up, sounded the loud, powerful voice of the king.
"I will give my dear people the proof that my fatherly heart is distrusted without reason. I will journey to-day with the queen and my children to Paris, and there take up my residence. Return thither, my children, I shall follow you in a few hours and come to Paris!"
Then, while the people were breaking out into a cry of joy, and were throwing arms, caps, and clothes up into the air, Louis stepped back from the balcony into the hall.
Instantly there arose a new cry below. "The queen shall show herself! We want to see the queen! The queen! the queen! the queen!"
And in tones louder, and more commanding, and more terrible every moment, the summons came in through the balcony door.
The queen took her two children by the hand and advanced a step or two, but the king held her back.
"Do not go, Marie," he cried, with trembling voice and anxious look. "No, do not go. It is such a fearful sight, this raging mass at one's feet, it confuses one's senses. Do not go, Marie!"
But the cry below had now expanded into the volume of a hurricane, and made the very walls of the palace shake.
"You hear plainly, sire," cried Marie Antoinette; "there is just as much danger whether we see or do not see it. Let me do, therefore, what you have done! Come, children!"
And walking between the two little ones, the queen stepped out upon the balcony with a firm step and raised head, followed by the king, who placed himself behind Marie Antoinette, as if he were a sentinel charged with the duty of protecting her life.
But the appearance of the whole royal family did not produce the effect which Louis had, perhaps, anticipated. The crowd did not now break out into snouts of joy.
They cried and roared and howled: "The queen alone! No children! We want no one but the queen! Away with the children!"
It was all in vain that Louis advanced to the edge of the platform; in vain that he raised his arms as if commanding silence. The sound of his voice was lost in the roar of the mob, who, with their clinched fists, their pikes and other weapons, their horrid cry, so frightened the dauphin that he could not restrain his tears.
The royal family drew back and entered the apartment again, where they were received by the pale, trembling, speechless, weeping courtiers and servants.
But the mob below were not pacified. They appeared as though they were determined to give laws to the king and queen, and demand obedience from them.
"The queen! we will see the queen!" was the cry again and again. "The queen shall show herself!"
"Well, be it so!" cried Marie Antoinette, with cool decision, and, pressing through the courtiers, who wanted to restrain her, and even impatiently thrusting back the king, who implored her not to go, she stepped out upon the balcony. Alone, without any one to accompany her, and having only the protection which the lion-tamer has when he enters the cage of the fierce monsters--the look of the eye and the commanding mien!
And the lion appeared to be subdued; his fearful roar suddenly ceased, and in astonishment all these thousands gazed up at the queen, the daughter of the Caesars, standing above in proud composure, her arms folded upon her breast, and looking down with steady eye into the yawning and raging abyss.
The people, overcome by this royal composure, broke into loud shouts of applause, and, during the continuance of these thousand-voiced bravos, the queen, with a proud smile upon her lips, stepped back from the balcony into the chamber.
The dauphin flew to her with open arms and climbed up her knee. "Mamma queen, my dear mamma queen," cried he, "stay with me, don't go out again to these dreadful men, I am afraid of them--oh, I am afraid!"
Marie Antoinette took the little boy in her arms, and with her cold, pale lips pressed a kiss upon his forehead. For one instant it seemed as if she felt herself overcome by the fearful scene through which she had just passed--as if the tears which were confined in her heart would force themselves into her eyes. But Marie Antoinette overcame this weakness of the woman, for she felt that at this hour she could only be a queen.
With the dauphin in her arms, and pressing him closely to her heart, she advanced to the king, who, in order not to let his wife see the tears which flooded his face, had withdrawn to the adjoining apartment and was leaning against the door.
"Sire," said Marie Antoinette, entering the room, and presenting the dauphin to him, "sire, I conjure you that, in this fearful hour, you will make one promise to me."
"What is it, Marie?" asked the king, "what do you desire?"
"Sire, by all that is dear to you and me," continued the queen, "by the welfare and safety of France, by your own and by the safety of this dear child, your successor, I conjure you to promise me that, if we ever must witness such a scene of horror again, and if you have the means to escape it, you will not let the opportunity pass," [Footnote: The very words of the queen. --See Beauchesne, "Louis XVI., sa Vie," etc., p 145.]
The king, deeply moved by the noble and glowing face of the queen, by the tones of her voice, and by her whole expression, turned away. He wanted to speak, but could not; tears choked his utterance; and, as if he were ashamed of his weakness, he pushed the queen and the dauphin back from him, hastened through the room, and disappeared through the door on the opposite side.
Marie Antoinette looked with a long, sad face after him, and then returned to the balcony-room. A shudder passed through her soul, and a dark, dreadful presentiment made her heart for an instant stop beating. She remembered that this chamber in which she had that day suffered such immeasurable pain--that this chamber, which now echoed the cries of a mob that had this day for the first time prescribed laws to a queen, had been the dying-chamber of Louis XIV. [Footnote: Historical. --See Goncourt, "Marie Antoinette," p. 195.] A dreadful presentiment told her that this day the room had become the dying- chamber of royalty.
Like a pale, bloody corpse, the Future passed before her eyes, and, with that lightning speed which accompanies moments of the greatest excitement, all the old dark warnings came back to her which she had previously encountered. She thought of the picture of the slaughter of the babes at Bethlehem, which decorated the walls of the room in which the dauphin passed his first night on French soil; then of that dreadful prophecy which Count do Cagliostro had made to her on her journey to Paris, and of the scaffold which he showed her. She thought of the hurricane which had made the earth shake and turn up trees by their roots, on the first night which the dauphin had passed in Versailles. She thought too of the dreadful misfortune which on the next day happened to hundreds of men at the fireworks in Paris, and cost them their lives. She recalled the moment at the coronation when the king caught up the crown which the papal nuncio was just on the point of placing on his head, and said at the same time, "It pricks me." [Footnote: Historical.] And now it seemed to her to be a new, dreadful reason for alarm, that the scene of horror, which she had just passed through, should take place in the dying-chamber of that king to whom France owed her glory and her greatness.
"We are lost, lost!" she whispered to herself. "Nothing can save us. There is the scaffold!"
"With a silent gesture, and a gentle inclination of her head, the queen took her leave of all present, and returned to her own apartments, which were now guarded by Lafayette's soldiers, and which now conveyed no hint of the scene of horror which had transpired there a few hours before.
Some hours later two cannon were discharged upon the great square before the palace. They announced to the city of Versailles that the king, the queen, and their children, had just left the proud palace- -were then leaving the solitary residence at Versailles--never to return!
From the lofty tower of the church of St. Louis, in which recently the opening of the States-General had been celebrated, the bell was just then striking the first hour after mid-day, when the carriage drove out of the great gate through which the royal family must pass on its way to Paris. A row of other carriages formed the escort of the royal equipage. They were intended for the members of the States-General. For as soon as the journey of the king to Paris was announced, the National Assembly decreed that it regarded itself as inseparably connected with the person of the king, and that it would follow him to Paris. A deputation had instantly repaired to the palace, to communicate this decree to the king, and had been received by Louis with cordial expressions of thanks.
Marie Antoinette, however, had received the tidings of these resolves of the National Assembly with, a suspicious smile, and an angry flash darted into her eyes.
"And so, the gentlemen of the Third Estate have gained their point!" cried she, in wrath. "They alone have produced this revolt, in order that the National Assembly may have a pretext for going to Paris. Now, they have reached their goal! Yet do not tell me that the revolution is ended here. On the contrary, the hydra will now put forth all its heads, and will tear us in pieces. But, very well! I would rather be torn to pieces by them than bend before them!"
And, with a lofty air and calm bearing, Marie Antoinette entered the great coach in which the royal family was to make the journey to Paris. Near her sat the king, between them the dauphin. Opposite to them, on the broad, front seat, were their daughter Therese, the Princess Elizabeth, and Madame de Tourzel, governess of the royal children. Behind them, in a procession, whose end could not be seen, followed an artillery train; then the mob, armed with pikes, and other weapons-men covered with blood and dust, women with dishevelled hair and torn garments, the most of them drunken with wine, exhausted by watching during the night, shouting and yelling, and singing low songs, or mocking the royal family with scornful words. Behind these wild masses came two hundred gardes du corps without weapons, hats, and shoulder-straps, every one escorted by two grenadiers, and they were followed by some soldiers of the Swiss guard and the Flanders regiment. In the midst of this train rattled loaded cannon, each one accompanied by two soldiers. But still more fearful than the retinue of the royal equipage were the heralds who preceded it--heralds consisting of the most daring and defiant of these men and women, impatiently longing for the moment when they could announce to the city of Paris that the revolution in Versailles had humiliated the king, and given the people victory. They carried with them the bloody tokens of this victory, the heads of Varicourt and Deshuttes, the faithful Swiss guards, who had died in the service of their king. They had hoisted both these heads upon pikes, which two men of the mob carried before the procession. Between them strode, with proud, triumphant mien, a gigantic figure, with long, black beard, with naked blood-flecked arms, with flashing eyes, his face and hands wet with the blood with which he had imbued himself, and in his right hand a slaughter-knife which still dripped blood. This was Jourdan, who, from his cutting off the heads of both the Swiss guards, had won the name of the executioner--a name which he understood how to keep during the whole revolution. [Footnote: Jourdan, the executioner, had, until that time, been a model in the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture.]
Like storm-birds, desirous to be the first to announce to Paris the triumph of the populace, and impatient of the slow progress of the royal train, these heralds of victory, bearing their bloody banner, hastened on in advance of the procession to Paris. In Sevres they made a halt--not to rest, or wait for the oncoming train--but to have the hair of the two heads dressed by friseurs, in order, as Jourdan announced with fiendish laughter to the yelling mob, that they might make their entrance into the city as fine gentlemen.
While before them and behind them these awful cries, loud singing and laughing resounded, within the carriage that conveyed the royal family there was unbroken silence. The king sat leaning back in the corner, with his eyes closed, in order not to see the horrid forms which from time to time approached the window of the carriage, to stare in with curious looks, or with mocking laughter and equivoques, to heap misery on the unfortunate family.
The queen, however, sat erect, with proud, dignified bearing, courageously looking the horrors of the day in the face, and not a quiver of the eyelids, nor a sigh, betraying the pain that tortured her soul.
"No, better die than grant to this triumphing rabble the pleasure of seeing what I suffer! Better sink with exhaustion than complain."
Not a murmur, not a sigh, came from her lips; and yet, when the dauphin, after four hours of this sad journey, turned with a supplicatory expression to his mother, and said to her with his sweet voice, "Mamma queen, I am hungry," the proud expression withdrew from the features of the queen, and two great tears slowly ran down over her cheeks.
At last, after a ride of eight hours, the frightful train reached Paris. Not a window in all the streets through which the royal procession went was empty. In amazement and terror the people of the middle class gazed at this hitherto unseen spectacle--the King and the Queen of France brought in triumph to the capital by the lowest people in the city! A dumb fear took possession of those who hitherto had tried to ignore the revolution, and supposed that every thing would subside again into the old, wonted forms. Now, no one could entertain this hope longer; now, the most timid must confess that a revolution had indeed come, and that people must accustom themselves to look at it eye to eye.
Slowly the train moved forward--slowly down the quay which extends along by the garden of the Tuileries. The loungers who were in the garden hurried to the fence, which then bordered the park on the side of the quay, in order to watch this frightful procession from this point: to see an unbridled populace dash in pieces the prescriptive royalty of ages.
Scorn and the love of destruction were written on most of the faces of these observers, but many were pale, and many quivered with anger and grief. In the front ranks of the spectators stood two young men, one of them in simple civilian's costume, the other in the uniform of a sub-lieutenant. The face of the young officer was pale, but it lightened up with rare energy; and with his noble, antique profile, and flaming eyes, it enchanted every look, and fixed the attention of every one who observed him.
As the howling, roaring mob passed him, the young officer turned to his companion with an expression of fiery indignation. "0 God," he cried, "how is this possible? Has the king no cannon to destroy this canaille? " [Footnote: His own words. --See Beauchesne, vol. i.,p. 85.]
"My friend," answered the young man, smiling, "remember the words of our great poet Corneille: 'The people give the king his purple and take it back when they please. The beggar, king only by the people's grace, simply gives back his purple to the people.' "
"Ah!" cried the young lieutenant, smiling, "what once has been received should be firmly held. I, at least, if I had once received the purple by the people's grace, would not give it back. But come, let us go on, it angers me to see this canaille, upon which you bestow the fine name of 'the people.'" He hastily grasped the arm of his friend, and turned to a more solitary part of the garden of the Tuileries.
This young sub-lieutenant, who saw with such indignation this revolutionary procession pass him, and whom destiny had appointed one day to bring this revolution to an end--this young lieutenant's name was Napoleon Bonaparte.
The young man who walked at his side, and whom, too, destiny had appointed to work a revolution, although only in the theatrical world, to recreate the drama--this young man's name was Talma.
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{
"id": "3451"
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15
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MAMMA QUEEN.
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"Every thing passes over, every thing has an end; one must only have courage and think of that," said Marie Antoinette, with a gentle smile, as on the morning after her arrival in Paris, she had risen from her bed and drunk her chocolate in the improvised sitting-room. "Here we are installed in the Tuileries, and have slept, while we yesterday were thinking we were lost, and that only death could give us rest and peace again."
"It was a fearful day," said Madame de Campan, with a sigh, "but your majesty went through it like a heroine."
"Ah, Campan," said the queen, sadly, "I have not the ambition to want to be a heroine, and I should be very thankful if it were allowed me from this time on to be a wife and mother, if it is no longer allowed me to be a queen."
At this instant the door opened; the little dauphin, followed by his teacher, the Abbe Davout, ran in and flew with extended arms to Marie Antoinette.
"Oh, mamma queen!" cried he, with winning voice, "let us go back again to our beautiful palace; it is dreadful here in this great, dark house."
"Hush, my child, hush!" said the queen, pressing the boy close to her. "You must not say so; you must accustom yourself to be contented everywhere."
"Mamma queen," whispered the child, tenderly nestling close to his mother, "it is true it is dreadful here, but I will always say it so low that nobody except you can hear. But tell me, who owns this hateful house? And why do we want to stay here, when we have such a fine palace and a beautiful garden in Versailles?"
"My son," answered the queen with a sigh, "this house belongs to us, and it is a beautiful and famous palace. You ought not to say that it does not please you, for your renowned great-grandfather, the great Louis XIV., lived here, and made this palace celebrated all over Europe."
"Yet I wish that we were away from here," whispered the dauphin, casting his large blue eyes with a prolonged and timid glance through the wide, desolate room, which was decorated sparingly with old-fashioned, faded furniture.
"I wish so, too," sighed Marie Antoinette, to herself; but softly as she had spoken the words, the sensitive ear of the child had caught them.
"You, too, want to go?" asked Louis Charles, in amazement. "Are you not queen now, and can you not do what you want to?"
The queen, pierced to the very heart by the innocent question of the child, burst into tears.
"My prince," said the Abbe Davout, turning to the dauphin, "you see that you trouble the queen, and her majesty needs rest. Come, we will take a walk."
But Marie Antoinette put both her arms around the child and pressed its head with its light locks to her breast.
"No," she said, "no, he does not trouble me. Let me weep. Tears do me good. One is only unfortunate when she can no longer weep; when-- but what is that?" she eagerly asked, rising from her easy-chair. "What does that noise mean?"
And in very fact in the street there were loud shouting and crying, and intermingled curses and threats.
"Mamma," cried the dauphin, nestling close up to the queen, "is to- day going to be just like yesterday?" [Footnote: The very words of the dauphin. --See Beauchesne, vol. i.] The door was hastily opened, and the king entered.
"Sire," asked Marie, eagerly advancing toward him, "are they going to renew the dreadful scenes of yesterday?"
"On the contrary, Marie, they are going to bring to their reckoning those who occasioned the scenes of yesterday," answered the king. "A deputation from the Court of Chatelet have come to the Tuileries, and desire of me an authorization to bring to trial those who are guilty, and of you any information which you can give about what has taken place. The mob have accompanied the deputation hither, and hence arise these cries. I am come to ask you, Marie, to receive the deputation of Chatelet."
"As if there were any choice left us to refuse to see them," answered Marie Antoinette, sighing. "The populace who are howling and crying without are now the master of the men who come to us with a sneer, and ask us whether we will grant them an audience. We must submit!"
The king did not answer, but shrugged his shoulders, and opened the door of the antechamber. "Let them enter," he said to the chamberlains there.
The two folding doors were now thrown open, and the loud voice of an officer announced, "The honorable judges of Chatelet!"
Slowly, with respectful mien and bowed head, the gentlemen, arrayed in their long black robes, entered the room, and remained humbly standing near the door.
Marie Antoinette had advanced a few steps. Not a trace of grief and disquiet was longer to be seen in her face. Her figure was erect, her glance was proud and full of fire, and the expression of her countenance noble and majestic. She was still the queen, though not surrounded by the solemn pomp which attended the public audiences at Versailles. She did not stand on the purple-carpeted step of the throne, no gold-embroidered canopy arched over her, no crowd of brilliant courtiers surrounded her, only her husband stood near her; her son clung to her side, and his teacher, the Abbe Davout, timidly withdrew into the background. These formed all her suite. But Marie Antoinette did not need external pomp to be a queen; she was so in her bearing, in every look, in every gesture. With commanding dignity she allowed the deputation to approach her, and to speak with her. She listened with calm attention to the words of the speaker, who, in the name of the court, gave utterance to the deep horror with which the treasonable actions of the day before had filled him. He then humbly begged the queen to give such names of the rioters as might be known to her, that they might be arrested, but Marie Antoinette interrupted him in his address.
"No, sir," she cried, "no, never will I be an informer against the subjects of the king." [Footnote: Marie Antoinette's own words. --See Goncourt, "Marie Antoinette," pp. 196, 197.]
The speaker bowed respectfully. "Then let me at least beg of you, in the name of the High-Court of the Chatelet, to give us your order to bring the guilty parties to trial, for without such a charge we cannot prosecute the criminals who have been engaged in these acts."
"Nor do I wish you to bring any one to trial," cried the queen, with dignity. "I have seen all, known all, and forgotten all! Go, gentlemen, go! My heart knows no vengeance; it has forgiven all those who have wounded me. Go!" [Footnote: Ibid] With a commanding gesture of her hand, and a gentle nod of her head, she dismissed the deputation, who silently withdrew.
"Marie," said the king, grasping the hand of his wife with unwonted eagerness, and pressing it tenderly to his lips, "Marie, I thank you in the name of all my subjects. You have acted this hour not only as a queen, but as the mother of my people."
"Ah, sir," replied the queen, with a sad smile, "only that the children will not believe in the love of their mother--only that your subjects do not consider me their mother, but their enemy."
"They have been misguided," said the king. "Evil-minded men have deceived them, but I hope we shall succeed in bringing the people back from their error."
"Sire," sighed Marie Antoinette, "I hope for nothing more; but," added she, with still firmer voice, "I also fear nothing more. The worst may break over me--it shall find me armed!"
The side-door now opened, and Madame de Campan entered.
"Your majesty," said she, bowing low, "a great number of ladies from the Faubourg St. Germain are in the small reception-room. They wish to testily their devotion to your majesty."
"I will receive them at once," cried Marie Antoinette, with an almost joyful tone. "Ah, only see, husband, the consolations which misfortune brings. These ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain formerly cut me; they could not forget that I was an Austrian. To-day they feel that I am the Queen of France, and that I belong to them. Pardon me, sire, for leaving you."
She hastened away with a rapid step. The king looked after her with an expression of pain. "Poor queen," he whispered to himself, "how much she is misjudged, how wrongly she is calumniated! And I cannot change it, and must let it be."
He sank with a deep sigh, which seemed much like a groan, into an arm-chair, and was lost in painful recollections. A gentle touch on his hand, which rested on the side-arm of the chair, restored him to consciousness. Before him stood the dauphin, and looked gravely and thoughtfully out of his large blue eyes up into his father's face.
"Ah, is it you, my little Louis Charles?" said the king, nodding to him. "What do you want of me, my child?"
"Papa king," answered the boy, timidly, "I should like to ask you something--something really serious!"
"Something really serious!" replied the king. "Well, what is it? Let me hear!"
"Sire," replied the dauphin, with a weighty and thoughtful air, "sire, Madame de Tourzel has always told me that I must love the people of France very much, and treat every one very friendly, because the people of France love my papa and my mamma so much, and I ought to be very grateful for it. How comes it then, sire, that the French people are now so bad to you, and that they do not love mamma any longer? What have you both done to make the people so angry, because I have been told that the people are subject to your majesty, and that they owe you obedience and respect? But they were not obedient yesterday, and not at all respectful, your subjects, were they? How is this, papa?"
The king drew the little prince to his knee, and put his arm around the slight form of the boy. "I will explain it to you, my son," he said, "and listen carefully to what I say to you."
"I will, sire," answered the boy eagerly, "I at least am an obedient subject of my king, for the Abbe Davout has told me that I am nothing but a subject of your majesty, and that, as a son and a subject, I must give a good example to the French people, how to love and obey the king. And I love you very much, papa, and I am just as obedient as I can be. But it seems as though my good example had made no difference with the other subjects. How comes that about, papa king?"
"My son," answered Louis, "that comes because there are bad men who have told the people that I do not love them. We have had to have great wars, and wars cost a deal of money. And so I asked money of my people--just as my ancestors always did."
"But, papa," cried the dauphin, "why did you do that? Why did you not take my purse, and pay out of that? You know that I receive every day my purse all filled with new francs, and--but then," he interrupted himself, "there would be nothing left for the poor children, to whom I always give money on my walks. And, oh! there are so many poor children, so very many, that my purse is empty every day, when I return from my walk, and yet I give to each child only one poor franc-piece. So your people have money, more money than you yourself?"
"My child, kings receive all that they have from their people, but they give it all back to the people again; the king is the one appointed by God to govern his people, and the people owe respect and obedience to the king, and have to pay taxes to him. And so, if he needs money, he is justified in asking his subjects for it, and so does what is called 'laying taxes' upon them. Do you understand me?"
"Oh! yes, papa," cried the child, who had listened with open eyes and breathless attention, "I understand all very well. But I don't like it. It seems to me that if a man is king, every thing belongs to him, and that the king ought to have all the money so as to give it to the people. They ought to ask HIM, and not he THEM!"
"In former and more happy times it was so," said the king, with a sigh. "But many kings have misused their power and authority, and now the king cannot pay out money unless the people understand all about it and consent!"
"Have you given out money, papa, without asking the people's leave? Was that the reason they came to Versailles yesterday, and were so wicked, ah! so very wicked? For those bad men-they were the people, were they not?"
"No, my son," answered Louis, "I hope they were not the people. The people cannot come to me in such great masses; they must have their representatives. The representatives of the people I have myself called to me; they are the States-General, which I assembled at Versailles. I asked of them money for the outlays which I had to make for the people, but they asked things of me that I could not grant, either for my own sake, or for yours, my son, who are some day to be my successor. Then wicked men came and stirred up the people, and told them that I did not love the people any more, and that I wanted to trouble my subjects. And the poor people have believed what these evil advisers and slanderers have told them, and have been led astray into making the riot against me. But every thing will come out right again, and my subjects will see that I love them, and am ready to share every thing with them. That is the reason I have come to Paris, to live here among my people. It is certainly not so pleasant as in Versailles; our rooms are not so fine and convenient, and we do not have the beautiful gardens here that we had there. But we must learn to be contented here, and put up with what we have. We must remember that there is no one in Paris better than we, and that the Parisians must acknowledge that the king loves them, for he has given up his beautiful Versailles, in order to live with them, and share all their need, and all the disagreeable things which they have to bear."
"Papa king, I have understood every thing, and I am very much ashamed that I have complained before. I promise you, sire," he continued, with earnest mien, and laying his hand upon his breast, "yes, sire, I promise you, that I will take pains to give the people a good example, and to be really good and kind. I will never complain again that we are living in Paris, and I will take pains to be happy and contented here."
And the dauphin kept his word. He took pains to be contented; he said not another word about the old pleasant life at Versailles, but appeared to have forgotten all about ever having been anywhere but in this great, desolate palace, with its halls filled with faded tapestry; stately, solemn furniture, their golden adornments having grown dim, and their upholstery hard; he seemed never to have known any garden but this, only one little corner of which was set apart for the royal family, and through the iron gate of which threatening words were often heard, and spiteful faces seen.
One day, when the dauphin heard such words, and saw such faces beyond the paling, he shrank back, and ran to his mother, earnestly imploring her with trembling voice to leave the garden, and go into the palace. But Marie Antoinette led him farther into the garden, instead of complying with his wish. In the little pavilion which stood at the corner of the enclosure on the side of the quay, she sat down, and lifting her boy up in her arms, set him before her on the marble table, wiped away his tears with her handkerchief, and tenderly implored him not to weep or feel badly any more.
"If you weep, my child," she said, sadly, as the dauphin could not control his tears, "if you weep, I shall have no courage left, and it will be as dark and dreary to me as if the sun had gone down. If you weep, I should want to weep with you; and you see, my son, that it would not be becoming for a queen to weep. The wicked people, who want to hurt our feelings, they find pleasure in it, and therefore we must be altogether too proud to let them see what we suffer. I have this pride, but when I see you suffer it takes away all my strength. You remember our ride from Versailles here, my son? How the bad men who surrounded us, mocked at me and said foul things to me! I was cold and calm, but I could not help weeping, my child, when you complained of being hungry."
"Mamma," cried the child, with flashing eyes, "I will never complain again, and the bad men shall never have the pleasure of seeing me weep."
"But good men, my child, you must always treat kindly, and behave very prettily to them."
"I will do so," answered the dauphin, thoughtfully. "But, mamma queen, tell me who the good men are!"
"You must believe, Louis, that all men are good, and therefore you must be kind to all. If then they despise your goodness or friendliness, and cast it from them, it will not be your fault, and our heavenly Father and your parents will be pleased with you."
"But, mamma," cried the prince, and a shadow passed over his pure, beautiful child's face, "but, mamma, I cannot see that all men are good. When they were abusing us, and cursing us, and speaking bad words at us in the carriage, and were talking so angrily at you, dear mamma, the men were not good, and I never could treat them friendly if they should come again."
"They will not come again, Louis. No, we will hope that the bad men will not come again, and that those who come to see us here are good men; so be very kind and polite to everybody, that all may love you, and see that their future king is good and polite, even while a child."
"Good?" cried the boy, spiritedly. "I will be good and polite to everybody, that you may be satisfied with me. Yes, just for that will I be so."
Marie Antoinette pressed the pretty boy to herself, and kissed his lips. Just then an officer entered and announced General Lafayette and Bailly, the mayor of Paris.
"Mamma," whispered the prince, as the two gentlemen entered--" mamma, that is the general that was at Versailles, then. I can never be kind to him, for he belongs to the bad men."
"Hush! my child-hush!" whispered the queen. "For God's sake, do not let anybody hear that. No, no, General Lafayette does not belong to our enemies, he means well toward us. Treat him kindly, very kindly, my child."
And Marie Antoinette took her son by the hand, and, with a smile upon her lips, went to meet the two gentlemen, in order to inquire the reason for their appearing at this unwonted time and place.
"Madame," said General Lafayette, "I have come to ask your majesty whether you will not have the goodness to let me know the hours in which you may wish to visit the park and the garden, that I may make my arrangements accordingly."
"That means, general," cried the queen, "that it is not to depend upon my free-will when and at what times I am to walk in the park, but it will be allowed me only at certain hours, just as prisoners are allowed to take their walks at certain hours."
"I beg your pardon, madame," said the general, with great respect; "your majesty will graciously believe, that to me, the peace and security of your exalted person is sacred above every thing, and that I regard it as my first duty to protect you against every insult, and every thing that may be disagreeable."
"And so it has come to that," cried Marie Antoinette, angrily. "The Queen of France must be protected against insults and disagreeable things. She is not to go out when she will into her park, because she has to fear that, if General Lafayette has not previously made his special preparations, the people will insult her. But if this is so, sir, why do you not close the gates of the park? It is royal property, and it probably will be allowed to the king to defend his private property from the brutality of the rabble. I will myself, general, see to it that I be protected from insults, and that, at any time when it pleases me, I may go into the park and the inner gardens. I will ask his majesty the king to allow the gates of the park and. the promenade on the quay to be closed. That will close every thing, and we shall at least gain the freedom thereby of being able to take walks at any time, without first sending information to General Lafayette."
"Madame, I expected that you would answer me so," said Lafayette, sadly, "and I have therefore brought M. de Bailly with me, that he might join me in supplicating your majesty to graciously abstain from taking measures of violence, and not to further stir up the feelings of the people, already so exasperated."
"And so you are of this opinion, sir?" asked Marie Antoinette, turning to M. Bailly. "You, too, regard it as a compulsory measure, for the king to claim his own right, and to keep out of his property those who insult him."
"Your majesty, the king is, unfortunately, not free to make use of this right, as you call it."
"You will not say, sir, that if it pleases the king not to allow evil-disposed persons to enter the park of the Tuileries, he has not the right to close the gates?"
"Madame, I must indeed take the privilege of saying so," answered M. de Bailly, with a gentle obeisance. "King Henry IV. gave the Parisians the perpetual privilege of having the park of the Tuileries open to them always, and free to be used in their walks. The palace of the Tuileries was, as your majesty knows, originally built by Queen Catherine de Medicis, after the death of her husband, for the home of her widowhood. All sorts of stories were then current about the uncanny things which were said to occur in the park of the Tuileries. They told about laboratories in which Queen Catherine prepared her poisons; of a pavilion in which there was a martyr's chamber; of subterranean cells for those who had been buried alive; and all these dreadful stories made such an impression that no one dared approach this place of horrors after sunset. But when Queen Catherine had left Paris, and King Henry IV. resided in the Louvre, he had this dreaded Tuileries garden, with all its horrors, opened to the Parisians, and out of the queen's garden he made one for the people, in order that the curse which rested upon it might be changed into a blessing."
"And now you suppose, Mr. Mayor, that it would change the blessing into a curse again, if we should want to close the gates that Henry IV. opened?"
"I do fear it, madame, and therefore venture to ask that the right to enter the Tuileries gardens may not be taken from the people, nor their enjoyment interfered with."
"Not the people's enjoyment, only ours, is to be interfered with," cried Marie Antoinette, bitterly. "They are doubtless right who call the people now the real king of France, but they forget that this new king has usurped the throne only by treachery, rebellion, and murder, and that the wrath of God and the justice of man 'will one day hurl him down into the dust at our feet. In this day I hope, and until then I will bear in patience and with unshaken courage what fate may lay upon me. The wickedness and brutality of men shall at least not intimidate me, and fear shall not humiliate me to the state of a prisoner who takes her walks under the protection of M. de Lafayette, the general of the people, at appointed hours."
"Your majesty," cried Lafayette, turning pale.
"What is your pleasure?" interrupted the queen, with a proud movement of her head. "You were a gentleman, and knew the customs and. mode of our court before you went to America. Has the want of manners there so disturbed your memory that you do not know that it is not permitted to speak in the presence of the queen without being asked or permitted by her to do so?"
"General," cried the dauphin, at this instant, with loud, eager voice, running forward to Lafayette, and extending to him his little hand--" general, I should like to salute you. Mamma told me that I must be kind to all those who are good to us and love us, and just as you were coming in with this gentleman, mamma told me that General Lafayette does not belong to our enemies, but means well to us. Let me, therefore, greet you kindly and give you my hand." And while saying so and smiling kindly at the general, he raised his great blue eyes to the face of his mother an instant with a supplicatory expression.
Lafayette took the extended hand of the prince, and a flush of deep emotion passed over his face that was just before kindling with anger. As if touched with reverence and astonishment, he bent his knee before this child, whose countenance beamed with innocence, love, and goodness, and pressed to his lips the little hand that rested in his own.
"My prince," said be, deeply moved, "you have just spoken to me with the tongue of an angel, and I swear to you, and to your exalted royal mother, that I will never forget this moment; that I will remember it so long as I live. The kiss which I have impressed upon the hand of my future king is at once the seal of the solemn vow, and the oath of unchangeable fidelity and devotion which I consecrate to my king and to the whole royal family, and in which nothing shall make me waver; nothing, not even the anger and the want of favor of my exalted queen. Dauphin of France, you have to- day gained a soldier for your throne who is prepared to shed his last drop of blood for you and your house, and on whose fidelity and devotion you may continually count."
With tears in his eyes, his brave, noble face quivering with emotion, Lafayette looked at the child that with cheeks all aglow and with a pleasant smile was gazing with great, thoughtful child's eyes up to the strong man, who placed himself so humbly and devotedly at his feet. Behind him stood M. de Bailly, with bended head and folded hands, listening with solemn thoughtfulness to the words of the general, upon whose strong shoulders the fate of the monarchy rested, and who, at this time, was the mightiest and most conspicuous man in France, because the National Guard of Paris was still obedient to him, and followed his commands.
Close by the dauphin stood the queen, in her old, proud attitude, but upon her face a striking change had taken place. The expression of anger and suspicion which it had before displayed had not completely disappeared. The cloud which had gathered upon her lofty forehead was dissipated, and her face shone out bright and clear. The large, grayish-blue eyes, which before had shot angry darts, now glowed with mild fire, and around her lips played an instant that fair, pleasant smile which, in her happier days, had often moved the favorites of the queen to verses of praise, and which her enemies had so often made a reproach to her.
When the general ceased there was silence--that eloquent, solemn silence which accompanies those moments in which the Genius of History hovers over the heads of men, and, touching them with its pinions, ties their tongues and opens the eyes of the spirit, so that they can look into the future, and, with presaging horror, read all the secrets of coming time as by a flash of lightning.
Such a critical moment in history was that in which Lafayette, at the feet of the dauphin, swore eternal fidelity to the monarchy of France in the presence of the unfortunate mayor of Paris, who was soon to seal his loyalty with his own blood, and in presence of the queen, whose lofty character was soon to make her a martyr.
The moments passed by, then Marie Antoinette bowed to Lafayette with her gracious smile.
"Rise, general," she said, in gentle tones, "God has heard your oath, and I accept it in the name of the French monarchy, my husband, my son, and myself. I shall always continue mindful of it, and I hope that you will also. And I beg you, too," she continued, in a low voice, and with a deep flush upon her face, "I beg you to forgive me if I have hitherto cast unworthy reproaches upon you. I have lived through so many sad and dreadful days, that it will be set down to my favor if my nerves are agitated and easily excited. I shall probably learn to accept evil days with calmness, and to bow my head patiently beneath the yoke which my enemies are laying upon me! But still I feel the injury, and the proud habits of my birth and life war against it. But only wait, and I shall become accustomed to it."
While saying this she stooped down to the dauphin and kissed his golden hair. A tear fell from her eyes upon the forehead of her son, and glittered there like a star fallen from heaven. Marie Antoinette did not see it, did not know that the tear which she was trying to conceal was now glistening on the brow of her son--on that brow which was never to wear any other diadem than the one that the tears of love placed on his innocent head.
"Heaven defend your majesty ever being compelled to become accustomed to insult!" cried Lafayette, deeply moved. "I hope we have seen our worst days, and that after the tempest there will be sunshine and bright weather again. The people will look back with shame and regret upon the wild and stormy scenes to which they have allowed themselves to be drawn by unprincipled agitators; they will bow in love and obedience before the royal couple who, with so much confidence and devotion, leave their beautiful, retired home at Versailles, in order to comply with the wish of the people and come to Paris. Will your majesty have the goodness to ask the mayor of Paris, and he will tell you, madame, how deeply moved all the good citizens of Paris are at the truly noble spirit which prompted you to refuse to initiate an investigation respecting the night of horrors at Versailles, and to bring the ringleaders to justice."
"Is it true, M. de Bailly?" asked the queen, eagerly. "Was my decision approved? Have I friends still among the people of Paris?"
"Your majesty," answered M. de Bailly, bowing low, "all good citizens of Paris have seen with deep emotion the noble resolve of your majesty, and in all noble and true hearts the royal words are recorded imperishably, which your majesty spoke to the judges of the Chatelet, 'I have heard all, seen all, and forgotten all!' With tears of deep feeling, with a hallowed joy, they are repeated through all Paris; they have become the watchword of all the well- inclined and faithful, the evangel of love and forgiveness for all women, of fidelity and devotion for all men! It has been seen and confessed that the throne of France is the possessor not only of goodness and beauty, but of forgiveness and gentleness, and that your majesty bears rightly the title of the Most Christian Queen. These nine words which your majesty has uttered, have become the sacred banner of all true souls, and they will cause the golden days to come back, as they once dawned upon Paris when the Dauphin of France made his entry into the capital, and it could be said with truth to the future queen, Marie Antoinette, 'Here are a hundred thousand lovers of your person.'"
The queen was no longer able to master her deep emotion. She who had had the courage to display a proud and defiant mien to her enemies and assailants, could not conceal the intensity of her feeling when hearing words of such devotion, and uttered a cry, then choked with emotion, and at length burst into a torrent of tears. Equally astonished and ashamed, she covered her face with her hands, but the tears gushed out between her white tapering fingers, and would not be withheld. They had been so long repressed behind those proud eyelids, that now, despite the queen's will, they forced their way with double power and intensity.
But only for a moment did the proud-spirited queen allow herself to be overcome by the gentle and deeply-moved woman; she quickly collected herself and raised her head.
"I thank you, sir, I thank you," she said, breathing more freely, "you have done me good, and these tears, though not the first which grief and anger have extorted, are the first for a long time which have sprung from what is almost joy. Who knows whether I shall ever be able to shed such tears again! And who knows," she continued, with a deep sigh, "whether I do not owe these tears more to your wish to do me good, than to true and real gains? I bethink me now-- you say all good citizens of Paris repeat my words, all the well- disposed are satisfied with my decision. But, ah! I fear that the number of these is very small, and that the golden days of the past will never return! And is not your appearance here to-day a proof of this? Did you not come here because the people insult and calumniate me, and because you considered it needful to throw around me your protection, which is now mightier than the royal purple and the lilies of the throne of France?"
"Madame, time must be granted to the misguided people to return to the right way," said Lafayette, almost with a supplicating air. "They must be dealt with as we deal with defiant, naughty children, which can be brought back to obedience and submission better by gentle speech and apparent concession than by rigidity and severity. On this account I ventured to ask your majesty to intrust me for a little while with the care of your sacred person, and, in order that I may satisfy my duty, that you would graciously appoint the time when your majesty will take your walks here in the park and garden, so that I can make my arrangements accordingly."
"In order to make a fence out of your National Guards, protected by which the Queen of France may not become visible to the hate of the people, and behind which she may be secure against the attacks of her enemies!" cried Marie Antoinette. "No, sir, I cannot accept this! It shall at least be seen that I am no coward, and that I will not hide myself from those who come to attack me!"
"Your majesty," said Bailly, "I conjure you, do this out of compassion for us, for all your faithful servants who tremble for the peace and security of your majesty, and allow M. de Lafayette to keep the brutality of the people away from you, and protect you in your walks."
"Sufficient, gentlemen," cried Marie Antoinette, impatiently. "You now know my fixed resolve, and it is not necessary to discuss it further. I will not hide myself from the people, and I will confront them under the simple protection of God. Defended by Him, and sustained by the conviction that I have not merited the hate with which I am pursued, I will continue to meet the subjects of the king fearlessly, with an unveiled head, and only God and my fate shall judge between me and them! I thank you, gentlemen, for your zeal and your care, and you may be sure that I shall never forget it. But now farewell, gentlemen! It is growing cold, and I should like to return to the palace."
"Will your majesty not have the kindness to allow us both to mingle with your train, and accompany you to the palace?" asked Lafayette.
"I came hither, attended by only two lackeys, who are waiting outside the pavilion," answered the queen. "You know that I have laid aside the court etiquette which used to attend the queen upon her walks, and which do not allow the free enjoyment of nature. My enemies charge me with this as an offence, and consider it improper that the Queen of France should take a walk without a brilliant train of courtiers, and like any other human being. But I think that the people ought not to be angry at this, and they may take it as a sign that I am not so proud and unapproachable as I am generally believed to be. And so farewell, gentlemen!"
She graciously waved her hand toward the door, and, with a gentle inclination of her head, dismissed the two gentlemen, who, with a sad bearing, withdrew, and left the pavilion.
"Come, my son," said the queen, "we will return to the palace."
"By the same way that we came, shall we not, mamma?" asked the dauphin, taking the extended hand of the queen, and pressing it to his lips.
"You will not weep again if the people shout and laugh?" asked Marie Antoinette. "You will not be afraid any more?"
"No, I will not be afraid any more. Oh, you shall be satisfied with me, mamma queen! I have paid close attention to all that you said to the two gentlemen, and I am very glad that you did not allow M. de Lafayette to walk behind us. The people would then have believed that we are afraid, and now they shall see that we are not so at all."
"Well, come, my child, let us go," said Marie Antoinette, giving her hand to her son, and preparing to leave the pavilion.
But on the threshold the dauphin stopped, and looked imploringly up into the face of his mother.
"I should like to ask you something, mamma queen."
"Well, what is it, my little Louis? What do you wish?"
"I should like to have you allow me to go alone, else the people would believe that I am afraid and want you to lead me. And I want to be like the Chevalier Bayard, about whom the Abbe talked with me to-day. I want to be sans peur et sans reproche, like Bayard."
"Very well, chevalier," said the queen, with a smile, "then walk alone and free by my side."
"No, mamma, if you will allow me, I will walk before you. The knights always walk in advance of the ladies, so as to ward off any danger which may be in the way. And I am your knight, mamma, and I want to be as long as I live. Will you allow it, my royal lady?"
"I allow it! So go in front, Chevalier Louis Charles! We will take the same way back by which we came."
The dauphin sprang over the little square in front of the pavilion, and down the alley which led to the Arcadia Walk along the side of the quay.
Before the little staircase which led up to this walk, he stopped and turned his pretty head round to the queen, who, followed by the two lackeys, was walking slowly and quietly along.
"Well, Chevalier Bayard," asked the queen, with a smile, "what are you stopping for?"
"I am only waiting for your majesty," replied the child, gravely. "Here is where my knightly service commences, for here it is that danger begins."
"It is true," said the queen, as she stopped at the foot of the steps and listened to the loud shouting which now became audible. "One would think that a storm had been Sweeping over the ocean, there is such a thundering sound. But you know, my son, that the storms lie in God's hand, and that He protects those who trust in Him. Think of that, my child, and do not be afraid!"
"Oh, I am not afraid!" cried the boy, and he sprang up the stairs like a gazelle.
The queen quickened her steps a little, and seemed to be giving her whole attention to her son, who went before her with such a happy flow of spirits, and appeared to hear nothing of what was passing around her. And yet, behind the fence which ran along the left side of the Arcadia Walk all the way to the quay, was a dense mass of people, head behind head, and all their blazing eyes were directed at the queen, and words of hate, malediction, and threatening followed her every step which she took forward.
"See, see," cried a woman, with dishevelled hair, which streamed out from her round cap, and fell down over her red, angry face--" see, that is the baker's woman, and the monkey that jumps in front of her is the apprentice-boy! They can dress themselves up and be fine, for all is well with them, and they can eat cakes, while we have to go hungry. But wait, only wait! times will be different by and by, and we shall see the baker-woman as hungry as we. But when we have the bread, we will give her none--no, we will give her none!"
"No, indeed, we will give her none!" roared, and cried, and laughed, and howled the mob. And they all pressed closer up to the fence, and naked arms and clinched fists were thrust through the palings, and threatened the queen, and the dauphin, who walked in front of his mother.
"Will he be able to bear it? Will my poor boy not weep with fear and anxiety? "That was the only thought of the queen, as she walked on past the angry roars of the crowd. To the dauphin alone all her looks were directed; not once did she glance at the fence, behind which the populace roared like a pack of lions.
All at once the breath of the queen stopped, and her heart ceased beating, with horror. She saw directly at the place where the path turned and ran away from the fence, but where, before making the turn, it ran very near the fence, the bare arm of a man extended through the paling as far as possible, and stretching in fact half- way across the path, as if it were a turnpike-bar stopping the way. The eyes of the queen, when they fell upon this dreadful, powerful arm, turned at once in deep alarm to the dauphin. She saw him hesitate a little in his hurried course, and then go slowly forward. The queen quickened her steps in order to come up with the dauphin before he should reach the danger which confronted him. The people outside of the fence, when they saw the manoeuvre of the man who was forcing his arm still farther in, stopped their shouting and lapsed into a breathless, eager silence, as sometimes is the case in a storm, between the successive bursts of wind and thunder.
Every one felt that the touch of that threatening arm and that little child might be like the contact of steel and flint, and elicit sparks which should kindle the fires of another revolution. It was this feeling which made the crowd silent; the same feeling compelled the queen to quicken her steps, so that she was close to the dauphin before he had reached this terrible turnpike-bar.
"Come here, my son," cried the queen, "give me your hand!"
But before she had time to grasp the hand of the little prince, he sprang forward and stood directly in front of the outstretched arm.
"My God! what will he do?" whispered the queen to herself.
At the same instant, there resounded from behind the fence a loud, mighty bravo, and a thousand voices took it up and cried, "Bravo! bravo!"
The dauphin had stretched up his little white hand and laid it upon the brown, clinched fist that was stretched out toward him, and nodded pleasantly at the man who looked down so fiercely upon him.
"Good-day, sir!" he said, with a loud voice--"good-day!"
And he took hold with his little hand of the great hand of the man and shook it a little, as in friendly salutation. "Little knirps," roared the man, "what do you mean, and how dare you lay your little paw on the claws of the lion?"
"Sir," said the boy, smiling, "I thought you were stretching out your hand to reach me with it, and so I give you mine, and say, 'Good-day, sir!'"
"And if I wanted, I could crush your hand in my fist as if it were in a vise," cried the man, holding the little hand firmly.
"You shall not do it," cried hundreds and hundreds of voices in the crowd. "No, Simon, you shall not hurt the child."
"Who of you could hinder me if I wanted to?" asked the man, with a laugh. "See here, I hold the hand of the future King of France in my fist, and I can break it if I want to, and make it so that it can never lift the sceptre of France. The little monkey thought he would take hold of my hand and make me draw it back, and now my hand has got his and holds it fast. And mark this, boy, the time is past when kings seized us and trod us down; now we seize them and hold them fast, and do not let them go unless we will."
"Sir!" cried the queen, motioning back with a commanding gesture the two lackeys who were hurrying up to release the dauphin from the hand of the man, "sir, I beg you to withdraw your hand, and not to hinder us in our walk."
"Ah! you are there, too, madame, the baker's wife, are you?" cried the man, with a horrid laugh. "We meet once more, and the eyes of our most beautiful queen fall again upon the dirty, pitiable face of such a poor, wretched creature as, in your heavenly eyes, the cobbler Simon is!"
"Are you Simon the cobbler?" asked Marie Antoinette.
"It is true, I bethink me now, I have spoken with you once before. It was when I carried the prince here, for the first time, to Notre Dame, that God would bless him, and that the people might see him. You stood then by my carriage, sir!"
"Yes, it is true," answered Simon, visibly flattered. "You have, at least, a good memory, queen. But you ought to have paid attention to what I said to you. I am no 'sir,' I am a simple cobbler, and earn my poor bit of bread in the sweat of my brow, while you strut about in your glory and happiness, and cheat God out of daylight. Then I held the hand of your daughter in my fist, and she cried out for fear, merely because a poor fellow like me touched her."
"But, Mr. Simon, you see very plainly that I do not cry out," said the dauphin, with a smile. "I know that you do not want to do me any harm, and I ask you to be so good as to take away your arm, that my mamma can go on in her walk."
"But, suppose that I do not do as you want me to?" asked the cobbler, defiantly. "I suppose it would come that your mamma would dictate to me, and perhaps call some soldiers, and order them to shoot the dreadful people?"
"You know, Master Simon, that I give no such command, and never gave any such," said the queen, quickly.
"The king and I love our people, and never would give orders to our soldiers to fire upon them."
"Because you would not be sure, madame, that the soldiers would obey your commands, if you should," laughed Simon. "Since we got rid of the Swiss guards, there are no soldiers left who would let themselves be torn in pieces for their king and queen; and you know well that if the soldiers should fire the first shot at us, the people would tear the soldiers in pieces afterward. Yes, yes, the fine days at Versailles are past; here, in Paris, you must accustom yourself to ask, instead of command, and the arm of a single man of the people is enough to stop the Queen and the Dauphin of France."
"You are mistaken, sir," said the queen, whose proud heart could no longer be restrained, and allow her to take this humble stand; "the Queen of France and her son will no longer be detained by you in their walk."
And with a quick movement she caught the dauphin, struck back at the same moment the fist of the cobbler, snatched the boy away like lightning, and passed by before Simon had time to put his arm back.
The people, delighted with this energetic and courageous action of the queen--the people, who would have howled with rage, if the queen had ordered her lackeys to push the cobbler back, now roared with admiration and with pleasure, to see the proud-hearted woman have the boldness to repel the assailant, and to free herself from him. They applauded, they laughed, they shouted from thousands upon thousands of throats, "Long live the queen! Long live the dauphin!" and the cry passed along like wildfire through the whole mass of spectators behind the fence, and all eyes followed the tall and proud figure of the queen as she walked away.
Only the eyes of Simon pursued her with a malicious glare, and his clinched fists threatened her behind her back.
"She shall pay for this!" he muttered, with a withering curse. "She has struck back my hand to-day, but the day will come when she will feel it upon her neck, and when I will squeeze the hand of the little rascal so that he shall cry out with pain! I believe now, what Marat has so often told me, that the time of vengeance is come, and that we must bring the crown down and tread it under our feet, that the people may rule! I will have my share in it. I will help bring it down, and tread it under foot. I hate the handsome Austrian woman, who perks up her nose, and thinks herself better than my wife; and if the golden time has come of which Marat speaks, when the people are the master, and the king is the servant, Marie Antoinette shall be my waiting-maid, and her son shall be my choreboy, and his buckle shall make acquaintance with my shoe- straps!"
And while Master Simon was muttering this to himself, he was making a way through the crowd with those great elbows of his, a slipping along the fence, to be able to follow as long as possible the tall figure of the queen, who was now leading the dauphin by the hand, traversing the Arcadian Walk. At the end of it was the fence which led into the little garden reserved for the royal family. Through the iron gate, hard by, adorned with the arms of the kings of France, Marie Antoinette entered an asylum, which had been saved to the crown, free from the intrusion of the people, and she drew a free breath when one of the lackeys closed the gate, and she heard the key grate in the lock.
She stood still a moment to regain her composure, and then she felt that her feet were trembling, and that she scarcely had the power to go farther. It would have been a relief to her to have fallen there upon her knees, and poured all her sorrows and trials into the ear of God. But there were the lackeys behind her; there was her little son, looking up to her with his great eyes; and there was that dreadful cry coming up from the quay like the roaring of the sea.
The queen could not utter a word of grief or sorrow, she could not sink to the ground in her weakness; she had to show a cheerful face to her son, and a proud brow to her servants. God only could look into her heart and see the tears which glowed there like burning coals. Yet in all her sadness she had a feeling of triumph, of proud satisfaction. She had preserved her freedom, her independence; she was not Lafayette's prisoner! No, the Queen of France had not put herself under the protection of the people's general; she had not given him the power of watching her with his hated National Guard, and of saying to them: "At this or that hour the queen takes her walks, and, that she may recreate herself, we will protect her against the rage of the people!"
No, she had defended herself, she had remained the queen all the while, the free queen, and she had gained a victory over the people by showing them that she did not fear them.
"Mamma," cried the dauphin, interrupting her in her painful and proud thought--" mamma, there comes the king, there comes my papa! Oh, he will be glad to hear that I was so courageous!"
The queen quickly stooped down and kissed him. "Yes, truly, my little Bayard, yon have done honor to your great exemplar, and you have really been a little chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. But, my child, true bravery does not glory in its great deeds, and does not desire others to admire them, but keeps silent and leaves it to others to talk about them!"
"Mamma, I will be silent, too," cried the boy, with glowing eyes. "Oh, you shall see that I can be silent, and not talk at all about myself."
The king meanwhile, followed by some gentlemen and servants, was coming forward with unaccustomed haste, and, in his eagerness to reach his wife, he had not noticed the beds, but was treading under foot the last fading flowers of autumn.
"You are here at last, Marie," said he, when he was near enough to speak. "I wanted to go to meet you, to conduct you hither out of the park. You were gone very long, and I worried about you."
"Why worried, sire?" asked the queen. "What danger could threaten me in our garden?"
"Do not seek to hide any thing from me, Marie," said Louis, with a sigh. "I know every thing! The hate of the people denies us any longer the enjoyment of the open air! Lafayette and Bailly were with me after they were dismissed by you. They told me that you had given no favor to their united request, and that you would not grant to General Lafayette the right to protect you while you are taking your walks."
"I hope your majesty is satisfied with me," answered Marie Antoinette. "You feel, like me, that it is a new humiliation for us if we are to allow our very enjoyment of nature to be under the control of the people's general, and if even the air is no longer to be the free air for us!"
"I have only thought that in such unguarded walks you would be threatened with danger," answered the king, perplexed. "Lafayette has painted to me in such dark and dreadful colors, and I have so painfully had to confess that he speaks the truth, that I could only think of your safety, and take no other point of view than to see you sheltered from the attacks of your enemies, and from the rage of these factions. I have therefore approved Lafayette's proposal, and allowed him to protect your majesty on your walks."
"But you have not fixed definite hours for my walks? You have not done that, sire, have you?"
"I have indeed done that," answered the king, gently. "I am familiar with your habits, and know that in autumn and winter you usually take your walks between twelve and two, and in summer afternoons between five and seven. I have therefore named these hours to General Lafayette."
The queen heaved a deep sigh. "Sire," she said, softly, "you yourself are binding tighter and tighter the chains of our imprisonment. To-day you limit our freedom to two poor hours, and that will be a precedent for others to continue what you have begun. We shall after this walk for two hours daily under the protection of M. de Lafayette, but there will come a time when this protection will not suffice, and no security will be great enough for us. For the royal authority which shows itself weak and dependent, and which does not draw power from itself--the royalty which suffers its crown to be borne up for it by the hands of others, confesses thereby that it is too weak to bear the burden itself. Oh, sire, I would rather you had let me break away from the rage of the people, while I might be walking unguarded, than be permitted to take my daily walks under the protection of M. de Lafayette!"
"You see every thing in too dark and sad a light," cried the king. "Every thing will come out right if we are only wise and carefully conform to circumstances, and by well-timed concessions and admissions propitiate this hate and bring this enmity to silence."
The queen did not reply; she stooped down to the dauphin, and, pressing a kiss upon his locks, whispered: "Now yon may tell every thing, Louis. It is not longer necessary to keep silent about any thing, for silence were useless! So tell of your heroism, my son!"
"Is it of heroism that you talk?" said the king, whose nice ear had caught the words of the queen.
"Yes, of heroism, sire," answered Marie Antoinette. "But it is with us as with Don Quixote; we believed that we were fighting for our honor and our throne; now we must confess that we only fought against windmills. I beg you now, sire, to inform General Lafayette that it is not necessary to call out his National Guards on my account, I shall not walk again!"
And the queen kept her word. Never again during the winter did she go down into the gardens and park of the Tuileries. She never gave Lafayette occasion to protect her, but she at least gained thereby what Lafayette wanted to reach by his National Guard--she held the populace away from the Tuileries. At first they stood in dense masses day after day along the fence of the park and the royal garden, but when they saw that Marie Antoinette would no more expose herself to their curious and evil glances, they grew tired of waiting for her, and withdrew from the neighborhood of the Tuileries,--but only to repair to their clubs and listen to the raving speeches which Marat, Santerre, and other officers, hurled like poisoned arrows at the queen-only to go into the National Assembly and hear Mirabeau and Robespierre, Danton, Chenier, Petion, and all the rest, the assembled representatives of the nation, launch their thundering philippics against a royalty appointed by the grace of God, and causing the people to believe that it was a royalty appointed by the wrath of God.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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16
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IN ST. CLOUD.
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The winter was passed--a sad dismal winter for the royal family, and for Marie Antoinette in particular! None of those festivities, those diversions, those simple and innocent joys, which are wont to adorn the life of a woman and of a queen!
Marie Antoinette is no more a queen who commands, who sees around her a throng of respectful courtiers, zealously listening to every word that falls from her lips; Marie Antoinette is a grave solitary woman, who works much, thinks much, makes many plans for saving the kingdom and the throne, and sees all these plans shipwrecks on the indecision and weakness of her husband.
Far away from the queen lay those happy times when every day brought new joys and new diversions; when the dawn of a summer morning made the queen happy, because it promised her a delightful evening, and one of those charming idyls at Trianon. The brothers of the king, the schoolmaster and mayor of Trianon, had left France and had located themselves at Coblentz on the Rhine; the Polignacs had fled to England; the Princess Lamballe, too, had, at the wish of the queen, gone to negotiate with Pitt, in order to implore the all- powerful minister of George III. to give to the oppressed French crown more material and effectual support than was afforded by the angry and bitter words which he hurled in Parliament against the riotous and rebellious French nation. The Counts de Besenval and Coigny, the Marquis de Lauzun, and Baron d'Adhemar, all the privileged friends of the summer days at Trianon and the winter days of Versailles, all, all, were gone.
They had fled to Coblentz, and were at the court of the French princes. There they spun their intrigues, sought to excite a European war against France; from there they hurled their flaming torches into France, their calumnies against Queen Marie Antoinette, the Austrian woman. She alone was accountable for all the misfortunes and the disturbances of France, she alone had given occasion for the distrust now felt against royalty. On her head fell the curse and the burden of all the faults and sins which the French court had for a hundred years committed. There must be a sacrificial lamb, to be thrown into the arms glistening with spears and daggers, of a revolution which thirsted for blood and vengeance, and Marie Antoinette had to be the victim. In her bleeding heart the spirits glowing with hate might cool themselves, and there the evil which her predecessors had done, was to be atoned for. Many a wrong had been done, and the French nation had, no doubt, a right to be angry and to rage as does the lion for a long time kept in subjection, when at last, touched too much by the iron of its keeper, it rises in its wildness, and with withering greed, tears him in pieces from whom it has suffered so long and so much. The French people rose just as the incensed lion does, and determined to wreak their vengeance on their keepers, on those whom they had so long called their lords and rulers.
To pacify the lion some prey must be thrown to him, and to him who thirsts for vengeance and blood, a human offering must be brought to propitiate him.
Marie Antoinette had to be the offering to the lion! Her blood had to flow for the sins of the Bourbons! On her all the anger, the exasperation, the rage of the people must concentrate! She must bear the blame of all the miseries and the needs of France! She must satisfy the hunger for vengeance, in order that when the lion is appeased it can be made placable and patient again, the chains put on which he has broken in his rage--the chains, however, to which, when his rage is past, he must again submit.
The queen, the queen is to blame for all! Marie Antoinette has brought royalty into discredit; the Austrian woman has brought the hatred of the French nation upon herself, and she must atone for it, she alone!
Libels and calumnies are forged against the queen by those who were once the friends and cavaliers of the queen--cavaliers no longer, but cavillers now; the poisoned arrows are sent to France to be directed against the head of the queen, to destroy first her honor and good name, and then to make her a prey for scorn and contempt.
If the lion stills his rage and cools his hate with Marie Antoinette as his victim, he will relax again and bow to his king, for it is time for these royal princes to return to France and their loved Paris once more.
The Count do Provence is the implacable enemy of the queen; he can never forgive her for gaining the heart of the king her husband, and leaving no influence for his wise, clever brother. The Count de Provence is avaricious and crafty. He sees that an abyss has opened before the throne of the lilies, and that it will not close again! It must, therefore, be filled up! A reconciliation will not be possible in a natural way, and artificial methods must be found to accomplish it. Louis XVI. will not be saved, and Marie Antoinette shall not be! The two, perhaps, can fill up the abyss that yawns between the throne of the lilies and the French people. They, perhaps, may fill it up, and then a way may be made for the Count de Provence, the successor of his brother.
The Count d'Artois was once the friend of the queen, the only one of the royal family who wished her well, and who defended her sometimes against the hatred of the royal aunts and sisters-in-law, and the crafty brother. But while living in Coblentz, the Count d'Artois had become the embittered enemy of Marie Antoinette. He had heard it so often said on all sides that the queen by her levity, her extravagance, and her intrigues, was the cause of all, that she alone had brought about the revolution, that he at last believed it, and turned angrily against the royal woman, whose worst offence in the eyes of the prince lay in this, that she had been the occasion of his enforced exile to Coblentz.
And Marie Antoinette knew all these intrigues which were forged by the prince in Coblentz against herself--knew about all the calumnies that were set in circulation there; she read the libels and pamphlets which the storm-wind of revolution shook from the dry tree of monarchy like withered autumn leaves, and scattered through all France, that they might be everywhere found and read.
"They will kill me," she would often say, with a sigh, after reading these pamphlets steeped with hate, and written in blood--" yes, they will kill me, but with me they will kill the king and the monarchy too. The revolution will triumph over us all, and hurl us all together down into the grave."
But still she would make efforts to control the revolution and restore the monarchy again out of its humiliations. The Emperor Joseph II., brother of the queen, once said of himself, "I am a royalist, because that is my business." Marie Antoinette was a royalist not because it was her business; she was a royalist by conviction, a royalist in her soul, her mind, and her inmost nature. For this she would defend the monarchy; for this she would contend against the revolution, until she should either constrain it to terms or be swallowed up in it.
All her efforts, all her cares, were directed only to this, to kindle in the king the same courage that animated her, to stir him with the same fire that burned in her soul. But alas! Louis XVI. was no doubt a good man and a kind father, but he was no king. He had no doubt the wish to restore the monarchy, but he lacked the requisite energy and strong will. Instead of controlling the revolution with a fiery spirit, he sought to conciliate it by concession and mild measures; and instead of checking it, he himself went down before it.
But Marie Antoinette could not and would not give up hope. As the king would not act, she would act for him; as he would not take part in politics, she would do so for him. With glowing zeal she plunged into business, spent many hours each day with the ministers and dependants of the court, corresponded with foreign lands, with her brother the Emperor Leopold, and her sister, Queen Caroline of Naples, wrote to them in a cipher intelligible only to them, and sent the letters through the hands of secret agents, imploring of them assistance and help for the monarchy.
In earnest labor, in unrelieved care and business, the queen's days now passed; she sang, she laughed no more; dress had no longer charms for her; she had no more conferences with Mademoiselle Bertin, her milliner; her hairdresser, M. Leonard, had no more calls upon his genius for new coiffures for her fair hair; a simple, dark dress, that was the toilet of the queen, a lace handkerchief round the neck, and a feather was her only head-dress.
Once she had rejoiced in her beauty, and smiled at the flatteries which her mirror told her when it reflected her face; now she looked with indifference at her pale, worn face, with its sharp grave features, and it awoke no wonder within her when the mirror told her that the queen of France, in spite of her thirty-six years, was old; that the roses on her cheeks had withered, and that care had drawn upon her brow those lines which age could not yet have done. She did not grieve over her lost beauty; she looked with complacency at that matron of six-and-thirty years whose beautiful hair showed the traces of that dreadful night in October. She had her picture painted, in order to send it to London, to the truest of her friends, the Princess Lamballe, and with her own hands she wrote beneath it the words: "Your sorrows have whitened your hair."
And yet in this life full of cares, full of work, full of pain and humiliation--in these sad days of trouble and resignation, there were single gleams of sunshine, scattered moments of happiness.
It was a ray of sunshine when this sad winter in the Tuileries was past, and the States-General allowed the royal family to go to St. Cloud and spend the summer there. Certainly it was a new humiliation for the king to receive permission to reside in his own summer palace of St. Cloud. But the States-General called themselves the pillars of the throne, and the king who sat upon this shaking throne was very dependent upon its support.
In St. Cloud there was at least a little freedom, a little solitude and stillness. The birds sang in the foliage, the sun lighted up the broad halls of the palace, in which a few faithful ones gathered around the queen and recalled at least a touch of the past happiness to her brow. In St. Cloud she was again the queen, she held her court there. But how different was this from the court of former days.
No merry laughter, no cheerful singing resounded through these spacious halls; no pleasant ladies, in light, airy, summer costume swept through the fragrant apartments; M. d'Adhemar no longer sits at the spinet, and sings with his rich voice the beautiful arias from the opera "Richard of the Lion Heart," in which royalty had its apotheosis, and in which the singer Garat had excited all Paris to the wildest demonstrations of delight! And not all Paris, but Versailles as well, and in Versailles the royal court!
Louis XVI. himself had been in rapture at the aria which Garat sang with his flexible tenor voice in so enchanting a manner--"Oh, Richard! oh, mon roi!" --an aria which had once procured him a triumph in the very theatre. For when Garat began this air with his full voice, and every countenance was directed to the box where the royal family were sitting, the whole theatre rose, and the hundreds upon hundreds present had joined in the loud, jubilant strains--"Oh, Richard! oh, mon roi!" Louis XVI. was grateful to the spirited singer, who, in that stormy time, had the courage to publicly offer him homage, and he had therefore acceded to the request of the queen, that Garat should be invited to the private concerts of the queen at Versailles, and give her instruction on those occasions in the art of singing.
Marie Antoinette thought of those pleasant days of the past, as she sat in the still, deserted music-room, where the instruments stood silent by the wall--where there were no hands to entice the cheerful melodies from the strings, as there had once been.
"I wish that I had never sung duets with Garat," whispered the queen to herself. "The king allowed me, but yet I ought not to have done it. A queen has no right to be free, merry, and happy. A queen can practise the fine arts only alone, and in the silence of her own apartments. I would I had never sung with Garat." [Footnote: The queen's own words. --See "Memoires de Madame de Campan," vol. ii.]
She sat down before the spinet and opened it. Her fingers glided softly over the keys, and for the first time, in long months of silence, the room resounded with the tones of music.
But, alas! it was no cheerful music which the fingers of the queen drew from the keys; it was only the notes of pain, only cries of grief; and yet they recalled the happy by-gone times--those golden, blessed days, when the Queen of France was the friend of the arts, and when she received her early teacher, the great maestro and chevalier, Gluck, in Versailles; when she took sides for him against the Italian maestro Lully, and when all Paris divided into two parties, the Gluckists and Lullyists, waging a bloodless war against each other. Happy Paris! At that time the interests of art alone busied all spirits, and the battle of opinions was conducted only with the pen. Gluck owed it to the mighty influence of the queen that his opera "Alcestes" was brought upon the stage; but at its first representation the Lullyists gained the victory, and condemned it. In despair, Gluck left the opera-house, driven by hisses into the dark street. A friend followed him and detained him, as he was hurrying away, and spoke in the gentlest tones. But Gluck interrupted him with wild violence: "Oh, my friend!" cried he, falling on the neck of him who was expressing his kindly sympathy, "'Alcestes' has fallen!" But his friend pressed his hand, and said, "Fallen? Yes, 'Alcestes' has fallen! It has fallen from heaven!"
The queen thought of this as she sat before the spinet--thought how moved Gluck was when he related this answer of his friend, and that he, who had been so kind, was the Duke d'Adhemar.
She had thanked him for this gracious word by giving him her hand to kiss, and Adhemar, kneeling, had pressed his lips to her hand. And that was the same Baron Adhemar who was now at Coblentz assisting the prince to forge libels against herself, and who was himself the author of that shameless lampoon which ridiculed the musical studies of the queen, and even the duet which she had sung with Garat!
Softly glided her fingers over the keys, softly flowed over her pale, sunken cheeks two great tears--tears which she shed as she thought of the past--tears full of bitterness and pain! But no, no, she would not weep; she shook the tears from her eyes, and struck the keys with a more vigorous touch. Away, away, those recollections of ingratitude and faithlessness! Art shall engage her thoughts in the music-room, and to Gluck and "Alcestes" the hour belongs!
The queen struck the keys more firmly, and began to play the noble "Love's Complaint," of Gluck's opera. Unconsciously her lips opened, and with loud voice and intense passionate expression, she sang the words, "Oh, crudel, non posso in vere, tu lo sui, senza dite!"
At the first notes of this fine voice the door in the rear of the room had lightly opened--the one leading to the garden--and the curly head of the dauphin was thrust in. Behind him were Madame de Tourzel and Madame Elizabeth, who, like the prince, were listening in breathless silence to the singing of the queen.
As she ended, and when the voice of Marie Antoinette was choked in a sigh, the dauphin flew with, extended arms across the hall to his mother, "Mamma queen," cried he, beaming with joy, "are you singing again? I thought my dear mamma had forgotten how to sing. But she has begun to sing again, and we are all happy once more."
Marie Antoinette folded the little fellow in her arms, and did not contradict him, and nodded smilingly to the two ladies, who now approached and begged the queen's pardon for yielding to the pressing desires of the dauphin, and entering without permission.
"Oh, mamma, my dear mamma queen," said the prince, in the most caressing way, "I have been very industrious to-day; the abbe was satisfied with me, and praised me, because I wrote well and learned my arithmetic well. Won't you give me a reward for that, mamma queen?"
"What sort of a reward do you want, my child?" asked the queen, smiling.
"Say, first, that you will give it."
"Well, yes, I will give it, my little Louis; now tell me what it is."
"Mamma queen, I want you to sing your little Louis a song; and," he added, nodding at the two ladies, "that you allow these friends of mine to hear it."
"Well, my child, I will sing for you," answered Marie Antoinette, "and our good friends shall hear it."
The countenance of the boy beamed with pleasure; with alacrity he rolled an easy-chair up to the piano, and took his seat in it in the most dignified manner.
Madame Elizabeth seated herself near him on a tabouret, and Madame de Tourzel leaned on the back of the dauphin's chair.
"Now sing, mamma, now sing," asked the dauphin.
Marie Antoinette played a prelude, and as her eyes fell upon the group they lighted up with joy, and then turned upward to God with a look of thankfulness.
A few minutes before she had felt alone and sad: she had thought of absent friends in bitter pain, and now, as if fate would remind her of the happiness which still remained to her, it sent her the son and the sister-in-law, both of whom loved her so tenderly, and the gentle and affectionate Madame de Tourzel, whom Marie Antoinette knew to be faithful and constant unto death.
The flatterers and courtiers, the court ladies and cavaliers, are no longer in the music-room; the enraptured praises no longer accompany the songs of the queen; but, out of the easy-chair, in which the Duchess de Polignac had sat so often, now looks the beautiful blond face of her son, and his beaming countenance speaks more eloquently to her than the flatteries of friends. On the tabouret, now occupied by her sister-in-law, Madame Elizabeth, De Dillon has often sat--the handsome Dillon, and his glowing, admiring looks have often, perhaps, in spite of his own will, said more to the queen than she allowed herself to understand, as her heart thrilled in sweet pain and secret raptures under those glances! How pure and innocent is the face which now looks out from this chair--the face of an angel who bears God in his heart and on his countenance.
"Pray for me; pray that God may let me drink of Lethe, that I may forget all that has ever been! Pray that I may be satisfied with what remains, and that my heart may how in humility and patience!"
Thus thought the queen as she began to sing, not one of her great arias which she had studied with Garat, and which the court used to applaud, but one of those lovely little songs, full of feeling and melody, which did not carry one away in admiration, but which filled the heart with joy and deep emotion.
With suspended breath, and great eyes directed fixedly to Marie Antoinette, the dauphin listened, but gradually his eyes fell, and motionless and with grave face the child sat in his arm-chair.
Marie Antoinette saw it, and began to sing one of those cradle-songs of the "Children's Friend," which Berquin had written, and Gretry had set to music so charmingly.
How still was it in the music-room, how full and touching was the voice of the queen as she began the last verse: "Oh, sleep, my child, now so to sleep. Thy crying grieves my heart; Thy mother, child, has cause to weep, But sleep and feel no smart." [Footnote: "Dors, mon enfant, clos ta paupiere, Tes cris me dechirent la coeur; Dors, mon enfant, ta pauvre more A bien assez de sa douleur."]
All was still in the music-room when the last words were sung; motionless, with downcast eyes, sat the dauphin long after the sad voice of the queen had ceased.
"Ah, see," cried Madame Elizabeth, with a smile, "I believe now our Louis has fallen asleep."
But the child quickly raised his head and looked at the smiling young princess with a reproachful glance.
"Ah, my dear aunt," cried he, reprovingly, "how could any one sleep when mamma sings?" [Footnote: The dauphin's own words. --See Beauchesne, vol. i., p. 27.]
Marie Antoinette drew the child within her arms, and her countenance beamed with delight. Never had the queen received so grateful a compliment from the most flattering courtier as these words of her fair-haired boy conveyed, who threw his arms around her neck and nestled up to her.
The Queen of France is still a rich, enviable woman, for she has children who love her; the Queen of France ought not to look without courage into the future, for the future belongs to her son. The throne which now is so tottering and insecure, shall one day belong to him, the darling of her heart, and therefore must his mother struggle with all her power, and with all the means at her command contend for the throne for the Dauphin of France, that he may receive the inheritance of his father intact, and that his throne may not in the future plunge down into the abyss which the revolution has opened.
No, the dauphin, Louis Charles, shall not then think reproachfully of his parents; he shall not have cause to complain that through want of spirit and energy they have imperilled or lost the sacred heritage of his fathers.
No, Queen Marie Antoinette may not halt and lose courage,--not even when her husband has done so, and when he is prepared to humbly bow his sacred head beneath that yoke of revolution, which the heroes and orators selected by the nation have wished to put upon his neck in the name of France.
This makes hers a double duty, to be active, to plan, and work; to keep her head erect, and look with searching eye in all directions to see whence help and deliverance are to come.
Not from without can they come, not from foreign monarchs, nor from the exiled princes. Foreign armies which might march into the country would place the king, who had summoned them to fight with his own people, in the light of a traitor; and the moment that they should pass the frontiers of France, the wrath of the nation would annihilate the royal couple.
Only from those who had called down the danger could help come. The chiefs of the revolution, the men who had raised their threatening voices against the royal couple, must be won over to become the advocates of royalty. And who was more powerful, who more conspicuous among all these chiefs of the revolution, and all the orators of the National Assembly, than Count Mirabeau!
When he ascended the Speaker's tribune of the National Assembly all were silent, and even his opponents listened with respectful attention to his words, which found an echo through all France; when he spoke, when from his lips the thunder of his speeches resounded, the lightning flashed in his eyes, and his head was like the head of a lion, who, with the shaking of his mane and the power of his anger, destroyed every thing which dared to put itself in his way. And the French nation loved this lion, and listened in reverential silence to the thunder of his speech, and the throne shook before him. And the excitable populace shouted with admiration whenever they saw the lion, and deified that Count Mirabeau, who, with his powerul, lace-cuffed hand, had thrust these words into the face of his own caste: "They have done nothing more than to give themselves the trouble to be born."
The people loved this aristocrat, who was abhorred by his family and the men of his own rank; this count whom, the nobility hated because the Third Estate loved him.
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{
"id": "3451"
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17
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MIRABEAU.
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"Count Mirabeau must be won over," Count de la Marck ventured to say one day to Marie Antoinette. "Count Mirabeau is now the mightiest man in France, and he alone is able to bring the nation back again to the throne."
"It is he," replied the queen, with a glow, "who is most to blame for alienating the nation from the throne. Never will the renegade count be forgiven! Never can the king stoop so low as to pardon this apostate, who frivolously professes the new religion of 'liberty,' and disowns the faith of his fathers."
"Your majesty," replied Count de la Marck, with a sigh, "it may be that in the hand of this renegade lies the future of your son."
The queen trembled, and the proud expression on her features was softened.
"The future of my son?" said she. "What do you mean by that? What has Count Mirabeau to do with the dauphin? His wrath follows us only, his hatred rests upon us alone! I grant that at present he is powerful, but over the future he has no sway. I hope, on the contrary, that the future will avenge the evil that Mirabeau does to us in the present."
"But how does it help, madame, if vengeance hurries him on?" asked Count de la Marck, sadly. "The temple which Samson pulled down was not built again, that Samson might be taken from its ruins; it remained in its dust and fragments, and its glory was gone forever. Oh, I beseech your majesty, do not listen to the voice of your righteous indignation, but only to the voice of prudence. Master your noble, royal heart, and seek to reconcile your adversaries, not to punish them!"
"What do you desire of me?" asked Marie Antoinette, in amazement. "What shall I do?"
"Your majesty must chain the lion," whispered the count. "Your majesty must have the grace to change Mirabeau the enemy into Mirabeau the devoted ally and friend!"
"Impossible, it is impossible!" cried the queen, in horror. "I cannot descend to this. I never can view with friendly looks this monster who is accountable for the horrors of those October days. I can only speak of this man, who has created his reputation out of his crimes, who is a faithless son, a faithless husband, a faithless lover, a faithless aristocrat, and a faithless royalist--I can only speak of him in words of loathing, scorn, and horror! No, rather die than accept assistance from Count Mirabeau! Do you not know, count, that he honors me his queen with his enmity and his contempt? Is it not Mirabeau who caused the States-General to accept the words 'the person of the king is inviolable,' and to reject the words 'and that of the queen?' Was it not Mirabeau who once, when my friends exhorted him to moderation, and besought him to soften his words about the Queen of France, had the grace to answer with a shrug, 'Well, she may keep her life!' Was it not Mirabeau who was to blame for the October days? Was it not Mirabeau who publicly said: 'The king and the queen are lost. The people hate them so, that they would even destroy their corpses?'" [Footnote: The queen's own words. --See Goncourt, "Marie Antoinette," p. 305.]
"Your majesty, Mirabeau said that, not as a threat, but out of pity, and deep concern and sympathy."
"Sympathy!" repeated the queen, "Mirabeau, who hates us!"
"No, your majesty, Mirabeau, who honors his queen, who is ready to give his life for you and for the monarchy, if your majesty will forgive him and receive him as a defender of the throne!"
The queen shuddered, and looked in astonishment and terror at the excited face of Count de la Marck. "Are you speaking of Mirabeau, the tribune of the people," she asked, "the fiery orator of the National Assembly?"
"I am speaking of Count Mirabeau, who yesterday was the enemy of the throne, and who to-day will be a zealous defender, if your majesty will only have it so--if your majesty will only speak a gracious word to him."
"It is impossible, it is impossible!" whispered the queen.
De la Marck continued: "Since he has frequently seen your majesty-- since he has had occasion to observe your proud spirit and lofty resignation--a change has taken place in the character of Mirabeau. He is subdued as the lion is subdued, when the beaming eye of a pure soul looks it in the face. He might be of service again, he might be reconciled! He writes, he speaks of his exalted queen with admiration, with enthusiasm; he glows with a longing desire to confess his sins at the feet of your majesty, and to receive your forgiveness."
"Does the king know this?" asked Marie Antoinette. "Has any one told his majesty?"
"I should not have taken the liberty of speaking to your majesty about these things if the king had not authorized me," replied Count de la Marck, bowing. "His majesty recognizes it to be a necessary duty to gain Mirabeau to the throne, and he hopes to have in this matter the cooperation of his exalted wife."
Marie Antoinette sadly shook her head. "I will speak with his majesty about it," she said, with a sigh, "but only under circumstances of extreme urgency can I submit to this, I tell you in advance."
But the case was of extreme urgency, and when Marie Antoinette had seen it to be so, she kept her word and conformed to it, and commissioned Count de la Marck to tell his friend Mirabeau that the queen would grant him an audience.
But in order that this audience might be of advantage, it must be conducted with the deepest secrecy. No one ought to suspect that Mirabeau, the tribune of the people, the adored hero of the revolution--Mirabeau, who ruled the National Assembly, and Paris itself, whom the freest of the free hailed as their apostle and saviour, who with the power of his eloquence ruled the spirits of thousands and hundreds of thousands of men,--no one could suspect that the leader of the revolution would now become the devoted dependant upon the monarchy, and the paid servant of the king.
Two conditions Mirabeau had named, when Count de la Marck had tried to gain him over in the name of the king: an audience with the queen, and the payment of his debts, together with a monthly pension of a hundred louis-d'or.
"I am paid, but not bought," said Mirabeau, as he received his first payment. "Only one of my conditions is fulfilled, but what will become of the other?"
"And so you still insist on having an audience with the queen?" asked La Marck.
"Yes, I insist upon it," said Mirabeau, with naming eyes. "If I am to battle and speak for this monarchy, I must learn to respect it. If I am to believe in the possibility of restoring it, I must believe in its capacity of life; I must see that I have to deal with a brave, decided, noble man. The true and real king here is Marie Antoinette; and there is only one man in the whole surroundings of Louis XVI., and that is his wife. I must speak with her, in order to hear and to see whether she is worth the risking of my life, honor, and popularity. If she really is the heroine that I hold her to be, we will both united save the monarchy, and the throne of Louis XVI., whose king is Marie Antoinette. The moment is soon to come when we shall learn what a woman and a child can accomplish, and whether the daughter of Maria Theresa with the dauphin in her arms cannot stir the hearts of the French as her great mother once stirred the Hungarians." [Footnote:Mirabeau's own words. --See "Marie Antoinette et sa Famille." Far M. de Lescure. p. 478.]
"Do you then believe the danger is so great," asked La Marck, "that it is necessary to resort to extreme, heroic measures?"
Mirabeau grasped his arm with a sudden movement, and an expression of solemn earnestness filled his lion-like face. "I am convinced of it," he answered, "and I will add, the danger is so great, that if we do not soon meet it and in heroic fashion, it will not be possible to control it. There is no other security for the queen than through the reestablishment of the royal authority. I believe of her, that she does not desire life without her crown, and I am certain that, in order to keep her life, she must before all things preserve her crown. And I will help her and stand by her in it; and for this end I must myself speak with her and have an audience." [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words. --See Count de la Marck, "Mirabeau," vol. 21. p. 50.]
And Mirabeau, the first man in the revolution had his audience with Marie Antoinette, the dying champion of monarchy.
On the 3rd of July, 1790, the meeting of the queen and Mirabeau took place in the park of St. Cloud. Secrecy and silence surrounded them, and extreme care had been taken to let no one suspect, excepting a few intimate friends, what was taking place on this sequestered, leaf-embowered grass-plat of St. Cloud.
A bench of white marble, surrounded by high oleander and taxus trees, stood at the side of this grass-plat. It was the throne on which Marie Antoinette should receive the homage of her new knight. Mirabeau had on the day before gone from Paris to the estate of his niece, the Marchioness of Aragan. There he spent the night; and the next morning, accompanied by his nephew, M. de Saillant, he walked to the park of St. Cloud.
At the nether gate of the park, which had been left open for this secret visit, Mirabeau took leave of his companion, and extended him his hand.
"I do not know," he said, and his voice, which so often had made the windows of the assembly hall shake with its thunder, was now weak and tremulous, "I do not know why this dreadful presentiment creeps over me all at once, and why voices whisper to me, 'Turn, back, Mirabeau, turn back! Do not step over the threshold of this door, for there you are stepping into your open grave!' "
"Follow this voice, uncle, there is still time," implored M. de Saillant; "it is with me as it is with you. I, too, have a sad, anxious feeling!"
"May they not have laid snares for me here?" whispered Mirabeau, thoughtfully. "They are capable of every thing, these artful Bourbons. Who knows whether they have not invited me here to take me prisoner, and to cast me, whom they hold to be their most dangerous enemy, into one of their oubliettes, their subterranean dungeons? My friend," he continued, hastily, "wait for me here, and if in two or three hours I do not return, hasten to Paris, go to the National Assembly, and announce to them that Mirabeau, moved by the queen's cry of distress, has gone to St. Cloud, and is there held a prisoner."
"I will do it, uncle," said the marquis, "but I do not believe in any such treachery on the part of the queen or her husband. They both know that without Mirabeau they are certainly lost, and that he, perhaps, is able to save them. I fear something entirely different."
"And what do you fear?"
"I fear your enemies in the National Assembly," said M. de Saillant, and with a pained expression. "I fear these enraged republicans, who have begun to mistrust you since you have begun to speak in favor of royalty and mon archy, and since you have even ventured to defend the queen personally against the savage and mean attacks which Marat hurls against Marie Antoinette in his journal, the Ami du Peuplt."
"It is true," said Mirabeau, with a smile, "they have mistrusted me, these enraged republicans, since then, and they tell me that Petion, this republican of steel and iron, turned to Danton at the close of my speech, and said: 'This Mirabeau is dangerous to liberty, for there is too much of the blood of the count flowing through the veins of the tribune of the people. Danton answered him with a smile: 'In that case we must draw off the count's blood from the tribune of the people, that he may either be cured of his reactionary disease or die of it!'"
"And when they told Marat, uncle, that you had spoken angrily and depreciatingly of his attacks upon the queen, he raised his fist threateningly, and cried: 'Mirabeau is a traitor, who wants to sell our new, young liberty to the monarchy. But he will meet the fate of Judas, who sold the Saviour. He will one day atone for it with his head, for if we tap him for his treachery, we shall do for him what Judas did for himself. This Mirabeau Judas must take care of himself."
"And do you suppose that this disputatious little load of a Marat will hang me?" asked Mirabeau, with a scornful smile.
"I think that you must watch him," answered M. de Saillant. "Last evening, in the neighborhood of our villa, I met two disguised men, who, I would swear, were Perion and Marat; and on our way here, as I looked around, I feel certain that I saw these same disguised figures following us!"
"What if it be?" answered Mirabeau, raising himself up, and looking around him with a proud glance. "The lion does not fear the annoying insect that buzzes about him, he shakes it off with his mane or destroys it with a single stroke of his paw. And Mirabeau fears just as little such insects as Petion and Marat; they would much better keep out of his way. I will tread them under foot, that is all! And now, farewell, my dear nephew, farewell, and wait for me here!"
He nodded familiarly to his nephew, passed over the threshold, and entered the park, from whose entrance the popular indignation had long since removed the obnoxious words, De par la Reine, the garden belonging now to the king only because the nation willed it so.
Mirabeau hastened with an anxious mind and a light step along the walk, and again it seemed to him as if dark spirits were whispering to him, "Turn back, Mirabeau, turn back! for with every step forward you are only going deeper into your grave." He stopped, and with his hand-kerchief wiped away the drops of cold sweat which gathered upon his forehead.
"It is folly," he said, "perfect folly. Truly I am as tremulous as a girl going to her first rendezvous. Shame on you, Mirabeau, be a man!"
He shook his head as if he wanted to dispel these evil forebodings, and hastened forward to meet Count de la Marck, who appeared at the bending of the allee.
"The queen is already here, and is waiting for you, Mirabeau," said the marquis, with a slight reproach in his voice.
Mirabeau shrugged his shoulders instead of replying, and went on more rapidly. There soon opened in front of them a small grass-plat, surrounded by bushes, and on the bench opposite, the lady in the white, neat dress, with a straw hat on her arm, her hair veiled with black lace--that lady was Marie Antoinette.
Mirabeau stopped in his walk, and fixed a long, searching look upon her. When he turned again to his friend, his face was pale, and bore plain traces of emotion.
"My friend," whispered he to La Marck, "I know not why, but I have a strange feeling! I have not wept since the day on which my father drove me with a curse from the house of my ancestors, but, seeing yonder woman, I could weep, and an unspeakable sympathy fills my soul."
The queen had seen him, too, and had grown pale, and turned tremblingly to the king, who stood beside her, half concealed by the foliage.
"There is the dreadful man!" said Marie Antoinette, with a shudder. "My God! a thrill of horror creeps through all my veins, and if I only look at this monster, I have a feeling as though I should sicken with loathing!" [Footnote: The queen's own words. See "Madame du Campan," vol. II.]
"Courage, my dear Marie, courage," whispered the king. "Remember that the welfare of our future, and of our children, perhaps, depends upon this interview. See, he is approaching. Receive him kindly, Marie. I will draw back, for you alone shall have the honor of this day, and monarchy has in you its fairest representative."
"But remain so near me, sire, that you can hear me if I call for help," whispered Marie Antoinette.
The king smiled. "Fear nothing, Marie," he said," and believe that the danger for Mirabeau is greater than for you. The name of criminal will be fastened not to us, but to Mirabeau, if it shall be known that he has come to visit us here. I will withdraw, for there is Mirabeau."
And the king withdrew into the thicket, while Mirabeau stopped near the queen, and saluted her with a profound bow.
Marie Antoinette rose from her marble seat. At this moment she was not the queen giving an audience, but the anxious lady, advancing to meet danger, and desirous to mitigate it by politeness and smiles.
"Come nearer, count," said Marie Antoinette, still standing. But as he approached, the queen sank slowly upon the seat, and raised her eyes to Mirabeau, with an almost timid look, who now did not seem to her a monster, for his mien was disturbed, and his eyes, which had always been represented as so fearful, had a gentle, respectful expression.
"Count," said the queen, and her voice trembled a little "count, if I found myself face to face with an ordinary enemy, a man who was aiming at the destruction of monarchy, without seeing of what use it is for the people, I should be taking at this moment a very useless step. But when one talks with a Mirabeau, one is beyond the ordinary conditions of prudence, and hope of his assistance is blended with wonder at the act." [Footnote: The queen's own words. --See "Marie Antoinette et sa Famille" Par M. de Lescure, p. 484.]
"Madame," cried Mirabeau, deeply moved, "I have not come here as your enemy, but as your devoted servant, who is ready cheerfully to give his life if he can be of any service to the monarchy."
"You believe, then, that it is a question of life, or, if you prefer, of death, which stands between the French people and the monarchy?" asked the queen, sadly.
"Yes, I am convinced of that," answered Mirabeau. "But I still hope that we can answer the question in favor of the monarchy, provided that the right means are applied in season."
"And what, according to your views, are the right means, count?"
Mirabeau smiled and looked with amazement into the noble face of the queen, who, with such easy composure, had put into this one short question what for centuries had perplexed the greatest thinkers and statesmen to answer.
"Will your majesty graciously pardon me if I crave permission, before I answer, to put a question in like manner to my exalted queen?"
"Ask on, count," replied Marie Antoinette, with a gentle inclination of her head.
"Well, madame, this is my question: 'Does your majesty purpose and aim at the reestablishment of the old regime, and do you deem it possible to roll the chariot of human history and of politics backward?"
"You have in your question given the answer as well," said Marie Antoinette, with a sigh. "It is impossible to reerect the same edifice out of its own ruins. One must be satisfied if out of them a house can be built, in which one can manage to live."
"Ah, your majesty," said Mirabeau, with feeling, "this answer is the first ray of light which breaks through the heavy storm-clouds! The new day can be descried and hailed with delight! After hearing this noble answer of your majesty, I look up comforted, and the clouds do not terrify me longer, for I know that they will soon be past--that is, if we employ the right means."
"And now I repeat my question, count, What, according to your view, are the right means?"
"First of all, the recognition of what is wrong," answered Mirabeau, "and then the cheerful and honest will to do what is found to be necessary."
"Well, tell me, what is it that is wrong?"
Mirabeau bowed, and then began to speak to her in his clear, sharp way, which was at the same time so full of energy, of the situation of France, the relation of the various political parties to one another, to the court, and the throne. In strongly outlined sentences he characterized the chiefs of the political clubs, the leaders of the parties in the National Assembly, and spoke of the perilous goal which the demagogues, the men of the extreme Left, aimed at. He did not, from delicacy, speak the word "republican," but he gave the queen to understand that the destruction of the monarchy and the throne, the annihilation of the royal family, was the ultimate object aimed at by all the raving orators and leaders of the extreme Left.
The queen had listened to him with eager, fixed attention, and, at the same time, with a dignified composure; and the earnest, thoughtful look of her large eyes had penetrated and moved Mirabeau more and more, so that his words came from his lips like a stream of fire, and kindled a new hope even in himself.
"All will yet be well," he cried, in conclusion; "we shall succeed in contending with the hidden powers that wish to undermine your majesty's throne, and to take from the hands of your enemies these dangerous weapons of destruction. I shall apply all my power, all my eloquence to this. I will oppose the undertakings of the demagogues; I will show myself to be their public opponent, and zealously serve the monarchy, making use of all such means of help as are adapted to move men's minds, and not to trouble and terrify them, as if freedom and self-government were to be taken from them, and yet which will restore the credit and power of the monarchy."
"Are you, then, with honest and upright heart, a friend of ours?" asked Marie Antoinette, almost supplicatingly. "Do you wish to assist us, and stand by us, with your counsel and help?"
Mirabeau met her inquisitive and anxious look with a cordial smile, a noble and trustworthy expression of face. "Madame," he said, with his fine, resonant voice, "I defended monarchical principles when I saw only their weakness, and when I did not know the soul nor the thoughts of the daughter of Maria Theresa, and little reckoned upon having such an exalted mediator. I contended for the rights of the throne when I was only mistrusted, when calumny dogged all my steps, and declared me guilty of treachery! I served the monarchy, then, when I knew that from my rightful, but misled king, I should receive neither kindness nor reward. What shall I do now, when confidence animates my spirit, and gratitude has made my duties run directly in the current of my principles? I shall be and remain what I have always been, the defender of monarchy governed by law, the apostle of liberty guaranteed by the monarchy." [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words. --See "Memoires du Comte de Mirabeau," vol III., p. 290.]
"I believe you, count," cried Marie Antoinette, with emotion. "You will serve us with fidelity and zeal, and with your help all will yet be well. I promise yon that we will follow your counsels, and act in concord with you. You will put yourself in communication with the king; you will consult him about needful matters, and advise him about the things which are essential to his welfare and that of the people."
"Madame," replied Mirabeau, "I take the liberty of adding this to what has already been said. The most necessary thing is that the royal court leave Paris for a season!"
"That we flee?" asked Marie Antoinette, hastily. "Not flee, but withdraw," answered Mirabeau. "The exasperated people menace the monarchy, and therefore the threatened crown must for a while be concealed from the people's sight, that they may be brought back to a sense of duty and loyalty. And, therefore, I do not say that the court must flee; I only say it must leave Paris, for Paris is the furnace of the revolution! The royal court must withdraw, as soon as possible, to the very boundaries of France! It must there gather an army, and put it under the command of some faithful general, and with this army march against the riotous capital; and I will be there to smooth the way and open the gates!"
"I thank you, count, I thank you!" cried Marie Antoinette, rising from her seat. "Now, I doubt no more about the future, for my own thoughts coincide with those of our greatest statesmen! I, too, am convinced the court ought to leave Paris--that it must withdraw, in order to escape new humiliations, and that it ought to return only in the splendor of its power, and with an army to put the rebels to flight, and breathe courage into the timid and faithful. Oh! you must tell the king all this; you must show him that our removal from Paris is not only a means of salvation to the crown, but to the people as well. Your words will convince the noblest and best of monarchs; he will follow your counsels, and, thanks to you, not we alone, but the monarchy will be saved! No, go to the work, count! Be active in our behalf; bring your unbounded influence, in favor of the king and queen, to bear upon all spirits, and be sure that we shall be grateful to you so long as we live. Farewell, and remember that my eye will follow all your steps, and that my ears will hear every word which Mirabeau shall speak in the National Assembly."
Mirabeau bowed respectfully. "Madame," said he, "when your exalted mother condescended to favor one of her subjects with an audience, she never dismissed him without permitting the favored one respectfully to kiss her hand."
"It is true," replied Marie Antoinette, with a pleasant smile, "and in this, at least, I can follow the example of my great mother!"
And, with inimitable grace, the queen extended her hand to him. Mirabeau, enraptured, beside himself at this display of courtesy and favor, dropped upon his knee and pressed his lips to the delicate, white hand of the queen.
"Madame," cried he, with warmth, "this kiss saves the monarchy!" [Mirabeau's own words. --See "Memoires de Mirabeau," vol iv., p. 208.]
"If you have spoken the truth, sir," said the queen, with a sigh, rising and dismissing him, with a gentle inclination of her head.
With excited and radiant looks, Mirabeau returned to his nephew, who was waiting for him at the gate of the park.
"Oh!" said he, with a breath of relief, laying his hand upon the shoulder of Saillant, "what have I not heard and seen! She is very great, very noble, and very unhappy, Victor! But," cried he, with a loud, earnest voice, "I will save her--I will save her!" [Footnote: "Marie Antoinette et sa Famille," p 480.]
Mirabeau was in earnest in this purpose; and not because he had been bought over, but because he had been won--carried away with the noble aspect of the queen--did he become from this time a zealous defender of the monarchy, an eloquent advocate in behalf of Marie Antoinette. But he was not now able to restrain the dashing waves of revolution; he could not even save himself from being engulfed in these raging waves.
Mirabeau knew it well, and made no secret of the peril of his position. On the day when, before the division, he spoke in defence of the monarchy and the royal prerogative, and undertook to decide the question of peace or war--on that day he first announced himself openly for the king, and raised a storm of excitement and disgust in the National Assembly. Still he spoke right bravely in behalf of the crown; and while doing so, he cried, "I know well that it is only a single step from the capitol to the Tarpeian rock!"
Step after step! And these successive steps Mirabeau was soon to take. Petion had not in vain characterized Mirabeau as the most dangerous enemy of the republic. Marat had not asserted, without knowing what he said, that Mirabeau must let all his aristocratic blood flow from his veins, or bleed to death altogether! Not with impunity could Mirabeau encounter the rage of parties, and fling down the gauntlet before them, saying, at the same moment, "He would defend the monarchy against all attacks, from what side soever, and from what part soever of the kingdom they might come."
The leaders of the republican factions knew very well how to estimate the power of Mirabeau; they knew very well that Mirabeau was able to fit together the fragments of the crown which he had helped to break. And, to prevent his doing this, they knew that he must be buried beneath these fragments.
Soon after his interview with the queen--after his dissenting speech in behalf of the prerogative of the king--Mirabeau began to fail in health. His enemies said that it was only the result of over- exertion, and a cold which he had brought on by drinking a glass of cold water during a speech, in the National Assembly. His friends whispered about a deadly poison which had been mingled with this glass of water, in order to rid themselves of this powerful and dangerous opponent.
Mirabeau believed this; and the increasing torpor of his limbs, the pains which he felt in his bowels, appeared to him to be the sure indications of poison given him by his enemies.
The lion, who had been willing to crouch at the foot of the throne for the purpose of guarding it, was now nothing but a poor, sick man, whose voice was lost, and whose power was extinguished. For a season he sought to contend against the malady which was lurking in his body; but one day, in the midst of a speech which he was making in behalf of the queen, he sank in a fainting-fit, and was carried unconsciously to his dwelling. After long efforts on the part of his physician, the celebrated Cabanis, Mirabeau opened his eyes. Consciousness was restored, but with it a fixed premonition of his approaching death.
"I am dying!" he said, softly. "I am bearing in my heart the funeral crape of the monarchy. These raging partisans want to pluck it out, deride it, and fasten it to their own foreheads. And this compels them to break my heart, and this they have done!" [Footnote: Mirabeau's own words. --See "Memoires sur Mirabeau," vol. iv.,. p. 296.]
Yes, they had broken it--this great strong heart, in which the funeral crape of monarchy lay. At first the physician and his friends hoped that it might be possible to overcome his malady, but Mirabeau was not flattered by any such hope; he felt that the pains which were racking his body would end only with death.
After one especially painful and distressing night, Mirabeau had his physician Cabanis and his friend Count de la Marck summoned to his bed, and extended to them both his hands. "My friends," he said to them with gentle voice and with peaceful face, "my friends, I am going to die to-day. When one has been brought to that pass, there is only one thing that remains to be done: to be perfumed, tastefully dressed, and surrounded with flowers, so as to fall agreeably into that last sleep from which there is no waking. So, call my servants! I must be shaved, dressed, and nicely arrayed. The window must be opened, that the warm air may stream in, and then flowers must be brought. I want to die in the sunshine and flowers." [Footnote: Mirabeau's words. --See "Memoires sur Mirabeau," vol. iv., p. 298.]
His friends did not venture to oppose his last wish. The gladiator wanted to make his last toilet and be elaborately arrayed in order to fall in the arena of life as a hero falls, and even in death to excite the wonder and the applause of the public.
All Paris was in this last scene the public of this gladiator; all Paris had, in these last days of his battle for life, only one thought, "How is it with Mirabeau? Will he compel the dreadful enemy Death to retire from before him, or will he fall as the prey of Death?" This question was written on all faces, repeated in all houses and in all hearts. Every one wanted to receive an answer from that still house, with its closely-drawn curtains, where Mirabeau lived. All the streets which led thither were, during the last three days before his death, filled with a dense mass of men, and no carriage was permitted to drive through the neighborhood, lest it should disturb Mirabeau. The theatres were closed, and, without any consultation together, the merchants shut their stores as they do on great days of national fasting or thanksgiving.
On the morning of the fourth day, before life had begun to move in the streets of Paris, and before the houses were opened, a cry was heard in the great highways of the city, ringing up into all the houses, and entering all the agitated hearts that heard it: "Flowers, bring flowers! Mirabeau wants flowers! Bring roses and violets for Mirabeau! Mirabeau wants to die amid flowers!"
This cry awoke slumbering Paris the 2d of April, 1791, and, as it resounded through the streets, windows and doors opened, and hundreds, thousands of men hastened from all directions toward Mirabeau's house, carrying nosegays, bouquets, whole baskets of flowers. One seemed to be transferred from cool, frosty spring weather to the warm, fragrant days of summer; all the greenhouses, all the chambers poured out their floral treasures to prepare one last summer day for the dying tribune of the people. His whole house was filled with flowers and with fragrance. The hall, the staircase, the antechamber, and the drawing-room were overflowing with flowers; and there in the middle of the drawing-room lay Mirabeau upon a lounge, carefully dressed, shaved and powdered, as if for a royal festival. The most beautiful of the flowers, the fairest exotics surrounded his couch, and bent their variegated petals down to the pale, death-stricken gladiator, who still had power to summon a smile to his lips, and with one last look of affection to bid farewell to his weeping friends--farewell to the flowers and the sunlight!
On his lofty brow, on his smiling lips, there was written, after Death had claimed him, after the gladiator had fallen, "The dying one greets you!"
The day of his death was the day of his last triumph; and the flowers that all Paris sent to him, were to Mirabeau the parting word of love and admiration!
Four times daily the king had sent to inquire after Mirabeau's welfare, and when at noon, on the 2d of April, Count de la Marck brought the tidings of his death, the king turned pale. "Disaster is hovering over us," he said, sadly, "Death too arrays himself on the side of our enemies!"
Marie Antoinette was also very deeply moved by the tidings. "He wanted to save us, and therefore must die! The burden was too heavy, the pillar has broken under the weight; the temple will plunge down and bury us beneath its ruins, if we do not hasten to save ourselves! Mirabeau's bequest was his counsel to speedy and secret flight! We must follow his advice, we must remove from Paris. May the spirit of Mirabeau enlighten the heart of the king, that he may be willing to do what is necessary,--that he may be willing to leave Paris!"
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{
"id": "3451"
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18
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REVOLUTION IN THE THEATRE.
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All Paris was again in commotion, fear, and uproar. The furies of the revolution, the market-women, went howling again through the streets on the 20th of June, 1791, uttering their horrid curses upon the king and the Austrian woman, and hurling their savage words and dirty songs against Madame Veto, against la chienne d'Autriche.
Around the Tuileries stood in immense masses the corps of the National Guard, with grave and threatening mien, and with difficulty holding back the people, who were filling the whole broad square in front of the palace, and who could only with great effort be prevented from breaking through those strong cordons of guards who held both ends of the street leading to the Tuileries, and kept at least the middle of the way free and open.
It was a way for the king, the queen, and the royal family, who were to reenter Paris that day. Lafayette had, at the order of the National Assembly, gone with some regiments of the guard to Varennes, to conduct the king back to the capital. Thousands upon thousands had hurried out after him in order to observe this return of the representatives of monarchy, and to take part in this funeral procession!
For it was a funeral of the monarchy which was celebrated that day; and this great, heavy carriage, surrounded by soldiers, and the ribald, mocking populace--this great carriage, which now drove along the streets leading to the Tuileries, amid the thunder of cannon, and the peals of bells from towers, was the funeral car of monarchy.
The king, the queen, the royal children, the sister of the king, Madame Tourzel, and the two deputies whom the National Assembly had sent to Varennes to accompany the royal family, Petion and Barnave, were in this carriage.
They had tried to follow the advice of the dying Mirabean, and to save themselves from the revolution. That was the offence of this king and this queen, who were now brought back in triumph to the Tuileries, the palace of kings, and from that time a royal prison.
Tri-colored banners waved from all roofs and from all windows; placards were displayed everywhere, bearing in immense letters the words: "Whoever applauds the king shall be scourged; whover insults him shall be hanged!"
They had wished to escape, these unhappy ones, who are now brought back from Varennes, where they were identified and detained. Now they were returning, no longer the masters, but the prisoners of the French nation! The National Assembly had passed a decree, whose first article was: "The king is temporarily set aside from the functions of royalty;" and whose second and third articles were, "that so soon as the king and his family shall be brought back to the Tuileries, a provisional watch shall be set over him, as well as over the queen and the dauphin, which, under the command of the general-in-chief of the National Guard of Paris, shall be responsible for their safety and for their detention."
The king and the queen returned to Paris as prisoners, and Lafayette was their jailer. The master of France, the many-headed King of the French nation, was the National Assembly.
Sad, dreadful days of humiliation, of resignation, of perils and anxieties, now followed for the royal family, the prisoners of the Tuileries, who were watched day and night by spying eyes, and whose doors must remain open day and night, in order that officers on guard might look without hindrance into the apartments in which the prisoners of the French nation lived.
During the first week after the sad return, the spirit of the queen seemed to be broken, her energies to be impaired forever. She had no more hope, no more fear; she threw out no new plans for escaping, she neither worked nor wrote. She only sat still and sad for hours, and before her eyes passed the dreadful pictures of the time just gone by, presenting themselves with dreadful vividness, and in the recollection anguishing her spirit. She recalled the excitement and anxiety of the day which preceded the flight. She saw herself, as with trembling hands she put on the garments of one of her waiting- maids, and then disguised the dauphin in girl's clothes; she heard the boy asking anew, with his pleasant smile: "Are we going to play theatre, mamma queen?" Then she saw herself on the street alone, waiting without any protection or company for the carriage which was to take her up, after taking up at another place the king and the two children. She recalled the drive in the dark night, the heat in the close, heavy carriage, the dreadful alarm when suddenly, after a twelve hours' drive, the carriage broke, and all dismounted to climb the hill to the village which lay before them, and where they had to wait till the carriage could be repaired. Then the journey on, the delay in Varennea, the cry, "They are recognized." Then the confusion, the march, the anguish of the hours following, and finally that last hour of hope when, in the poor chamber of the shopkeeper Sauce, his wife standing near the bed on which the little prince slept, she conjured his wife to save the king and find him a hiding-place. Then she heard again before her ears the woman's hard voice answering her: "Madame, it cannot be; I love my husband, too, and I also have children, but my husband were lost if I saved yours." Then she heard afresh the cries, the march; saw the arrival of the Paris regiments and the deputies whom the National Assembly sent to conduct the royal refugees back to Paris. Then she recalled the drive back, crowded into the carriage with the deputies, and the ribald populace roaring around. As she thought of all these things, a shudder ran through the form of the unhappy queen, and tears streamed unrestrainedly from her eyes.
But gradually she gained her composure and spirit, and even the daily humiliation and trials which she encountered awakened in her the fire and defiance of her earlier days.
The king and the queen were, after their return from Varennes, the prisoners of their own people, and the Tuileries formed the prison in which with never-sleeping cruelty the people watched their royal captives.
The chiefs of the battalions constituting the National Guard took turns in sentry duty over the royal couple. They had received the rigid order to constantly watch the royal family, and not to leave them for a moment alone. Even the sleeping-room of the queen was not closed to the espionage of the guards; the door to the drawing-room close by had always to be open, and in this drawing-room was the officer of the guard. Even in the night, while the queen lay in her bed, this door remained open, and the officer, sitting in an arm- chair directly opposite to the door, kept his eyes directed to the bed in which the queen sought to sleep, and wrestled with the pains and fear which she was too proud to show to her persecutors. The queen had stooped to make but one request; she had asked that at least in the morning, when she arose and dressed, she might close the doors of her sleeping-room, and they had been magnanimous enough to comply with her wish. [Footnote: "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," par Edmondet Jules de Goneourt, p. 861.]
But Queen Marie Antoinette had met all these humiliations, these disenchantments, and trials, full of hope of a change in her fortune. Her proud soul was still unbroken, her belief in the victory of monarchy under the favor of God animated her heart with a last ray of hope, and sustained her amid all her misfortune. She still would contend with her enemies for the love of this people, of whom she hoped that, led astray by Jacobins and agitators, they would at last confess their error, respect the voice of their king and queen, and return to love and regretfulness. And Marie Antoinette would sustain herself in view of the great day when the people's love should be given back; she would seek to bring that day back, and reconcile the people to the throne. On this account she would show the people that she cherished no fear of them; that she would intrust herself with perfect confidence to them, and greet them with her smiles and all the favor of former days. She would make one more attempt to regain her old popularity, and reawaken in their cold hearts the love which the people had once displayed to her by their loud acclamations. She found power in herself to let her tears flow, not visibly, but within her heart; to disguise with her smile the pain of her soul, and so she resolved to wear a cheerful and pleasant face, and appear again publicly in the theatre, as well as in open carriage-drives through the city.
They were then giving in the great opera-house Gluck's "Alceste," the favorite opera of the queen--the opera in which a few years before she had received so splendid a triumph; in which the public loudly encored, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" which the choir had sung upon the stage, and, standing with faces turned toward the royal box, had mingled their voices with those of the singers, and repeated in a general chorus, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!"
"I will try whether the public remembers that evening," said Marie Antoinette, with a faint smile, to Mademoiselle de Bugois, the only lady who had been permitted to remain with her; "I will go this evening to the opera; the public shall at least see that I intrust myself with confidence to it, and that I have not changed, however much may have been changed around."
Mademoiselle de Bugois looked with deep sadness at the pale face of the queen, that would show the public that she had not altered, and upon which, once so fair and bright, grief had recorded its ineradicable characters, and almost extinguished its old beauty. Deeply moved, the waiting-lady turned away in order not to let the tears be seen which, against her will, streamed from her eyes.
But Marie Antoinette had seen them nevertheless. With a sad smile she laid her hand upon the shoulder of the lady-in-waiting. "Ah!" said she, mildly, "do not conceal your tears. You are much happier than I, for you can shed tears; mine have been flowing almost two years in silence, and I have had to swallow them! [Footnote: Marie Antoinette's own words. --See Goncourt, p. 264.]
"But I will not weep this evening," she continued, "I will meet these Parisians at least in composure. Yes, I will do more, I will try to smile to them. They hate me now, but perhaps they will remember then that once they truly loved me. There is a trace of magnanimity in the people, and my confidence will perhaps touch it. Be quick, and make my toilet. I will be fair to-day. I will adorn myself for the Parisians. They will not be my enemies alone who will be at the theatre; some of my friends will be there, and they at least will be glad to see me. Quick, mademoiselle, let us begin my toilet."
And with a liveliness and a zeal which, in her threatened situation, had something touching in it, Marie Antoinette arrayed herself for the public, for the good Parisians.
The news that the queen was to appear that evening at the theatre had quickly run through all Paris; the officer on duty told it at his relief to some of the guards, they to those whom they met, and it spread like wildfire. It was therefore very natural that, long before the curtain was raised, the great opera-house was completely filled, parquette, boxes, and parterre, with a passionately-excited throng. The friends of the queen went in order to give her a long- looked-for triumph; her enemies--and these the poor queen had in overwhelming numbers--to fling their hate, their malice, their scorn, into the face of Marie Antoinette.
And enemies of the queen had taken places for themselves in every part of the great house. They even sat in the boxes of the first rank, on those velvet-cushioned chairs which had formerly been occupied exclusively by the enthusiastic admirers of the court, the ladies and gentlemen of the aristocracy. But now the aristocracy did not dare to sit there. The most of them, friends of the queen, had fled, giving way before her enemies and persecutors; and in the boxes where they once sat, now were the chief members of the National Assembly, together with the leading orators of the clubs, and the societies of Jacobins.
To the box above, where the people had once been accustomed to see Princess Lamballe, the eyes of the public were directed again and again. Marie Antoinette had been compelled to send away this last of her friends to London, to have a conference with Pitt. Instead of the fair locks of the princess, was now to be seen the head of a man, who, resting both arms on the velvet lining of the box, was gazing down with malicious looks into the surging masses of the parterre. This man was Marat, once the veterinary of the Count d'Artois, now the greatest and most formidable orator of the wild Jacobins.
He too had come to see the hated she-wolf, as he had lately called the queen in his "Ami du Peuple," and, to prepare for her a public insult, sat drunk with vanity in the splendid box of the Princess Lamballe; his friends and confidants were in the theatre, among them Santerre the brewer, and Simon the cobbler, often looking up at Marat, waiting for the promised motion which should be his signal for the great demonstration.
At length the time arrived for the opera to begin, and, although the queen had not come, the director of the orchestra did not venture to detain the audience even for a few minutes. He went to his place, took his baton, and gave the sign. The overture began, and all was silent, in parquette and parterre, as well as in the boxes. Every one seemed to be listening only to the music, equally full of sweetness and majesty--only to have ears for the noble rhythm with which Gluck begins his "Alceste."
Suddenly there arose a dull, suppressed sound in parquette, parterre, and boxes, and all heads which had before been directed toward the stage, were now turned backward toward the great royal box. No one paid any more attention to the music, no one noticed that the overture was ended and that the curtain was raised.
Amid the blast of trumpets, the noise of violins and clarionets, the public had heard the light noise of the opening doors, had noticed the entrance of the officers, and this sound had made the Parisians forget even their much-loved music.
There now appeared in the open box-door a woman's form. The queen, followed by Mademoiselle de Bugois, advanced slowly through the great box to the very front. All eyes were directed to her, all looks searched her pale, noble face.
Marie Antoinette felt this, and a smile flitted over her face like the evening glow of a summer's day. With this smile and a deep blush Marie Antoinette bowed and saluted the public.
A loud, unbounded cry of applause resounded through the vast room. In the parquette and in the boxes hundreds of spectators arose and hailed the queen with a loud, pealing "Vive la reine!" and clapped their hands like pleased children, and looked up to the queen with joyful, beaming countenances.
"Oh, my faith has not deceived!" whispered Marie Antoinette into the ear of her companion. "The good Parisians love me still; they, like me, remember past times, and the old loyalty is awaking in them."
And again she bowed her thanks right and left, and again the house broke out into loud applause. A single, angry glance of Marat's little eyes, peering out from beneath the bushy brows, met the queen.
"Only wait," said Marat, rising from his seat and directing his glances at the parterre. There stood the giant Santerre, and not far from him Simon the cobbler, in the midst of a crowd of savage- looking, defiant fellows, who all looked at their leaders, while they, Santerre and Simon, directed their eyes up to the box of Marat.
The glance of the chief met that of his two friends. A scornful, savage expression swept over Marat's ash-colored, dirty face, and he nodded lightly to his allies. Santerre and Simon returned the nod, and they, turning to their companions, gave the signal by raising the right hand.
Suddenly the applause was overborne by loud whistling and shouting, derisive laughter, and wild curses.
"The civil war has begun!" cried Marat, rubbing his hands together with delight.
The royalists continued to applaud and to shout, "Vive la reine!" Their opponents tried to silence them by their hisses and whistling. Marat's face glowed with demoniacal pleasure. He turned to the boxes of the second tier, and nodded smilingly to the men who sat there. At once they began to cry, "The chorus, the chorus, let them sing, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"
"Very well," said Marat. "I am a good royalist, for I have trained the people to the cry."
"Sing, sing!" shouted the men to the performers on the stage--"sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"
And in the boxes, parquette, everywhere was the cry, "Sing the chorus, 'Chantons, celebrons notre reine!'"
"No," roared Santerre, "no, they shall not sing that!"
"No," cried Simon, "we will not hear the monkey-song!"
And hundreds of men in the parterre and the upper rows of boxes echoed the cry, "No, we will not hear the monkey-song!"
"The thing works well!" said Marat. "I hold my people by a thread, and make them gesticulate and spring up and down, like the concealed man in a Punch and Judy show."
The noise went on; the royalists would not cease their applause and their calls for the chorus, "Chantons, celebrons notre reine!" The enemies of the queen did not cease hissing and shouting, "We do not want to hear any thing about the queen; we will not hear the monkey- song!"
"Oh, would I had never come here!" whispered the queen, with tearful eyes, as she sank back in her armchair, and hid her face in her handkerchief.
Perhaps because the real royalists saw the agitation of the queen, and out of compassion for her were willing to give up the controversy--perhaps Marat had given a sign to the false royalists that they had had enough of shouting and confusion--at all events the cry "Vive la reine" and the call for the chorus died away suddenly, the applause ceased, and as the enemies of the queen had now no opposition to encounter, nothing was left to them but to be silent too.
"The first little skirmish is over!" said Marat, resting his bristly head on the back of his velvet arm-chair. "Now we will listen to the music a little, and look at the pretty theatre girls."
And in fact the opera had now begun; the director of the orchestra had taken advantage of the return of quiet to give a sign to the singers on the stage to begin at once, and with fortunate presence of mind his command was obeyed.
The public, wearied it may be with the shouting and noise, remained silent, and seemed to give its attention exclusively to the stage, the development of the plot, and the noble music.
Marie Antoinette breathed freely again; her pale cheeks began to have color once more, her eyes were again bright, and she seemed transported beyond the sore battles and dreadful discords of her life; she listened respectfully to the sweet melodies, and the grand harmonies of the teacher of her youth, the great Gluck. Leaning back in her armchair, she allowed the music to flow into her soul, and the recollection of past days awoke afresh in her mind. She dreamed of the days of her childhood: she saw herself again in Schonbrunn; she saw her teacher Gluck enter the blue music-room, in which she with her sisters used to wait for him; she saw the glowing countenance of her mother, the great Maria Theresa, entering her room, in order to give Gluck a proof of her high regard, and to announce to him herself that Marie Antoinette had betrothed herself to the Dauphin of France, and that she would soon bid her teacher farewell, in order to enter upon her new and brilliant career.
A low hum in the theatre awakened the queen from her reveries; she raised herself up and leaned forward, to see what was going on. Her glance, which was directed to the stage, fell upon the singer Clairval, who was just then beginning to give, with his wonderfully full and flexible voice, the great aria in which the friend comes to console the grief-burdened, weeping Queen Alceste, and to dry her tears by assuring her of the love of her faithful adherents. Clairval had advanced in the aria to that celebrated passage which had given to Marie Antoinette a half year before her last great triumph. It ran: "Reine infortunee, ah! que ton coeur Ne soit plus navre de douleur! Il vous reste encore des amis!"
But scarcely had Clairval begun the first strophe when the thundering voice of Santerre called, "None of that, we will not hear the air!"
"No, we will not hear the air!" shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices.
"Poor Gluck," whispered Marie Antoinette, with tears in her eyes, "because they hate me, they will not even hear your music!"
"Sing it, sing it!" shouted hundreds and hundreds of voices from all parts of the house.
"No, do not sing it!" roared the others; "we will not hear the air."
And suddenly, above the cries of the contestants, rose a loud, yelling voice: "I forbid the singer Clairval ever again singing this air. I forbid it in the name of the people!"
It was Marat who spoke these words. Standing on the arm-chair of the Princess de Lamballe, and raising his long arms, and directing them threateningly toward the stage, he turned his face, aglow with hate and evil, toward the queen.
Marie Antoinette, who had turned her head in alarm in the direction whence the voice proceeded, met with her searching looks the eyes of Marat, which were fixed upon her with an expression equally stern and contemptuous. She shrank back, and, as if in deadly pain, put her hand to her heart.
"0 God!" she whispered to herself, "that is no man, that is an infernal demon, who has risen there to take the place of my dear, sweet Lamballe. Ah, the good spirit is gone, and the demon takes its place--the demon which will destroy us all!"
"Long live Marat!" roared Santerre, and his comrades. "Long live Marat, the great friend of the people, the true patriot!"
Marat bowed on all sides, stepped down from the easy-chair, and seated himself comfortably in it.
Clairval had stopped in the air; pale, confused, and terrified, he had withdrawn, and the director whispered to the orchestra and the singers to begin the next number.
The opera went on, and the public again appeared to give itself during some scenes to the enjoyment of the music. But soon this short quiet was to be disturbed again. One of the singers, Madame Dugazont, a zealous royalist, wanted to give the queen a little triumph, and show her that, although Clairval had been silenced, the love and veneration of Dugazont were still alive and ready to display themselves.
Singing as the attendant of Alceste, Dugazont had these words to give in her part: "Ah! comme faime la reine, comme faime ma maitresse!"
She advanced close to the footlights, and turning her looks toward the royal box, and bowing low, sang the words: "Comme faime la reine, comme j'aime ma maitresse!"
And now, as if this had been the battle-cry of a new contest, a fearful din, a raging torrent of sound began through the whole house. At first it was a mixed and confused mass of cries, roars, hisses, and applause. Now and then single voices could be heard above the horrid chaos of sounds. "We want no queen!" shouted some.
"We want no mistress!" roared others; and mingled with those was the contrary cry, "Long live the queen! Long live our mistress!"
"Hi!" said Marat, full of delight, twisting his bony form up into all kinds of knots--" hi! this is the way they shout in hell. Satan himself would like this!"
More and more horrible, more and more wild became the cries of the rival partisans. Already embittered and exasperated faces were confronting each other, and here and there clinched fists were seen, threatening to bring a shouting neighbor to silence by the use of violence.
The queen, trembling in every limb, had let her head fall powerlessly on her breast, in order that no one might see the tears which ran from her eyes over her death-like cheeks.
"0 God," whispered she, "we are lost, hopelessly lost, for not merely our enemies injure us, and bring us into danger, but our friends still more. Why must that woman turn to me and direct her words to me? She wanted to give me a triumph, and yet she has brought me a new humiliation." Suddenly she shrank back and raised her head. She had caught the first tones of that sharp, mocking voice, which had already pierced her heart, the voice of that evil demon who now occupied the place of the good Princess Lamballe.
The voice cried: "The people of Paris are right. We want no queen! And more than all other things, no mistress! Only slaves acknowledge masters over them. If the Dugazont ventures to sing again, 'I love my queen, I love my mistress,' she will be punished as slaves are punished--that is, she will be flogged!"
"Bravo, Marat, bravo!" roared Santerre, with his savage rabble. "Bravo, Marat, bravo!" cried his friends in the boxes; "she shall be flogged!"
Marat bowed on all sides, and turned his eyes, gleaming with scorn and hatred, toward the royal box, and menaced it with his clinched fists.
"But not alone shall the singer be flogged," cried he, with a voice louder and sharper than before--"no, not alone shall the singer be flogged, but greater punishment have they deserved who urge on to such deeds. If the Austrian woman comes here again to turn the heads of sympathizing souls with her martyr looks, if she undertakes again to move us with her tears and her face, we will serve her as she deserves, we will go whip in hand into her box!" [Footnote: Goneourt's "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 365.]
The queen rose from her chair like an exasperated lioness, and advanced to the front of the box. Standing erect, with flaming looks of anger, with cheeks like purple, she confronted them there--the true heir of the Caesars, the courageous daughter of Maria Theresa-- and had already opened her lips to speak and overwhelm the traitor with her wrath, when another voice was heard giving answer to Marat.
It cried: "Be silent, Marat, be silent. Whoever dares to insult a woman, be she queen or beggar, dishonors himself, his mother, his wife, and his daughter. I call on you all, I call on the whole public, to take the part of a defenceless woman, whom Marat ventures to mortally insult.
You all have mothers and wives; you may, perhaps, some day have daughters. Defend the honor of woman! Do not permit it to be degraded in your presence. Marat has insulted a woman; we owe her satisfaction for it. Join with me in the cry, 'Long live the queen! Long live Marie Antoinette!'"
And the public, carried away with the enthusiasm of this young, handsome man, who had risen in his box, and whose slender, proud figure towered above all--the public broke into one united stirring cry: "Long live the queen! Long live Marie Antoinette!"
Marat, trembling with rage, his countenance suffused with a livid paleness, sank back in his chair.
"I knew very well that Barnave was a traitor," he whispered. "I shall remember this moment, and Barnave shall one day atone for it with his head."
"Barnave, it is Barnave," whispered the queen to herself. "He has rescued me from great danger, for I was on the point of being carried away by my wrath, and answering the monster there as he deserves."
"Long live the queen! Long live Marie Antoinette!" shouted the public.
Marie Antoinette bowed and greeted the audience on all sides with a sad smile, but not one look did she cast to the box where Barnave sat, with not one smile did she thank him for the service he had done her. For the queen knew well that her favor brought misfortune to those who shared it; that he on whom she bestowed a smile was the object of the people's suspicion.
The public continued to shout her name, but the queen felt herself exhausted, and drawing back from the front of the box, she beckoned to her companion. "Come," she whispered, "let us go while the public are calling 'Long live Marie Antoinette!' Who knows whether they will not be shouting in another minute, 'Away with the queen! we want no queen!' It pains my ear so to hear that, so let us go."
And while the public were yet crying, Marie Antoinette left the box and passed out into the corridor, followed by Mademoiselle Bugois and the two officers in attendance. But the corridor which the queen had to pass, the staircase which she had to descend in order to reach her carriage, were both occupied by a dense throng. With the swiftness of the wind the news had spread through Paris that the queen was going to visit the opera that evening, and that her visit would not take place without witnessing some extraordinary outbreak.
The royalists had hastened thither, to salute the queen, and at least to see her on the way. The curious, the idle, and the hostile- minded had come to see what should take place, and to shout as the majority might shout. The great opera-house had therefore not accommodated half who wanted to be present, and all those who had been refused admittance had taken their station on the stairway and the corridor, or before the main entrance. And it was natural that those who stood before the door should, by their merely being there, excite the curiosity of passers-by, so that these, too, stood still, to see what was going on, and all pressed forward to the staircase to see every thing and to hear every thing.
But the civil war which was raging within the theatre had given rise 'to battles outside as well; the same cries which had resounded within, pealed along the path of the queen. She could only advance slowly; closer and closer thronged the crowd, louder and louder roared around Marie Antoinette the various battle-cries of the parties, "Long live the queen!" "Long live the National Assembly! Down with the queen!"
Marie Antoinette appeared to hear neither the one nor the other of these cries. With proudly erected head, and calm, grave looks, she walked forward, untroubled about the crowd, which the National Guard before her could only break through by a recourse to threats and violence, in order to make a passage for the queen.
At last the difficult task was done; at last she had reached her carriage, and could rest upon its cushions, and, unobserved by spying looks, could give way to her grief and her tears. But alas! this consolation continued only for a short time. The carriage soon stopped; the Tuileries, that sad, silent prison of the royal family, was soon reached, and Marie Antoinette quickly dried her tears, and compelled herself to appear calm.
"Do not weep more, Bugois," she whispered. "We will not give our enemies the triumph of seeing that they have forced tears from us. Try to be cheerful, and tell no one of the insults of this evening."
The carriage door was opened, the queen dismounted, and, surrounded by National Guards and officers, returned to her apartments.
No one bade her welcome, no one received her as becomes a queen. A few of the servants only stood in the outer room, but Marie Antoinette had no looks for them. She had been compelled as a constitutional queen ought, to dismiss her own tried and faithful servants; her household had been reorganized, and she knew very well that these new menials were her enemies, and served as spies for the National Assembly. The queen therefore passed them without greeting, and entered her sitting-room.
But even here she was not alone; the door of the ante-room was open, and there sat the officer of the National Guard, whose duty of the day it was to watch her.
Marie Antoinette had no longer the right of being alone with her grief, no longer the right of being alone with her husband. The little corridor which ran from the apartments of the queen to those of the king, was always closed and guarded. When the king came to visit his wife, the guard came too and remained, hearing every word and standing at the door till the king retired. In like manner, both entrances to the apartments of the queen were always watched; for before the one sat an officer appointed by the National Assembly, and before the other a member of the National Guard stood as sentry.
With a deep sigh the queen entered her sleeping-room. The officer sat before the open door of the adjacent room, and looked sternly and coldly in. For an instant an expression of anger flitted over the face of the queen, and her lips quivered as though she wanted to speak a hasty word. But she suppressed it, and withdrew behind the great screen, in order to be disrobed by her two waiting-maids and be arrayed in her night-dress.
Then she dismissed the maids, and coming out from behind the screen, she said, loudly enough to be heard by the officer: "I am weary, I will sleep."
At once he arose, and turning to the two guards, who stood at the door of the anteroom, said: "The queen is retiring, and the watch in the black corridor can withdraw. The National Assembly has given command to lighten the service of the National Guard, by withdrawing as much of the force as possible. As long as the queen is lying in bed, two eyes are enough to watch her, and they shall watch her well!"
The soldiers left the anteroom, and the officer returned to the entrance of the sleeping-room. He did not, however, sit down in the easy-chair before the door, but walked directly into the chamber of the queen.
Marie Antoinette trembled and reached out her hand for the bell which stood by her on the table.
"Be still, for God's sake, be still!" whispered the officer. "Make no noise, your majesty. Look at my face." And, kneeling before the queen, he raised his head and looked at her with an expression almost of supplication. "I am Toulan," he whispered, "the faithful servant of my queen. Will your majesty have the goodness to recall me? Here is a letter from my patroness, Madame de Campan, who speaks well for me. Will your majesty read it?"
The queen ran over the paper quickly and turned with a gentle smile to the officer, who was still kneeling before her, and who, in all her humiliation and misfortune, still paid her the homage due to majesty.
"Stand up, sir," she said, mildly. "The throne lies in dust, and my crown is so sadly broken, that it is no longer worth the trouble to kneel before it."
"Madame, I see two crowns upon your noble head," whispered Toulan-- "the crown of the queen, and the crown of misfortune. To these two crowns I dedicate my service and my fidelity, and for them I am prepared to die. It is true, I can do but little for your majesty, but that little shall be faithfully done. Thanks to my bitter hatred of royalty, and my rampant Jacobinism, I have carried matters so far, that I have been put upon the list of officers to keep watch, and, therefore, once every week I shall keep guard before your majesty's sleeping-room."
"And will you do me the favor to so put your chair that I shall not see you--that during the night I may not always have the feeling of being watched?" asked the queen, in supplicant tones.
"No, your majesty," said Toulan, moved. "I will remain in my chair, but your majesty will prefer, perhaps, to turn the night into day, and remain up; as during my nights you will not be disturbed."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Marie Antoinette, joyfully.
"I mean, that, as during the day your majesty can never speak with the king without witnesses, we must call the night to our assistance, if you wish to speak confidentially to his majesty. Your majesty has heard, that during the night the watch is withdrawn from the corridor, and your majesty is free to leave your room and go to the chamber of the king."
A flash of joy passed over the countenance of the queen. "I thank you, sir--I thank you to-day as a wife; perhaps the day may come when I can thank you as a queen; I accept your magnanimous kindness. Yes, I will turn the night into day, and, thanks to you, I shall be able to spend several hours undisturbed with my husband and my children. And do you say that you shall be here quite often?"
"Yes, your majesty, I shall be here once every week at your majesty's order."
"Oh! I have lost the habit of ordering," said Marie Antoinette, with a pained look. "You see that the Queen of France is powerless, but she is not wholly unfortunate, for she has friends still. You belong to these friends, sir; and that we may both retain the memory of this day, I will always call you my faithful one."
No, the queen is not wholly unfortunate; she has friends who are ready, with her, to suffer; with her, if it must be, to die. The Polignacs are gone, but Princess Lamballe, whom the queen had sent to London, to negotiate with Pitt, has returned, in spite of the warnings and pleadings of the queen. Marie Antoinette, when she learned that the princess was on the point of leaving England, had written to her: "Do not come back at a moment so critical. You would have to weep too much for us. I feel deeply, believe me, how good you are, and what a true friend you are. But, with all my love, I enjoin you not to come here. Believe me, my tender friendship for you will cease only with death."
The warning of her royal friend had, meanwhile, not restrained Princess Lamballe from doing what friendship commanded. She had returned to France, and Marie Antoinette had, at least, the comfort of having a tender friend at her side.
No, the queen was not wholly unfortunate. Besides this friend, she had her children, too--her sweet, blooming little daughter, and the dauphin, the pride and joy of her heart.
The dauphin had no suspicion of the woes and misfortunes which were threatening them. Like flowers that grow luxuriantly and blossom upon graves, so grew and blossomed this beautiful boy in the Tuileries, which was nothing more than the grave of the old kingly glory. But the dauphin was like sunshine in this dark, sad palace, and Marie Antoinette's countenance lightened when her eye fell upon her son, looking up to her with his tender, beaming face. From the fresh, merry smile of her darling, she herself learned to smile again, and be happy.
Gradually, after the first rage of the people was appeased, the chains with which she was bound were relaxed. The royal family was at least permitted to leave the close, hot rooms, and go down into the gardens, although still watched and accompanied by the National Guard. They were permitted to close the doors of their rooms again, although armed sentries still stood before them.
There were even some weeks and months in this year 1791, when it appeared as if the exasperated spirits would be pacified, and the throne be reestablished with a portion of its old dignity. The king had, in a certain manner, received forgiveness from the National Assembly, while accepting the constitution and swearing--as indeed he could but swear, all power having been taken from him, and he being a mere lay-figure--that would control all his actions, and govern according to the expressed will of the National Assembly.
But the king, in order to make peace with his people, had even made this sacrifice, and accepted the constitution. The people seemed grateful to him for this, and appeared to be willing to return to more friendly relations. The queen was no longer insulted with contemptuous cries when she appeared in the garden of the Tuileries, or in the Bois de Boulogne, and it even began to be the fashion to speak about the dauphin as a miracle of loveliness and beauty, and to go to the Tuileries to see him working in his garden.
This garden of the dauphin was in the immediate neighborhood of the palace, at the end of the terrace on the river-side; it was surrounded with a high wire fence, and close by stood the little pavilion where dwelt Abbe Davout, the teacher of the dauphin. The dauphin had had in Versailles a little garden of his own, which he himself worked, planted, and digged, and from whose flowers he picked a bouquet every morning, to bring it with beaming countenance to his mamma queen.
For this painfully-missed garden of Versailles, the little garden on the terrace had to compensate. The child was delighted with it; and every morning, when his study-hours were over, the dauphin hastened to his little parterre, to dig and to water his flowers. The garden has, since that day, much changed; it is enlarged, laid out on a different plan, and surrounded with a higher fence, but it still remains the garden of the Dauphin Louis Charles, the same garden that Napoleon subsequently gave to the little King of Borne; the same that Charles X. gave to the Duke de Bordeaux, and that Louis Philippe gave to the Count de Paris. How many recollections cluster around this little bit of earth, which has always been prematurely left by its young possessors! One died in prison scarcely ten years old; another, hurried away by the tempest, still younger, into a foreign land, only lived to hear the name of his father, and see his dagger before he died. The third and fourth were hurled out by the storm-wind like the first two, and still wear the mantle of exile in Austria and England. And many as are the tears with which these children regard their own fate, there must be many which they must bestow upon the fate of their fathers. One died upon the scaffold, another from the knife of an assassin, a third from a fall upon the pavement of a highway; and the last, the greatest of them all, was bound, like Prometheus, to a rock, and fed on bitter recollections till he met his death.
This little garden, on the river-side terrace of the Tuileries park, which has come to have a world-wide interest, was then the Eldorado of the little Dauphin of Prance; and to see him behind the fence was the delight of the Parisians who used to visit there, and long for the moment when the glance of his blue eye fell upon them, and for some days and months had again become enthusiastic royalists.
When the prince went into his little garden, he was usually accompanied by a detachment of the National Guard, who were on duty in the Tuileries; and the dauphin, who was now receiving instruction in the use of weapons, generally wore himself the uniform of a member of the National Guard. The Parisians were delighted with this little guard of six years. His picture hung in all stores, it was painted on fans and rings, and it was the fashion, among the most elegant ladies of the Faubourg St. Germain, and among the market- women as well, to decorate themselves with the likeness of the dauphin. How his brow beamed, how his eye brightened, when, accompanied by his escort, of which he was proud, he entered his garden! When the retinue was not large, the prince took his place in the ranks. One day, when all the National Guards on duty were very desirous of accompanying him, several of them were compelled to stand outside of the garden. "Pardon me, gentlemen," said the dauphin; "it is a great pity that my garden is so small that it deprives me of the pleasure of receiving you all." Then he hastened to give flowers to every one who was near the fence, and received their thanks with great pleasure.
The enthusiasm for the dauphin was so great, that the boys of Paris envied their elders the honor of being in his service, and longed to become soldiers, that they might be in his retinue. There was, in fact, a regiment of boys formed, which took the name of the Dauphin's Regiment. The citizens of Paris were anxious to enroll the names of their sons in the lists of this regiment, and to pay the expenses of an equipment. And when this miniature regiment was formed, with the king's permission, it marched to the Tuileries, in order to parade before the dauphin.
The prince was delighted with the little regiment, and invited its officers to visit his garden, that they might see his flowers, his finest treasures. "Would you do us the pleasure to be the colonel of our regiment?" one of the officers asked the dauphin.
"Oh! certainly," he answered.
"Then you must give up getting flowers and bouquets for your mamma!" said one of the boys.
"Oh!" answered the dauphin, with a smile, "that will not hinder my taking care of my flowers. Many of these gentlemen have little gardens, too, as they have told me. Very well, they can follow the example of their colonel, and love the queen, and then mamma will receive whole regiments of flowers every day."
The majority of this regiment consisted, at the outset, of children of the highest ranks of society, and it was therefore natural that they, practiced in the most finished courtesy, should pay some deference to their young colonel.
But they were expressly forbidden showing any thing of this feeling toward their comrade. "For," said the king, "I want him to have companions who will stimulate his ambition; but I do not want him to have flatterers, who shall lead him to live to himself alone." Soon the number of little soldiers increased, for every family longed for the honor of having its sons in the regiment of the royal dauphin. The people used always to throng in great masses when this regiment went through its exercises in the Place de la Carrousel. It was a miniature representation of the French guards, with their three- cornered hats and white jackets; and nothing could be more charming than this regiment of blooming boys in their tasteful uniforms, and their little chief, the dauphin, looking at his regiment with beaming eyes and smiling lips.
The enthusiasm of the little soldiers of the Royal Dauphin Regiment for their colonel was so great, that they longed to give him a proof of their love. One day the officers of the regiment came into the Tuileries and begged the king's permission to make a present to the dauphin, in the name of the whole regiment. The king gladly acceded to their request--, and he himself conducted the little officers into the reception-room, where was the dauphin, standing at the side of his mother.
The little colonel hastened to greet them. "Welcome, my comrades, welcome!" cried he, extending his hand to them. "My mamma queen tells me that you have brought me something which will give me pleasure. But it gives me pleasure to see you, and nothing more is needed."
"But, colonel, you will not refuse our present?"
"Oh, certainly not, for my papa king says that a colonel is not forbidden taking a gift from his regiment. What is it?"
"Colonel, we bring you a set of dominoes," said a little officer, named Palloy, who was the speaker of the delegation--" a set of dominoes entirely made out of the ruins of the Bastile."
And taking the wrapper from the white marble box, bound with gold, he extended it to the dauphin, and repeated with a solemn face the following lines: "Those gloomy walls that once awoke our fear Are changed into the toy we offer here: And when with joyful race the gift you view, Think what the people's mighty love can do." [Footnote: "De ces aff reux cachota, la terreur des Francais, Vous voyez les debris transformes en hoohets; Puissent-ils, en servant aux jeux de votre enfance, Du peuple vous prouver 1'amour et la puissance." Beauchesne, "Louis XVD. Sa Vie, sou Agonie," etc., vol. iv., p. 396.]
Poor little dauphin! Even when they wanted to do him homage, they were threatening him; and the present which affection offered to the royal child was at the same time a bequest of Revolution, which even then lifted her warning finger, and pointed at the past, when the hate of the people destroyed those "gloomy walls," which had been erected by kingly power.
In his innocence and childish simplicity, the dauphin saw nothing of the sting which, unknown even to the givers, lurked within this gift. He enjoyed like a child the beautiful present, and listened with eagerness while the manner of playing the game was described to him. All the stones were taken from the mantel of black marble in the reception-room of Delaunay, the governor of the Bastile, who had been murdered by the people. On the back of each of these stones was a letter set in gold, and when the whole were arranged in regular order, they formed the sentence: "Vive le Roi, vive la Reine, et M. le Dauphin." The marble of the box was taken from the altar-slab in the chapel. In the middle was a golden relief, representing a face.
"That is my papa king," cried the dauphin, joyfully, looking at the representation.
"Yes," replied Palloy, the speaker of the little company, "every one of us bears him in his heart. And like the king, you will live for the happiness of all, and like him you will be the idol of Prance. We, who shall one day be French soldiers and citizens, bring to you, who will then be our commander-in-chief and king, our homage as the future supporters of the throne which is destined for you, and which the wisdom of your father has placed under the unshakable power of law. The gift which we offer you is but small, but each one of us adds his heart to it." [Footnote: The very words of the little officer.]
"And I give all of you my heart in return for it," cried the dauphin, with a joyful eagerness, "and I shall take great pains to be good, and to learn well, that I may be allowed to amuse myself with playing dominoes."
And the little fellow fixed his large, blue eyes upon the queen with a tender look, took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"My dear mamma queen," he said, caressingly, "if I am real good, and study hard, we can both play dominoes together, can't we?"
A sad smile played around the lips of the queen, and no one saw the distrustful, timid look which she cast at the box, which to her was merely the memorial of a dreadful day.
"Yes, my child," she replied, mildly, "we will play dominoes often together, for you certainly will be good and industrious."
She controlled herself sufficiently to thank the boys with friendly words for the present which they had made to the dauphin, and then the deputation, accompanied by the king and the little prince, withdrew. But as soon as they had gone, the smile died away upon her lips, and with an expression of horror she pointed to the box.
"Take it away--oh, take it away!" she cried, to Madame de Tourzel. "It is a dreadful reminder of the past, a terrible prophecy of the future. The stones of the Bastile, which the people destroyed, lie in this box! And the box itself, does it not look like a sarcophagus? And this sarcophagus bears the face of the king! Oh, the sorrow and woe to us unfortunate ones, who can not even receive gifts of love without seeing them obscured by recollections of hate, and who have no joys that have not bitter drops of grief mingled with them! The revolution sends us storm-birds, and we are to regard them as doves bringing us olive-branches. Believe me, I see into the future, and I discern the deluge which will drown us all!"
BOOK IV.
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{
"id": "3451"
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19
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JUNE 20 AND AUGUST 10, 1792.
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Marie Antoinette was right. The revolution was sending its storm- birds to the Tuileries. They beat with their strong pinions against the windows of the palace; they pulled up and broke with their claws the flowers and plants of the garden, so that the royal family no longer ventured to enter it. But they had not yet entered the palace itself; and within its apartments, watched by the National Guard, the queen was at least safe from the insults of the populace.
No, not even there longer, for the storm-birds of the revolution beat against the windows, and these windows had once in a while to be opened to let in a little sunshine, and some fresh air. Marie Antoinette had long given up her walks in the garden of the Tuileries, for the rabble which stood behind the fence had insulted her so often with cries and acts, that she preferred to give up her exercise rather than to undergo such contemptuous treatment.
The king, too, in order to escape the scornful treatment of the populace, had relinquished his walks, and before long things came to such a pass that the dauphin was not allowed to visit his little garden. Marat, Santerre, Danton, and Robespierre, the great leaders of the people, had, by their threats against the royalists and their insurrectionary movements among the people, gained such power, that no one ventured to approach the garden of the prince to salute him, and show deference to the son of the king. The little regiment had been compelled, in order to escape the mockery and contempt, the hatred and persecution which followed them, to disband after a few months; and around the fence, when the dauphin appeared, there now stood none but men sent there by the revolutionists to deride the dauphin when he appeared, and shout their wild curses against the king and queen.
One day, when a crowd of savage women stood behind the fence, and were giving vent to their derision of the queen, the poor dauphin could not restrain his grief and indignation. With glowing cheeks and flaming eyes he turned upon the wild throng.
"You lie --oh, you lie!" he cried, with angry voice. "My mamma queen is not a wicked woman, and she does not hate the people. My mamma queen is so good, so good that--" His tears choked his voice, and flowed in clear streams down over his cheeks. Ashamed, as it were, of this indication of weakness, the dauphin dashed out of the garden, and hastened so rapidly to the palace that the Abbe Davout could scarcely follow him. Weeping and sobbing, the dauphin passed through the corridor, but when they reached the broad staircase which led to the apartments where the queen lived, the dauphin stopped, suppressed his sobs, and hastily dried his eyes.
"I will not weep any more," he said, "it would trouble mamma. I beg you, abbe, say nothing to mamma. I will try to be cheerful and merry, for mamma queen likes much to have me so. Sometimes, when she is sad and has been weeping, I make believe not to notice it, and then I laugh and sing, and jump about, and then her beautiful face will clear up, and sometimes she even smiles a little. So, too, I will be right merry, and she shall notice nothing. You would not suspect that I have been weeping, would you?"
"No, my prince, no one would think you had," answered the abbe, looking with deep emotion into the great blue eyes which the dauphin turned up to his with an inquiring look.
"Well, then, we will go to my mamma queen," cried the dauphin, and he sprang forward and opened the door with a smile, and, half concealed behind the curtains, he asked, in a *jesting tone, whether he might have permission to enter her majesty's presence.
Marie Antoinette bade him heartily welcome, and opened her arms to him. The dauphin embraced her and pressed a glowing kiss upon her eyes and upon her lips.
"You are extraordinarily affectionate to-day, my little Louis Charles," said the queen, with a smile. "What is the cause of that?"
"That comes from the fact that to-day I have nothing to give you excepting kisses--not a single flower. They are all withered in my garden, and I do not like to go there any more, for there are no more bouquets to pluck for my dear mamma queen. Mamma, this is my bouquet."
And he kissed and caressed the queen afresh, and brought a glow to her eyes and a smile to her lips.
"Come now, my child, you see that the abbe is waiting, and I believe it is time for the study-hours to begin. "What comes first to-day?"
"We have first, grammar," answered the abbe, laying the needful books upon the little table at which the dauphin always took his lessons in the presence of the queen.
"Grammar!" cried the dauphin; "I wish it were history. That I like, but grammar I hate!"
"That comes because you make so many mistakes in it," said the abbe; "and, certainly, grammar is very hard."
The child blushed. "Oh, it is not on that account," he said. "I do not dislike grammar because it is hard, but merely because it is tedious."
"And I will wager that on that account you have forgotten what we went over in our last grammar hour. We were speaking of the three comparatives. But you probably do not remember them."
"You are mistaken," replied the dauphin, smiling. "In proof, hear me. If I say, 'My abbe is a good abbe,' that is the positive. If I say, 'My abbe is better than another abbe,' that is the comparative. And," he continued, turning his eyes toward the queen with an expression of intense affection, "if I say, 'My mamma is the dearest and best of all mammas,' that is the superlative." [Footnote: The dauphin's own words. --See Beauchesne's "Louis XVII.," vol. i., p. 133.]
The queen drew the boy to her heart and kissed him, while her tears flowed down upon his auburn curls.
On the next day, at the time of his accustomed walk, the queen went into the dauphin's room to greet him before he went into the garden.
"Mamma, I beg your permission to remain here," said the dauphin. "My garden does not please me any longer."
"Why not, my son," asked Marie Antoinette, "has any thing happened to you?"
"Yes, mamma," he answered, "something has happened to me. There are so many bad people always standing around the fence, and they look at me with such evil eyes, that I am afraid of them, and they scold and say such hard things. They laugh at me, and say that I am a stupid jack, a baker's boy that does not know how to make a loaf, and they call me a monkey. That angers me and hurts my feelings, and if I begin to cry I am ashamed of myself, for I know that it is very silly to cry before people who mean ill to us. But I am still a poor little boy, and my tears are stronger than I. And so I want you, mamma, not to let me go to the garden any more. Moufflet and I would a great deal rather play in my room. Come here, Moufflet, make your compliments to the queen, and salute her like a regular grenadier."
And smiling, he caught the little dog by the fore-paws, and made him stand up on his hind legs, and threatened Moufflet with his hand till he made him stand erect and let his fore feet hang down very respectfully.
The queen looked down with a smile at the couple, and laughed aloud when the dauphin, still waving his hand threateningly to compel the dog to stand as he was, jumped up, ran to the table, caught up a paper cap, which he had made and painted with red stripes, and put it on Moufflet's head, calling out to him: "Mr. Jacobin, behave respectfully! Make your salutations to her majesty the queen!"
After that day, the dauphin did not go into his garden again, and the park of the Tuileries was now the exclusive property of the populace, that took possession of it with furious eagerness.
The songs of the revolution, the wild curses of the haters of royalty, the coarse laughter and shouting of the rabble--these were the storm birds which were beating at the windows of the royal apartments.
Marie Antoinette had still one source of enjoyment left to her in her sufferings, her correspondence with her absent friends, and the Duchess de Polignac before all others. Once in a while there was a favorable opportunity to send a letter by the hands of some faithful friend around her, and the queen had then the sad satisfaction at least of being able to express to some sympathizing heart what she was undergoing, without fearing that these complaints would be read by her enemies, as was the case with all letters which were sent by post.
One of these letters to the Duchess de Polignac, which history has preserved, gives a faithful and touching picture of the sorrows and grief of the queen. A translation of it runs thus: "I cannot deny myself the pleasure of embracing you, my dear heart, but it must be done quickly, for the opportunity is a passing one, although a certain one. I can only write a word, which will be forwarded to you with a large package. We are guarded like criminals, and this restraint is truly dreadfully hard to bear! -- constantly too apprehensive for one another, not to be able to approach the window without being loaded with insults; not to be able to take the poor children out into the air without exposing the dear innocents to reproaches, what a situation is ours, my dear heart! And when you think that I suffer not for myself alone, but have to tremble for the king as well, and for our friends who are with us, you will see that the burden is well-nigh unbearable! But, as I have told you before, you absent ones, you keep me up. Adieu, dear heart, let us hope in God, who looks into our consciences, and who knows whether we are not animated by the truest love for this land. I embrace you!
"P. S.--The king has just come in and wants to add a word."
"I will only say, duchess, that you are not forgotten, that we regret receiving so few letters from you, and that, whether near or far away, you and yours are always loved. Louis." [Footnote: Beauchesne "Louis XVII," vol. 1. , p. 143.]
Not to be able to show one's self near the window without being showered with insults! Yes, and even into the very middle of her room they followed her. Even when sitting far away from the window, she could not help hearing the loud cries which were thundered out on the pavement below, as the hucksters offered to the laughing crowd the infamous pamphlet, written with a poisoned pen, and entitled "The Life of Marie Antoinette."
At times her anger mastered her, her eyes flashed, her figure was straightened up, and the suffering martyr was transformed for an instant into the proud, commanding queen.
"I will not bear it!" she cried, walking up and down with great strides, "I will speak to them; they shall not insult me without hearing my justification. Yes, I will go down to these people, who call me a foreigner. I will say to them, 'Frenchmen, people have had the want of feeling to tell you that I do not love France, I, the mother of a dauphin, I--'" [Footnote: The queen's own words.-See Campan, "Memoires," vol. II. ]
But her voice choked in her tears, and she fled to the extreme end of the room, fell sobbing on her knees, and held both her hands to her ears, in order not to hear the dreadful insults which came up from below and through her windows.
Thus, amid trials which renewed themselves daily, the months passed by. The queen had no longer any hope. She had given up every thing, even the hope of an honorable end, of a death such as becomes a queen, proud and dignified beneath the ruins of a palace laid low by an exasperated populace. She knew that the king would never bring himself to meet such a death, that his weakness would yield to all humiliation, and his good-nature resist all measures that might perhaps bring help. She had sought in vain to inspire him with her zeal. Louis was a good man, but a bad king; his was not a nature to rule and govern, but rather to serve as the scape-goat for the sins of his fathers, and to fall as a victim for the misdeeds which his ancestors had committed, and through which they had excited the wrath of the people, the divine Nemesis that never sleeps.
The queen knew and felt this, and this knowledge lay like a mourning veil over her whole thought and being, filling her at times with a moody resignation, and at times with a swiftly-kindling and wrathful pain.
"I am content that we be the victims," cried she, wringing her hands, "but I cannot bear to think that my children too are to be punished for what they have not committed."
This thought of her children was the pillar which always raised the queen up again, when the torture of her daily life cast her to the ground. She would, she must live for her children. She must, so long as a breath remained in her, devote all her powers to retain for her son the dauphin at least the crown beneath whose burden his father sank. She wanted nothing more for herself, all for her son alone.
There were still true friends who wanted to save the queen. Secret tidings came to her that all was ready for her escape. It was against her that the popular rage was chiefly directed, and her life was even threatened. Twice had the attempt been made to kill the queen, and the most violent denunciations of the populace were directed against her. It was therefore the queen whom her friends wanted most to save. Every thing was prepared for the flight, true and devoted friends were waiting for her, ready to conduct her to the boundaries of France, where she should meet deputies sent by her nephew, the Emperor Francis. The plan was laid with the greatest care; nothing but the consent of the queen was needed to bring it to completion, and save her from certain destruction. But Marie Antoinette withheld her acquiescence. "It is of no consequence about my life," she said. "I know that I must die, and I am prepared for it. If the king and my children cannot escape with me, I remain; for my place is at the side of my husband and my children."
At last the king himself, inspired by the courage and energy of his wife, ventured to oppose the decisions and decrees of the all- powerful Assembly. It had put forth two new decrees. It had resolved upon the deportation of all priests beyond the limits of France, and also upon the establishment of a camp of twenty thousand men on the Rhine frontier. With the latter there had been coupled a warning, threatening with death all who should spend any time abroad, and engage in any armed movement against their own country.
To both these decrees Louis refused his sanction; both he vetoed on the 20th of June, 1792.
The populace, which thronged the doors of the National Assembly in immense masses, among whom the emissaries of revolution had been very active, received the news of the king's veto with a howl of rage. The storm-birds of revolution flew through the streets, and shouted into all the windows: "The country is in danger! The king has been making alliances abroad. The Austrian woman wants to summon the armies of her own land against France, and therefore the king has vetoed the decree which punishes the betrayers of their country. A curse on M. Veto! Down with Madame Veto! That is the cry to-day for the revolutionary party. A curse on M. Veto! Down with Madame Veto!"
The watch-cry rolled like a peal of thunder through all the streets and into all the houses; and, while within their closed doors, and in the stillness of their own homes, the well-disposed praised the king for having the courage to protect the priests and the emigres, the evil-disposed bellowed out their curses through all the streets, and called upon the rabble to avenge themselves upon Monsieur and Madame Veto.
Nobody prevented this. The National Assembly let every thing go quietly on, and waited with perfect indifference to see what the righteous anger of the people should resolve to do.
Immense masses of howling, shrieking people rolled up, on the afternoon of the 20th of June, to the Tuileries, where no arrangements had been made for defence, the main entrances not even being protected that day by the National Guard.
The king gave orders, therefore, that the great doors should be opened, and the people allowed to pass in unhindered.
In a quarter of an hour all the staircases, corridors, and halls were filled by a howling, roaring crowd; the room of the king alone was locked, and in this apartment were the royal family and a few faithful friends--the king, bland and calm as ever; the queen, pale, firm, uncomplaining; Madame Elizabeth, with folded hands, praying; the two children drawing closely together, softly weeping, and yet suppressing their sobs, because the queen had, in a whisper, commanded them to keep still.
A little company of faithful servants filled the background of the room, and listened with suspended breath to the axe-strokes with which the savage crowd broke down the doors, and heard the approaching cries of the multitude.
At last a division of the National Guard reached the palace, too late to drive the people out, but perhaps in season to protect the royal family. The door of the royal apartment was opened to the second officer of the National Guard, M. Acloque. He burst in, and kneeling before the king, conjured him, with tears in his eyes, to show himself to the people, and by his presence to calm the savage multitude.
By this time the two children were no longer able to control their feelings and suppress their fear. The dauphin burst into tears and loud cries; he clung affrighted to the dress of his mother; he implored her with the most moving tones to take him away, and go with him to his room. Marie Antoinette stooped down to the poor little fellow, and pressed him and Theresa, who was weeping calmly, to her heart, whispering a few quieting words into their ears.
While the mother was comforting her children, Louis, yielding to Acloque's entreaties, had left the room, in order to show himself to the people. Madame Elizabeth, his sister, followed him through the corridor into the great hall, passing through the seething crowd, which soon separated her from the king. Pushed about on all sides, Madame Elizabeth could not follow, and was now alone in the throng, accompanied only by her equerry, M. Saint-Pardoux. Armed men pressed up against the princess, and horrid cries surged around her.
"There is the Austrian woman!" and at once all pikes, all weapons were directed against the princess.
"For God's sake!" cried M. de Saint Pardoux, "what do you want to do? This is not the queen!"
"Why do you undeceive them?" asked Madame Elizabeth, "their error might save the queen!"
And while she put back one of the bayonets directed against her breast, she said, gently: "Take care, sir, you might wound somebody, and I am convinced that you would be sorry."
The people were amazed at this, and respectfully made way for her to come up with the king. He stood in the middle of the hall, surrounded by a crowd threatening him with wild curses. One of these desperadoes pressed close up to the king, while the others were shouting that they must strangle the whole royal family, and, pulling a bottle and a glass out of his pocket, he filled the latter, gave it to the king, and ordered him to drink to the welfare of the nation.
The king quietly took the glass. "The nation must know that I love it," said he, "for I have made many sacrifices for it. From the bottom of my heart I drink to its welfare," and, in spite of the warning cries of his friends, he put the glass to his lips and emptied it.
The crowd was beside itself with delight, and their cries were answered from without by the demand of the bloodthirsty rabble--"How soon are you going to throw out the heads of the king and the queen?"
Marie Antoinette had meanwhile succeeded in pacifying the dauphin. She raised herself up, and when she saw that the king had gone out, she started toward the door.
Her faithful friends stopped the way; they reminded her that she was not simply a queen, that she was a mother, too. They conjured her with tears to give ear to prudence--not to rush in vain into danger, and imperil the king still more.
"No one shall hinder me from doing what is my duty," cried the queen. "Leave the doorway free."
But her friends would not yield; they defied even the wrath of the queen. At that moment, some of the National Guards came in through another door, and pacified Marie Antoinette, assuring her that the life of the king was not threatened.
In the mean while the shouting came nearer and nearer, the cries resounded from the guard-room, the doors were torn open, and the people surged in, in immense waves, like the sea lashed into fury by the storm. The National Guards rolled a table before the queen and her children, and placed themselves at the two sides to defend them.
Only a bit of wood now separated the queen from her enemies, who brandished their weapons at her. But Marie Antoinette had now regained her whole composure. She stood erect; at her right hand, her daughter, who nestled up to her mother--at her left, the dauphin, who, with wide-open eyes and looks of astonishment, gazed at the people bursting in. Behind the queen were Princesses Lamballe and Tarente, and Madame Tourzel.
A man, with dishevelled hair and bare bosom, gave the queen a handful of rods, bearing the inscription, "For Marie Antoinette!" Another showed her a guillotine, a third a gallows, with the inscription, "Tremble, tyrant! thy hour has come!" Another held up before her, on the point of a pike, a human heart dripping with blood, and cried: "Thus shall they all bleed--the hearts of tyrants and aristocrats!"
The queen did not let her eyes fall, her fixed look rested upon the shrieking and howling multitude; but when this man, with the bleeding heart, approached her, her eyelids trembled--a deathly paleness spread over her cheeks, for she recognized him--Simon the cobbler--and a fearful presentiment told her that this man, who had always been for her the incarnation of hatred, is now, when her life is threatened, to be the source of her chief peril.
From the distance surged in the cries: "Long live Santerre! Long live the Faubourg Saint Antoine! Long live the sans-culottes!"
And at the head of a crowd of half-naked fellows, the brewer Santerre, arrayed in the fantastic costume of a robber of the Abruzzo Mountains, with a dagger and pistol in his girdle, dashed into the room, his broad-brimmed hat, with three red plumes, aslant upon his brown hair, that streamed down on both sides of his savage countenance, like the mane of a lion.
The queen lifted the dauphin up, set him upon the table, and whispered softly to him, he must not cry, he must not grieve, and the child smiled and kissed his mother's hands. Just then a drunken woman rushed up to the table, threw a red cap down upon it, and ordered the queen, on pain of death, to put it on.
Marie Antoinette threw both her arms around the dauphin, kissed his auburn hair, and turned calmly to General de Wittgenhofen, who stood near her.
"Put the cap upon me," said she, and the women howled with pleasure, while the general, pale with rage and trembling with grief, obeyed the queen's command, and put the red cap upon that hair which trouble had already turned gray in a night.
But, after a minute, General Wittgenhofen took the red cap from the head of the queen, and laid it on the table.
From all sides resounded thus the commanding cry: "The red cap for the dauphin! The tri-color for Little Veto!" And the women tore their three-colored ribbons from their caps and threw them upon the table.
"If you love the nation," cried the women to the queen, "put the red cap on your son."
The queen motioned to Madame Tourzel, who put the red cap on the dauphin, and decked his neck and arms with the ribbons. The child did not understand whether it was a joke or a way of insulting him, and looked on with a smile of astonishment.
Santerre leaned over the table and looked complacently at the singular group. The proud and yet gentle face of the queen was so near him, that when he saw the sweat-drops rolling down from beneath the woollen cap over the dauphin's forehead, even he felt a touch of pity, and, straightening himself up, perhaps to escape the eye of the queen, he called out, roughly: "Take that cap off from that child; don't you see how he sweats?"
The queen thanked him with a mute glance, and took the cap herself from the head of the poor child.
At this point a horde of howling women pressed up to the table, and threatened the queen with their fists, and hurled wild curses at her.
"Only see how proudly and scornfully this Austrian looks at us!" cried a young woman, who stood in the front rank." She would like to blast us with her eyes, for she hates us."
Marie Antoinette turned kindly to them: "Why should I hate you?" she asked, in gentle tones. "It is you that hate me--you. Have I ever done you any harm?"
"Not to me," answered the young woman, "not to me, but to the nation."
"Poor child!" answered the queen, gently, "they have told you so, and you have believed it. What advantage would it bring to me to harm the nation? You call me the Austrian, but I am the wife of the King of France, the mother of the dauphin. I am French with all my feelings of wife and mother. I shall never see again the land in which I was born, and only in France can I be happy or unhappy. And when you loved me, I was happy there." [Footnote: The queen's own words. --See Beauchesne, vol. i., p. 106.]
She said this with quivering voice and moving tones, the tears filling her eyes; and while she was speaking the noise was hushed, and even these savage creatures were transformed into gentle, sympathetic women.
Tears came to the eyes of the young woman who before had spoken so savagely to the queen. "Forgive me," she said, weeping, "I did not know you; now I see that you are not bad."
"No, she is not bad," cried Santerre, striking with both fists upon the table, "but bad people have misled her," and a second time he struck the table with his resounding blows. Marie Antoinette trembled a little, and hastily lifting the dauphin from the table, she put him by her side.
"Ah! madame," cried Santerre, smiling, "don't be afraid, they will do you no harm; but just think how you have been misled, and how dangerous it is to deceive the people. I tell you that in the name of the people. For the rest, you needn't fear."
"I am not afraid," said Marie Antoinette, calmly; "no one need ever be afraid who is among brave people," and with a graceful gesture she extended her hands to the National Guards who stood by the table.
A general shout of applause followed the words of the queen; the National Guards covered her hands with kisses, and even the women were touched.
"How courageous the Austrian is!" cried one. "How handsome the prince is!" cried another, and all pressed up to get a nearer view of the dauphin, and a smile or a look from him.
The great eyes of Santerre remained fixed upon the queen, and resting both arms upon the table he leaned over to her until his mouth was close by her ear.
"Madame," he whispered, "you have very unskilful friends; I know people who would serve you better, who--" But as if ashamed of this touch of sympathy, he stopped, sprang back from the table, and with a thundering voice, commanded all present to march out and leave the palace.
They obeyed his command, filed out in military order past the table, behind which stood the queen with her children and her faithful friends.
A rare procession, a rare army, consisting of men armed with pikes, hatchets, and spades, of women brandishing knives and scissors in their hands, and all directing their countenances, before hyena-like and scornful, but now subdued and sympathetic, to the queen, who with calm eye and gentle look responded to the salutations of the retreating crowd with a friendly nod.
In the mean while the long-delayed help had reached the king: the National Guards had overcome the raging multitude, and gained possession of the great reception-room where Louis was. The mayor of Paris, Petion, had come at last, and, hailed loudly by the crowd which occupied the whole space in the rear of the National Guards, he approached the king.
"Sire," said he, "I have just learned what is going on here."
"I am surprised at that," answered the king, with a reproachful look, "the mayor of Paris ought to have learned before this about this tumult, which has now been lasting three hours."
"But is now at an end, sire, since I have come," cried Petion, proudly. "You have now nothing more to fear, sire."
"To fear?" replied Louis with a proud shrug. "A man who has a good conscience does not fear. Feel," he said, taking the hand of the grenadier who stood at his side, "lay your hand upon my heart, and tell this man whether it beats faster." [Footnote: The king's words. The grenadier's name whose hand the king took, was Lalanne. Later, in the second year of "the one and indivisible republic," he was condemned to die by the guillotine, because, as stated in the sentence, he showed himself on the 30th of June, 1798, as a common servant of tyranny, and boasted to other citizens that Capet took his hand, laid it upon his heart, and said: "Feel, my friend, whether it beats quicker." --See Hue, "Dernieres Annees de Louis Seize," p. 180.]
Petion now turned to the people and commanded them to withdraw. "Fellow-citizens," said he, "you began this day wisely and worthily; you have proved that you are free. End the day as you began it. Separate peaceably; do as I do, return to your houses, and go to bed!" The multitude, flattered by Petion's praises, began to withdraw, and the National Guards escorted the king into the great council-chamber, where a deputation of the National Assembly had met to pay their respects to the king.
"Where is the queen, where are the children?" cried the king, as, exhausted, he sank into a chair.
His gentlemen hastened out to bring them, and soon the queen and the children came in. With extended arms Marie Antoinette hastened to her husband, and they remained a long time locked in their embrace.
"Papa king," cried the dauphin, "give me a kiss, too! I have deserved it, for I was brave and did not cry when the people put the red cap on my head."
The king stooped down to the child and kissed his golden hair, and then pressed his little daughter, who was nestling up to him, to his heart.
The deputies stood with curious looks around the group, to whom it was not granted, even after such a fearful day and such imminent peril, to embrace each other, and thank God for their preservation, without witnesses.
"Confess, madame," said one of the deputies to Marie Antoinette, in a confidential tone, "confess that you have experienced great anxiety."
"No, sir," replied the queen, "I have not been anxious, but I have suffered severely, because I was separated from the king at a moment when his life was threatened. I had at least my children with me, and so could discharge one of my duties."
"I will not excuse every thing that took place to-day," said the deputy, with a shrug. "But confess at least, madame, that the people conducted themselves very well."
"Sir, the king and I are convinced of the natural good-nature of the people; they are only bad when they are led astray."
Some other deputies approached the dauphin, and directed various questions to him, in order to convince themselves about his precocious understanding that was so much talked about.
One of the gentlemen, speaking of the day that had gone by, compared it with St. Bartholomew's night.
"The comparison does not hold," cried another: "here is no Charles the Ninth."
"And no Catherine de Medicis either," said the dauphin, quickly, pressing the hand of the queen to his lips.
"Oh! see the little scholar," cried the by-standers. "Let us see whether he knows as much about geography as about history!"
And all pressed up to him, to put questions to him about the situation and boundaries of France, and about the division of the French territory into departments and districts. The prince answered all these questions quickly and correctly. After every answer he cast an inquiring glance at the queen, and when he read in her looks that his answer had been correct, his eyes brightened, and his cheeks glowed with pleasure.
"Our dauphin is really very learned," cried one of the deputies. "I should like to know whether he has paid any attention yet to the arts. Do you love music, my little prince?"
"Ah, sir," answered the dauphin, eagerly, "whoever has heard mamma sing and play, must love music!"
"Do you sing too, prince?"
The dauphin raised his eyes to his mother. "Mamma," he asked, "shall I sing the prayer of this morning?"
Marie Antoinette nodded. "Sing it, my son, for perhaps God heard it this morning, and has graciously answered it."
The dauphin sank upon his knees, and folding his hands, he raised his head and turned his blue eyes toward heaven, and, with a sweet voice and a mild, smiling look, he sang these words: "Ciel, entends la priere Qu'ici je fais; Conserve un si boil pere A ses sujets." [Footnote: See Beauchesne, vol. i., p. 146. This scene is historical. Sees Hue, "Dernioree Anneesde Louis XVI." This prayer is from the opera so much admired at that time, "Peter the Great" "O Heaven, accept the prayer, I offer here; Unto his subjects spare My father dear."]
A deep, solemn silence reigned while the dauphin's voice rang through the room. The faces of the deputies, hitherto defiant and severe, softened, deeply moved. They all looked at the beautiful boy, who was still on his knees, his countenance beaming, and with a smile upon it like the face of one in a blissful dream. No one ventured to break the silence. The king, whose arm was thrown around the neck of his daughter, looked affectionately at the dauphin; Madame Elizabeth had folded her hands, and was praying; but Marie Antoinette, no longer able to control her deep emotion, covered her face with her hands, and wept in silence.
From this day the life of the royal family was one of constant excitement--an incessant, feverish expectation of coming evil. The king bore it all with an uncomplaining resignation; no one drew from him a complaint, no one a reproach. But the thought never seemed to occur to him that perhaps even yet safety might be attained by energy, by spirit, or even by flight.
He had surrendered all; he was ready to suffer as a Christian instead of rising as a king, and preferred to fall in honorable battle rather than to live despised.
Marie Antoinette had given up her efforts to inspire her husband with her own energetic will. She knew that all was in vain, and had accepted her fate. Since she could not live as a queen, she would at least die as one. She made her preparations for this calmly and with characteristic decision. "They will kill me, I know," she said to her maids. "I have only one duty left me, to prepare myself to die!"
She lost her accustomed spirit, wept much, and exhibited a great deal of feeling. Yet she still stood guard over the shattered throne like a resolute sentinel, and looked around with sharp and searching glances, to keep an eye on the enemy, and to be ready for his nearer approach.
She still continued to receive news about every thing that transpired in Paris, every thing that was resolved upon in the National Assembly and discussed in the clubs, and had the libels and pamphlets which were directed at her all sent to her. Marie Antoinette understood the condition of the capital and the feeling of the people better than did the king (who often sat for hours, and at times whole days, silent and unoccupied) better even than did the ministers. She received every morning the reports of the emissaries, followed the intrigues of the conspirators, and was acquainted with the secret assemblies which Marat called together, and the alliances of the clubs. She knew about the calling together of the forty-eight sections of the Paris "fraternity" in one general convention. She knew that Potion, Danton, and Manuel, three raving republicans, were at the head, and that their emissaries were empowered to stir up the suburbs of the city. She knew, too, that the monsters from Marseilles, who had been active on the 20th of June, were boasting that they were going to repeat the deeds of that day on a greater scale.
Nor was it unknown to her that more than half the deputies in the National Assembly belonged to the Jacobin party, and that they were looking for an opportunity to strike a fresh blow at royalty. Very often, when at dead of night Marie Antoinette heard the noisy chorus of the rioters from Marseilles singing beneath her windows, "Allons, enfants de la patrie," or the Parisians chanting the "Qa ira, fa ira!" she sprang from her bed (she now never disrobed herself on retiring), hurried to the beds of her children to see that they were not in danger, or called her maids and commanded them to light the candles, that they might at least see the danger which threatened.
At last, on the night of the 9th of August, the long-feared terror arrived.
A gun fired in the court of the Tuileries announced its advent. Marie Antoinette sprang from her bed, and sent her waiting-maid to the king to waken him. The king had already risen; his ministers and a few tried friends were now with him. The queen wakened her children, and assisted in dressing them. She then went with the little ones to the king, who received them with an affectionate greeting. At length a blast of trumpets announced that the movement had become general; the thunder of cannon and the peals of bells awakened the sleeping city.
The royal family, crowded close together, silently awaited the stalking of the republic into the halls of the king's palace, or the saving of the monarchy by the grace of God and the bravery of their faithful friends. For even then monarchy had those who were true to it; and while the trumpet-blasts continued and the bells to ring, to awaken republicans to the struggle, the sounds were at the same time the battle-cry of the royalists, and told them, that the king was in danger and needed their help.
About two hundred noblemen had remained in Paris, and had not followed the royal princes to Coblentz to take arms against their own country. They had remained in Paris, in order to defend the monarchy to the last drop of their blood, and at least to be near the throne, if they were not able to hold it up longer. In order not to be suspected, they carried no arms, and yet it was known that beneath the silk vest of the cavalier they concealed the dagger of the soldier, and they received in consequence the appellation of "Chevaliers of the Dagger."
At the first notes of the trumpet the nobility had hurried on the night of the 10th of August to the Tuileries, which were already filled with grenadiers, Swiss guards, and volunteers of every rank, who had hastened thither to protect the royal family. All the staircases, all the corridors and rooms, were occupied by them.
The "Chevaliers of the Dagger" marched in solemn procession by them all to the grand reception-room, where were the king, the queen, and the children. With respectful mien they approached the royal pair, imploring the king's permission to die for him, and beseeching the queen to touch their weapons, in order to make them victorious, and to allow them to kiss the royal hand, in order to sweeten death for them. There were cries of enthusiasm and loyalty on all sides, "Long live the king of our fathers!" cried the young people. "Long live the king of our children!" cried the old men, taking the dauphin in their arms and raising him above their heads, as if he were the living banner in whose defence they wished to die.
As the morning dawned, the king, at the pressing request of his wife, walked with her and the children through the halls and galleries of the palace, to reanimate the courage of their defenders who were assembled there, and to thank them for their fidelity. Everywhere the royal family was received with enthusiasm, everywhere oaths of loyalty to death resounded through the rooms. The king then went, accompanied by a few faithful friends, down into the park, to review the battalions of the National Guard who were stationed there.
When Louis appeared, the cry, "Long live the king!" began to lose the unanimity which had characterized it in the palace. It was suppressed and overborne by a hostile murmur, and the farther the king advanced, the louder grew these mutterings; till at last, from hundreds and hundreds of throats, the thundering cry resounded, "Abdication or death! Long live Petion! Resignation or death!"
The king turned hastily around, and, with pale face and forehead covered with drops of cold sweat, he returned to the palace.
"All is lost!" cried the queen, bitterly, "Nothing more remains for us than to die worthily."
But soon she raised herself up again, and new courage animated her soul, when she saw that new defenders were constantly pressing into the hall, and that even many grenadiers of the National Guard mingled in the ranks of the nobility.
But these noblemen, these "Chevaliers of the Dagger," excited mistrust, and a major of the National Guard demanded their removal with a loud voice.
"No," cried the queen, eagerly, "these noblemen are our best friends. Place them before the mouth of the cannon, and they will show you how death for one's king is met. Do not disturb yourselves about these brave people," She continued, turning to some grenadiers who were approaching her, "your interests and theirs are common.
Every thing that is dearest to you and them-wives, children, property-depends upon your courage and your common bravery."
The grenadiers extended their hands to the chevaliers, and mutual oaths were exchanged to die for the royal family, to save the throne or to perish with it. It was a grand and solemn moment, full of lofty eloquence! The hearts of these noblemen and these warriors longed impatiently for death. With their hands laid upon their weapons, they awaited its coming.
The populace rolled up in great masses to the palace. "Wild shrieks were heard, the thunder of cannon, the harsh cries of women, and the yells of men. Within the palace they listened with suspended breath. The queen straightened herself up, grasped with a quick movement the hands of her children, drew them to herself, and, with head bent forward and with breathless expectation, gazed at the door, like a lioness awaiting her enemy, and making herself ready to defend her young with her own life.
The door was suddenly opened, and the attorney-general Roderer burst in.
"Sire," cried he, with impassioned utterance, "you must save yourself! All opposition is vain. Only the smallest part of the National Guard is still to be trusted, and even this part only waits the first pretext to fraternize with the populace. The cannoneers have already withdrawn the loading from the cannon, because they are unwilling to fire upon the people. The king has no time to lose. Sire, there is protection for you only in the National Assembly, and only the representatives of the people can now protect the royal family."
The queen uttered a cry of anger and horror. "How!" she cried. "What do you say? We seek protection with our worst enemies? Never, oh, never! Rather will I be nailed to these walls, than leave the palace to go to the National Assembly!" [Footnote: The queen's own words. -- See Beauchesne, vol. i., p. 90.]
And turning to the king, who stood silent and undecided, she spoke to him with flaming words, with glowing eloquence, addressed him as the father of the dauphin, the successor of Henry IV. and Louis XIV., sought to animate his ambition and touch his heart, and tried for the last time to kindle him with her courage and her decision.
In vain, all in vain. The king remained silent and undecided. A cry, one single cry of grief, burst from the lips of the queen, and one moment her head sank upon her breast.
"Hasten, hasten, sire!" cried Roderer, "every moment increases the peril. In a quarter of an hour perhaps the queen and the children will be lost beyond remedy!"
These words awakened the king from his reverie. He looked up and nodded his head. "We can do nothing else," he said. "Let us go at once to the National Assembly."
"Sir," cried the queen, turning to Roderer, "is it true that we are deserted by all?"
"Madame," answered the attorney-general, sadly, "all opposition is in vain, it will only increase the danger. Would you suffer yourself, the king, your children, and friends, to be killed?"
"God forbid it! Would that I alone could be the offering!"
"Another minute," urged Roderer, "perhaps another second, and it is impossible to guarantee your life, and perhaps that of your husband and children."
"My children!" cried the queen, throwing her arms around them, and drawing them to her breast. "No, oh no, I will not give them over to the knife!"
One sigh, one last sob, burst from her lips, and then she released herself from the children, and approached the king and his ministers.
"This is the last sacrifice," she said, heavily, "that I can offer. I submit myself, M. Roderer," and then with louder tones, as if she wanted to call all present to be witnesses, she continued, "will you pledge yourself for the person of the king, and for that of my son?"
"Madame," answered Roderer, solemnly, "I pledge myself for this, that we are all ready to die at your side. That is all that I can promise."
And now the noblemen and the grenadiers pressed up to take the king and queen in their escort.
"For God's sake," cried Roderer, "no demonstration, or the king is lost!
"Remain, my friends," said the king, stolidly, "await our return here."
"We shall soon return," said Marie Antoinette; and leading her two children, she followed the king, who walked slowly through the hall. Princess Lamballe and Madame Tourzel brought up the rear.
It was done. The dying monarchy left the royal palace to put itself under the protection of the revolution, which was soon to give birth to the republic.
It was six o'clock in the morning when the royal family crossed the threshold of the Tuileries--in front the king, conducting Princess Elizabeth on his arm, behind him the queen with the two children.
Before leaving the palace, the king received tidings that a part of the National Guard had withdrawn, in order to protect their families and their property from an attack of the populace, and that another part had declared, itself against the king and in favor of the revolution.
Louis made his way through the seething crowd that scarcely opened to allow a free passage for the royal family, and overwhelmed them with curses, insults, and abuse.
Some members of the National Assembly went in advance, and could themselves scarcely control the raging waves of popular fury.
On the Terrace des Feuillants the people shouted, "Down with the tyrants! To death, to death with them!"
The dauphin cried aloud with fright, for the bloody hands of two yelling women were extended after him. A grenadier sprang forward, seized the boy with his strong arm, and raised him upon his shoulder.
"My son, give me back my son!" cried the queen, wildly. The grenadier bowed to her. "Do not be afraid, do you not recognize me?"
Marie Antoinette looked at him, and the hint of a smile passed over her face. She did indeed recognize him who, like a good angel, was always present when danger and death threatened her. It was Toulan, the faithful one, by her side in the uniform of a National Guardsman.
"Courage, courage, good queen, the demons are loose, but good angels are near thee too; and where those curse and howl, these bring blessing and reconciliation."
"Down with the tyrants!" roared the savage women.
"Do not be afraid, my prince," said the grenadier, to the dauphin whom he carried upon his shoulder, in order to protect him from the thronging of the crowd. "Nobody will hurt you."
"Not me, but my dear papa," sobbed the child, while the tears rolled over his pale cheeks.
The poor child trembled and was afraid, and how could he help it? Even the king was terrified for a moment, and felt as if the tears were coming into his eyes. The queen too wept, dried her tears, and then wept again. The sad march consumed more than an hour, in order to traverse the bit of way to the Manege, where the National Assembly met. Before the doors of this building the cries were doubled; the attorney-general harangued the mob, and sought to quiet it, and pushed the royal family into the narrow corridor, in which, hemmed in by abusive crowds, they made their way forward slowly. At last the hall doors opened, and as Marie Antoinette passed in behind the king, Toulan gave the little dauphin to her, who flung both his arms around the neck of his mother.
A death-like silence reigned in the hall. The deputies looked with dark faces at the new-comers. No one rose to salute the king, no word of welcome was spoken.
The king took his place by the side of the president, the queen and her ladies took the chairs of the ministers. Then came an angry cry from the tribune: "The dauphin must sit with the king, he belongs to the nation. The Austrian has no claim to the confidence of the people."
An officer came down to take the child away, but Louis Charles clung to his mother, fear was expressed on his features, tears stood in his eyes, and won a word of sympathy, so that the officer did not venture to remove the prince forcibly.
A deep silence sat in again, till the king raised his voice. "I have come hither," he said, "to prevent a great crime, and because I believe that I am safest surrounded by the representatives of the nation."
"Sire," replied President Vergniaud, "you can reckon upon the devotion of the National Assembly. It knows its duties; its members have sworn to live and to die in defence of the rights of the people and of the constitutional authorities."
Voices were heard at this point from all sides of the hall, declaring that the constitution forbids the Assembly holding its deliberations in the presence of the king and the queen.
They then took the royal family into the little low box scarcely ten feet long, in which the reporters of the "Logograph" used to write their accounts of the doings of the Assembly. Into this narrow space were a king, a queen, with her sister and her children, their ministers and faithful servants, crowded, to listen to the discussions concerning the deposition of the king.
From without there came into the hall the wild cry of the populace that the Swiss guards had been killed, and shouts accompanied the heads as they were carried about on the points of pikes. The crack of muskets was heard, and the roar of cannon. The last faithful regiments were contending against the army of the revolutionists, while within the hall the election by the French people of a General Convention was discussed.
This scene lasted the whole day; the whole day the queen sat in the glowing heat, her son asleep in her lap, motionless, and like a marble statue. She appeared to be alive only when once in a while a sigh or a faint moan escaped her. A glass of water mixed with currant-juice was the only nourishment she took through the day.
At about five in the afternoon, while the Assembly was still deliberating about the disposal of the king, Louis turned composedly around to the valet who was standing back of him.
"I am hungry," he said; "bring me something to eat!" Hue hastened to bring, from a restaurant near by, a piece of roast chicken, some fruit and stewed plums; a small table was procured, and carried into the reporters' box of the "Logograph."
The countenance of the king lightened up a little, as he sat down at the table and ate his dinner with a good appetite. He did not hear the suppressed sobs that issued from a dark corner of the box. To this corner the unhappy woman had withdrawn, who yesterday was Queen of France, and whose pale cheeks reddened with shame at this hour to see the king eating with his old relish!
The tears started afresh from her eyes, and, in order to dry them, she asked for a handkerchief, for her own was already wet with her tears, and with the sweat which she had wiped from the forehead of her sleeping boy. But no one of her friends could reach her a handkerchief that was not red with the blood of those who had been wounded in the defence of the queen!
It was only at two o'clock in the night that the living martyrdom of this session ended, and the royal family were conducted to the cells of the former Convent des Feuillants, which was above the rooms of the Assembly, and which had hastily been put in readiness for the night quarters of the royal family. Hither armed men, using their gun-barrels as candlesticks for the tapers which they carried, marched, conducting a king and a queen to their improvised sleeping- rooms. A dense crowd of people, bearing weapons, surrounded them, and often closed the way, so that it needed the energetic command of the officer in charge to make a free passage for them. The populace drew back, but bellowed and sang into the ears of the queen as she passed by: "Madame Veto avait promis D'fegorger tout Paris."
These horrible faces, these threatening, abusive voices, frightened the dauphin, who clung tremblingly to his mother. Marie Antoinette stooped down to him and whispered a few words in his ear. At once the countenance of the boy brightened, and he sprang quickly and joyfully up the staircase; but at the top he stood still, and waited for his sister, who was so heavy with sleep that she had to be led slowly up. "Listen, Theresa," said the prince, joyously, "mamma has promised me that I shall sleep in her room with her, because I was so good before the bad people. " [Footnote: Goncourt. --"Histoirede Marie Antoinette," p. 234.] And he jumped about delightedly into the rooms which had been opened, and in which a supper had been even prepared. But suddenly, his countenance darkened, and his eyes wandered around with an anxious look.
"Where is Moufflet?" he asked. "He came with me, and he was with me when we left the box. Moufflet, Moufflet, where are you, Moufflet?" and asking this question loudly, the dauphin hurried through the four rooms everywhere seeking after the little dog, the inheritance from his brother, the former Dauphin of France.
But Moufflet did not come, and all search was in vain; no Moufflet was to be found. He had probably been lost in the crowd, or been trodden under foot.
When at last silence and peace came, and the royal family were resting on their hard beds, sighs and suppressed sobs were heard from where the dauphin lay. It was the little fellow weeping for his lost dog. The heir of the kings of France had to-day lost his last possession--his little, faithful dog.
Marie Antoinette stooped down and kissed his wet eyes.
"Do not cry, my boy; Moufflet will come back again tomorrow."
"To-morrow! certainly, mamma?"
"Certainly."
The boy dried his tears, and went to sleep with a smile upon his lips.
But Marie Antoinette did not sleep; sitting erect in her bed, she listened to the cries and fiendish shoutings which came up from the terrace of the Feuillants, as the people heaped their abuses upon her, and demanded her head.
On the next day new sufferings! The royal family had to go again into the little box which they had occupied the day before; they had to listen to the deliberation of the National Assembly about the future residence of the royal family, which had made itself unworthy to inhabit the Tuileries, while even the Luxemburg palace was no suitable residence for Monsieur and Madame Veto.
The queen had in the mean time regained her self-possession and calmness, she could even summon a smile to her lips with which to greet her children and the faithful friends who thronged around her in order to be near her in these painful hours. She was pleased with the attentions of the wife of the English ambassador, Lady Sutherland, who sent linen and clothes of her own son for the dauphin. The queen also received from Madame Tourzel her watch with many thanks, since she had been robbed of her own and her purse on the way to the Convent des Feuillants.
On receiving news of this theft, the five gentlemen present hastened to lay all the gold and notes that they carried about them on the table before they withdrew. But Marie Antoinette had noticed this. "Gentlemen," she said, with thanks and deep feeling, "gentlemen, keep your money; you will want it more than we, for you will, I trust, live longer." [Footnote: The queen's own words. --See "Beauehesne," vol. i., p. 806.]
Death had no longer any terrors for the queen, for she had too often looked him in the eye of late to be afraid. She had with joy often seen him take away her faithful servants and friends. Death would have been lighter to bear than the railings and abuse which she had to experience upon her walks from the Logograph's reporters' seat to the rooms in the Convent des Feuillants. On one of these walks she saw in the garden some respectably dressed people standing and looking without hurling insults at her. --Full of gratitude, the queen smiled and bowed to them. On this, one of the men shouted: "You needn't take the trouble to shake your head so gracefully, for you won't have it much longer!"
"I would the man were right!" said Marie Antoinette softly, going on to the hall of the Assembly to hear the representatives of the nation discuss the question whether the Swiss guards, who had undertaken to defend the royal family with weapons in their hands, should not be condemned to death as traitors to the French nation.
At length, after five days of continued sufferings, the Assembly became weary of insulting and humiliating longer those who had been robbed of their power and dignity; and it was announced to the royal family that they would hereafter reside in the Temple, and be perpetual prisoners of the nation.
On the morning of the 18th of August two great carriages, each drawn by only two horses, stood in the court des Feuillants ready to carry the royal family to the Temple. In the first of these sat the king, the queen, their two children, Madame Elizabeth, Princess Lamballe, Madame Tourzel and her daughter; and besides these, Potion the mayor of Paris, the attorney-general, and a municipal officer. In the second carriage were the servants of the king and two officials. A detachment of the National Guards escorted the carriages, on both sides of which dense masses of men stood, incessantly pouring out their abuse and insults.
In the Place Vendome the procession stopped, and with scornful laughter they showed the king the scattered fragments, upon the pavements, of the equestrian statue of Louis XIV., which had stood there, and which had been thrown from its pedestal by the anger of the people. "So shall it be with all tyrants!" shouted and roared the mob, raising their fists threateningly.
"How bad they are!" said the dauphin, looking with widely-opened eyes at the king, between whose knees he was standing.
"No," answered Louis, gently, "they are not bad, they are only misled."
At seven in the evening they reached the gloomy building which was now to be the home of the King and Queen of France. "Long live the nation!" roared the mob, which filled the inner court as Marie Antoinette and her husband dismounted from the carriage. "Long live the nation! --down with the tyrants!" The queen paid no attention to the cries; she looked down at her black shoe, which was torn, and out of whose tip her white silk stocking peeped. "See," she said, to Princess Lamballe, who was walking by her side, "see my foot, it would hardly be believed that the Queen of France has no shoes."
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{
"id": "3451"
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TO THE 21ST 0F JANUARY.
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"We must look misfortune directly in the eye, and have courage to bear it worthily," said Marie Antoinette." "We are prisoners, and shall long remain so! Let us seek to have a kind of household life even in our prison. Let us make a fixed plan how to spend our days."
"You are right, Marie," replied Louis; "let us arrange how to spend each day. As I am no longer a king, I will be the teacher of my son, and try to educate him to be a good king."
"Do you believe, then, husband, that there are to be kings after this in France?" asked Marie Antoinette, with a shrug.
"Well," answered Louis, "we will at least seek to give him such an education that he shall be able to fill worthily whatever station he may be called to. I will be his teacher in the sciences."
"And I will interest him and our daughter in music and drawing," said the queen.
"And you will allow me to teach my niece to embroider an altar- cover," said Madame Elizabeth.
"And in the evening," said Marie Antoinette, nodding playfully to Princess Lamballe, "in the evening we will read comedies, that the children may learn of our Lamballe the art of declamation. We will seek to forget the past, and turn our thoughts only to the present, whatever it may be. You see that these four days that we have spent here in the Temple have been good schoolmasters for me, and have made me patient, and--but what is that?" exclaimed the queen; "did you not hear steps before the door? It must be something unusual, for it is not yet so late as the officials are accustomed to come. Where are the children?"
And, in the anxiety of her motherly love, the queen hastened up the little staircase which led to the second story of the Temple, where was the chamber of the dauphin, together with the general sitting- room.
Louis Charles sprang forward to meet his mother, and asked her whether she had come to fulfil her promise, and go out with him into the garden. The queen, instead of answering, clasped him in her arms, and beckoned to Theresa to come to her side. "Oh! my children, my dear children, I only wanted to see you; I--" The door opened, and the king, followed by his sister, Princess Lamballe, and Madame Tourzel, entered.
"What is it?" cried Marie Antoinette. "Some new misfortune, is it not?"
She was silent, for she now became aware of the presence of both of the municipal officials, who had come in behind the ladies, and in whose presence she would not complain. Manuel, who, since the 10th of August, had been attorney-general--Manuel, the enemy of the queen, the chief supervisor of the prisoners in the Temple, was there--and Marie Antoinette would not grant him the triumph of seeing her weakness.
"You have something to say to us, sir," said the queen, with a voice which she compelled to be calm.
Yes, Manuel had something to say to her. He had to lay before her and the king a decree of the National Assembly, which ordered old parties who had accompanied "Louis Capet and his wife" to the Temple, either under the name of friends or servants, to leave the place at once. The queen had not a word of complaint, but her pride was vanquished; she suffered Manuel to see her tears. She extended her arms, and called the faithful Lamballe to her, mingled her tears with those of the princess, and then gave a parting kiss to Madame de Tourzel and her daughter.
The evening of that day was a silent and solitary one in the rooms of the Temple. Their last servants had been taken away from the royal prisoners, and only Clery, the valet of the king, had been suffered to remain, to wait upon his master. The next morning, however, Manuel came to inform the queen that she would be allowed to have two other women to wait upon her, and gave her a list of names from which she might choose. But Marie Antoinette, with proud composure, refused to accept this offer. "We have been deprived of those who remained faithful to us out of love, and devoted their services to us as a free gift, and we will not supply their places by servants who are paid by our enemies."
"Then you will have to wait upon yourselves," cried Manuel, with a harsh voice.
"Yes," answered the queen, gently, "we will wait upon ourselves, and take pleasure in it."
And they did wait upon themselves; they took the tenderest care one of another, and performed all these offices with constant readiness. The king had, happily, been allowed to retain his valet, who dressed him, who knew all his quiet, moderate ways, and who arranged every thing for the king in the little study at the Temple, as he had been accustomed to do in the grand cabinet at Versailles. The ladies waited upon themselves, and Marie Antoinette undertook the task of dressing and undressing the dauphin.
The little fellow was the sunbeam which now and then would light up even the sombre apartments of the Temple. With the happy carelessness of infancy, he had forgotten the past, and did not think of the future; he lived only in the present, sought to be happy, and found his happiness when he succeeded in calling a smile to the pale, proud lips of the queen, or in winning a word of praise from the king for his industry and his attention.
And thus the days went by with the royal family-monotonous, sad, and dreary. No greeting of love, no ray of hope came in from the outer world, to lighten up the thick walls of the old building. No one brought the prisoners news of what was transpiring without. They were too well watched for any of their friends to be able to communicate with them. This was the greatest trial for the royal captives. Not a moment, by day or by night, when the eyes of the sentries were not directed toward them, and their motions observed! The doors to the anterooms were constantly open, and in them always there were officials, with searching looks and with severe faces, watching the prisoners in the inner rooms. Even during the night this trial did not cease, and the Queen of France had to undergo the indignity of having the door of her sleeping-room constantly open, while the officials, who spent the night in their arm-chairs in the anteroom, drank, played, and smoked, always keeping an eye on her bed, in order to be sure of her presence.
Even when she undressed herself, the doors of the queen's apartment were not closed; a mere small screen stood at the foot of the bed; this was removed as soon as the queen had disrobed and lain down.
This daily renewed pain and humiliation--this being watched every minute--was the heaviest burden that the prisoners of the Temple had to bear, and the proud heart of Marie Antoinette rose in exasperation every day against these restraints. She endeavored to be patient and to choke the grief that rose within her, and yet she must sometimes give expression to it in tears and threatening words, which now fell like cold thunderbolts from the lips of the queen, and no longer kindled any thing, no longer dashed any thing in pieces.
Thus August passed and September began, sad, gloomy, and hopeless. On the morning of the 3d of September, Manuel came to the royal prisoners, to tell them that Paris was in great excitement, and that they were not to go into the garden that day as usual about noon, but were to remain in their rooms.
"How is it with my friend, Princess Lamballe?" asked Marie Antoinette.
Manuel was perplexed; he even blushed and cast down his eyes, as he answered that that morning the princess had been taken to the prison La Force. Then, in order to divert conversation from this channel, Manuel told the prisoners about the tidings which had recently reached Paris, and had thrown the city into such excitement and rage.
The neighboring powers had made an alliance against France. The King of Prussia was advancing with a powerful army, and had already confronted the French force before Chalons, while the Emperor of Germany was marching against Alsace. Marie Antoinette forgot the confusion and perplexity which Manuel had exhibited, in the importance of this news. She hoped again; she found in her elastic spirit support in these tidings, and began to think of the possibility of escape. It did not trouble her that beneath her windows she heard a furious cry, as the crowd surged up to the prison walls: "The head of the Austrian! Give us the head of the Austrian!" She had so often heard that--it had been so long the daily refrain to the sorrowful song of riot which filled Paris--that it had lost all meaning for Marie Antoinette.
Nor did it disturb her at all that she heard the loud beatings of drums approaching like muffled thunder, that trumpets were blown, that musketry rattled, and loud war cries resounded in the distant streets.
Marie Antoinette paid no heed to this. She heard constantly ringing before her ear Manuel's words: "The neighboring nations have allied against France. The King of Prussia is before Chalons. The Emperor of Germany is advancing upon Strasburg." "0 God of Heaven, be merciful to us! Grant to our friends victory over our enemies.
Release us from these sufferings and pains, that our children may at least find the happiness which for us is buried forever in the past."
And yet Marie Antoinette could speak to no one of her hopes and fears. She must breathe her prayer in her own heart alone, for the municipal officials were there, and the two servants who had been forced upon the prisoners, Tison and his wife, the paid servants of their enemies.
Only the brave look and the clearer brow told the king of the hopes and wishes of his wife, but he responded to them with a faint shrug and a sad smile.
All at once, after the royal family had sat down to take their dinner at the round table--all at once there was a stir in the building which was before so still. Terrible cries were heard, and steps advancing up the staircase. The two officials, who were sitting in the open anteroom, stood and listened at the door. This was suddenly opened, and a third official entered, pale, trembling with rage, and raising his clinched fists tremblingly against the king.
"The enemy is in Verdun," cried he. "We shall all be undone, but you shall be the first to suffer!"
The king looked quietly at him; but the dauphin, terrified at the looks of the angry man and his loud voice, burst into a violent fit of weeping and sobbing, and Marie Antoinette and the little Theresa strove in vain to quiet the little fellow by gentle words.
A fourth official now entered, and whispered secretly to his colleagues.
"Is my family no longer in safety here?" asked the king.
The official shrugged his shoulders. "The report has gone abroad that the royal family is no longer in the Temple. This has excited the people, and they desire that you all show yourselves at the windows, but we will not permit it; you shall not show yourselves. The public must have more confidence in its servants."
"Yes," cried the other official, still raising his fists--"yes, that it must; but if the enemy come, the royal family shall die!"
And when at these words the dauphin began to cry aloud again, he continued: "I pity the poor little fellow, but die he must!"
Meanwhile the cries outside were still louder, and abusive epithets were distinctly heard directed at the queen. A fifth official then came in, followed by some soldiers, in order to assure themselves, in the name of the people, that the Capet family was still in the tower. This official demanded, in an angry voice, that they should go to the window and show themselves to the people.
"No, no, they shall not do it," cried the other functionaries.
"Why not?" asked the king. "Come, Marie."
He extended his hand to her, and advanced with her to the window.
"No, don't do it!" cried the official, rushing to the window.
"Why not?" asked the king, in astonishment.
"Well," cried the man, with threatening fist, "the people want to show you the head of Lamballe, that you may see how the nation takes vengeance on its tyrants."
At that same instant there arose behind the window-pane a pale head encircled with long, fair hair, the livid forehead sprinkled with blood, the eyes lustreless and fixed--the head of Princess Lamballe, which the people had dressed by a friseur, to hoist it upon a pike and show it to the queen.
The queen had seen it; staggering she fell back upon a chair; she gazed fixedly at the window, even after the fearful phantom had disappeared. Her lips were open, as if for a cry which had been silenced by horror. She did not weep, she did not complain, and even the caresses of the children, the gentle address of Princess Elizabeth, and the comforting words of the king could not rouse her out of this stupefying of her whole nature.
Princess Lamballe had been murdered, and deep in her soul the queen saw that this was only the prelude to the fearful tragedy, in which her family would soon be implicated.
Poor Princess Lamballe! She had been killed because she had refused to repeat the imprecations against the queen, which they tried to extort from her lips: "Swear that you love liberty and equality; swear that you hate the king, the queen, and every thing pertaining to royalty."
"I will swear to the first," was the princess's answer, "but to the last I cannot swear, for it does not lie in my heart."
This was the offence of the princess, that hate did not lie in her heart--the offence of so many others who were killed on that 3d of September, that dreadful day on which the hordes of Marseilles opened the prisons, in order to drag the prisoners before the tribunals, or to execute them without further sentence.
The days passed by, and they had to be borne. Marie Antoinette had regained her composure and her proud calmness. She had to overcome even this great grief, and the heart of the queen had not yet been broken. She still loved, she still hoped. She owed it to her husband and children not to despair, and better days might come even yet. "We must keep up courage," she said, "to live till the dawn of this better day."
And it required spirit to bear the daily torture of this life! Always exposed to scorn and abuse! Always watched by the eyes of mocking, reviling men! Always scrutinized by Madame Tison, her servant, who followed every one of her motions as a cat watches its prey, and among all these sentinels the most obnoxious of all was the cobbler Simon.
Commissioned by the authorities to supervise the workmen and masons who were engaged in restoring the partially ruined ancient portion of the Temple, Simon had made himself at home within the building, to discharge his duties more comfortably. It was his pleasure to watch this humiliated royal family, to see them fall day by day, and hear the curses that accompanied them at every step. He never appeared in their presence without insulting them, and encouraging with loud laughter those who imitated him in this.
Some of the officials in charge never spoke excepting with dreadful abuse of the king, the queen, and the children.
One of them cried to his comrade in presence of Marie Antoinette: "If the hangman does not guillotine this accursed family, I will do it!"
When the royal family went down to take their walk in the garden, Santerre used to come up with a troop of soldiers. The sentries whom they passed shouldered arms before Santerre; but as soon as he had passed and the king came, they grounded their arms, and pretended not to see him. In the door that led into the garden, Rocher, the turnkey, used to stand, and take his pleasure in letting the royal family wait before unlocking, while he blew great clouds of smoke into their faces from his long tobacco-pipe. The National Guards who stood in the neighborhood used to laugh at this, and hurl all sorts of low, vile words at the princesses. Then, while the royal prisoners were taking their walk, the cannoneers used to collect in the allees through which they wandered, and dance to the music of revolutionary songs which some of them sang. Sometimes the gardeners who worked there hurried up to join them in this dance, and to encircle the prisoners in their wild evolutions. One of these people displayed his sickle to the king one day, and swore that he would cut off the head of the queen with it. And when, after their sad walk, they had returned to the Temple, they were received by the sentinels and the turnkey with renewed insults; and, as if it were not enough to fill the ear with this abuse, the eye too must have its share. The vilest of expressions were written upon the walls of the corridors which the royal party had to traverse. You might read there: "Madame Veto will soon be dancing again. Down with the Austrian she-wolf! The wolf's brood must be strangled. The king must be hanged with his own ribbon!" Another time they had drawn a gallows, on which a figure was hanging, with the expression written beneath, "Louis taking an air-bath!"
And so, even the short walks of the prisoners were transformed into suffering. At first the queen thought she could not bear it, and the promenades were given up. But the pale cheeks of her daughter, the longing looks which the dauphin cast from the closed window to the garden, warned the mother to do what the queen found too severe a task. She underwent the pain involved in this, she submitted herself, and every day the royal pair took the dear children into the garden again, and bore this unworthy treatment without complaint, that the children might enjoy a little air and sunshine.
One day, the 21st of September, the royal family had returned from their walk to their sitting-room. The king had taken a book and was reading; the queen was sitting near him, engaged in some light work; while the dauphin, with his sister Theresa, and his aunt Elizabeth, were in the next room, and were busying each other with riddles. In the open anteroom the two officials were sitting, their eyes fixed upon the prisoners with a kind of cruel pleasure.
Suddenly beneath their windows were heard the loud blast of trumpets and the rattle of drums; then followed deep silence, and amid this stillness the following proclamation was read with a loud voice: "The monarchy is abolished in France. All official documents will be dated from the first year of the republic. The national seal will be encircled by the words, 'Republic of France.' The national coat-of- arms will be a woman sitting upon a bundle of weapons, and holding in her hand a lance tipped with a liberty-cap."
The two officials had fixed their eyes upon the king and queen, from whose heads the crown had just fallen. They wanted to read, with their crafty and malicious eyes, the impression which the proclamation had made upon them. But those proud, calm features disclosed nothing. Not for a moment did the king raise his eyes from the book which he was reading, while the voice without uttered each word with fearful distinctness. The queen quietly went on with her embroidery, and not for a moment did she intermit the regular motion of her needle.
Again the blast of trumpets and the rattle of drums. The funeral of the royalty was ended, and the king was, after this time, to be known simply as Louis Capet, and the queen as Marie Antoinette. Within the Temple there was no longer a dauphin, no longer a Madame Royale, no longer a princess, but only the Capet family!
The republic had hurled the crowns from the heads of Louis and Marie Antoinette; and when, some days later, the linen which had been long begged for, had been brought from the Tuileries, the republic commanded the queen to obliterate the crown which marked each piece, in addition to the name.
But their sufferings are by no means ended yet. Still there are some sources of comfort left, and now and then a peaceful hour. The crowns have fallen, but hearts still beat side by side. They have no longer a kingdom, but they are together, they can speak with looks one to another, they can seek to comfort one another with smiles, they can cheer each other up with a passing grasp of the hand, that escapes the eye of the sentries! We only suffer half what we bear in common with others, and every thing seems lighter, when there is a second one to help lift the load.
Perhaps the enemies of the king and queen have an instinctive feeling of this, and their hate makes them sympathetic, in order to teach them to invent new tortures and new sufferings.
Yes, there are unknown pangs still to be felt; their cup of sorrows was not yet full! The parents are still left to each other, and their eyes are still allowed to rest upon their children! But the "one and indivisible republic" means to rend even these bonds which bind the royal family together, and to part those who have sworn that nothing shall separate them but death! The republic--which had abolished the churches, overthrown the altars, driven the priesthood into exile--the republic cannot grant to the Capet family that only death shall separate them, for it had even made Death its servant, and must accept daily victims from him, offered on the Place de Liberte, in the centre of which stood the guillotine, the only altar tolerated there.
In the middle of October the republic sent its emissaries to the Temple, to tear the king from the arms of his wife and his children. In spite of their pleadings and cries, he was taken to another part of the Temple--to the great tower, which from this time was to serve as his lodgings. And in order that the queen might be spared no pang, the dauphin was compelled to go with his father and be separated from his mother.
This broke the pride, the royal pride of Marie Antoinette. She wrung her hands, she wept, she cried, she implored with such moving, melting tones, not to be separated from her son and husband, that even the heart of Simon the cobbler was touched.
"I really believe that these cursed women make me blubber!" cried he, angry with the tears which forced themselves into his eyes. And he made no objection when the other officials said to the queen, with trembling voices, that they would allow the royal family to come together at their meals.
One last comfort, one last ray of sunshine! There were still hours in these dismal, monotonous days of November, when they could have some happiness--hours for which they longed, and for whose sake they bore the desolate solitude of the remaining time.
At breakfast, dinner, and supper, the Capet family were together; words were interchanged, hands could rest in one another, and they could delight in the pleasant chatter of the dauphin when the king told about the lessons he had given the boy, and the progress he was making.
They sometimes forgot, at those meetings, that Death was perhaps crouching outside the Temple, waiting to receive his victims; and they even uttered little words of pleasantry, to awaken the bright, fresh laugh of the dauphin, the only music that ever was heard in those dismal rooms.
But December took this last consolation from the queen. The National Assembly, which had now been transformed into the Convention, brought the charge of treason against the king. He was accused of entering into a secret alliance with the enemies of France, and calling the monarchs of Europe to come to his assistance. In an iron safe which had been set into the wall of the cabinet in the Tuileries, papers had been discovered which compromised the king, letters from the refugee princes, from the Emperor of Germany, and the King of Prussia. These monarchs were now on the very confines of France, ready to enter upon a bloody war, and that was the fault of the king! He was in alliance with the enemies of his country! He was the murderer of his own subjects! On his head the blood should return, which had been shed by him.
This was the charge which was brought against the king. Twenty members of the Convention went to the Temple, to read it to him, and to hear his reply. He stoutly denied haying entertained such relations with foreign princes; he declared, with a solemn oath, that he had declined all overtures from such quarters, because he had seen that, in order to free an imprisoned king, France itself must be threatened.
The chiefs of the revolution meant to find him guilty. Louis Capet must be put out of the way, in order that Robespierre and Marat, Danton, Petion, and their friends, might reach unlimited power.
There may have been several in the Convention who shrank from this last consequence of their doings, but they did not venture to raise their voices; they chimed in with the terrorism which the leaders of the revolution exercised upon the Convention. They knew that behind these leaders stood the savage masses of the streets, armed with hatred against monarchy and the aristocracy, and ready to tear in pieces any one as an enemy of the country who ventured to join the number of those who were under the ban and the sentence of the popular hate.
Still there were some courageous, faithful servants of the king who ventured to take his part even there. Louis had now been summoned to the bar as an accused person, and the Convention had transformed itself into a tribunal whose function was to pass judgment on the guilt or innocence of the king!
In order to satisfy all the forms of the law, the king should have had an advocate allowed him, and the benefit of legal counsel. The Convention demanded that those who were ready to undertake this task should send in their names. It was a form deemed safe to abide by, because it was believed that there would be no one who would venture to enter upon so momentous and perilous a duty.
But there were such, nevertheless. There were still courageous and noble men who pitied the forsaken king, and who wanted to try to save him; not willing to see him atone for the debts of his predecessors, and bleed for the sins of his fathers. And scarcely had the consent of the Convention been announced, that Louis Capet should have three advocates for his defence, when from Paris and all the minor cities letters came in from men who declared themselves ready to undertake the defence of the king.
Even from foreign lands there came letters and appeals in behalf of the deposed monarch. One of them, written in spirited and glowing language, conjured France not to soil its noble young freedom by the dreadful murder of an innocent man, who had committed no other offence than that he was the son of his fathers, the heir of their crown and their remissness. It was written by a German poet, Frederick Schiller. [Footnote: Schiller's defence of the king is preserved in the national archives--See Beauchesue vol. i., p. 366.]
From the many requests to serve as his advocates, Louis chose only two to defend him. The first of these was his former minister, the philosopher Lamoignon des Malesherbes, then the advocate Trouchet, and finally, at the pressing request of Malesherbes, the distinguished young advocate Deseges. To those three men was committed the trust of defending the king against the dreadful charge of treason to his country, to be substantiated by hundreds and hundreds of letters and documents.
After the preliminary investigations were closed, the public charge was made in the Convention, which still held its sessions in the Manage. To this building, situated near the Tuileries, the king, accompanied by his three defenders and two municipal defenders, and surrounded by National Guards, was conducted from the Temple. The people danced around the carriage with wild shouts of joy and curses of the king. Within the vehicle sat Louis, completely calm and self- possessed.
"This man must be filled with a singular fanaticism," said Colombeau, one of the leading officials, in the report which he gave to the Convention of the ride. "It is otherwise inexplicable how Louis could be so calm, since he had so much reason to fear. After we had all entered the carriage, and were driving through the streets, Louis entered upon conversation, which soon turned upon literature, and especially upon some Latin authors. He gave his judgments with remarkable correctness and insight, and it appeared to me that he took pleasure in showing his learning. One of us said that he did not enjoy Seneca, because his love for riches stood in marked contrast with his pretended philosophy, and because it could not easily be forgiven him that before the senate he apologized for the crimes of Nero. This reflection did not seem to affect Louis in the least. When we spoke of Livy, Capet said that he seemed to have taken satisfaction in composing great speeches which were never uttered to any other audience than that which was reached from his study-table; 'for,' he added, 'it is impossible that generals really delivered such long speeches in front of their armies.' He then compared Livy with Tacitus, and thought that the latter was far superior to the former in point of style." [Footnote: See Beauchesne, vol. i., p. 396.] The king went on talking about Latin authors while the carriage was carrying him through the roaring mob to the Convention, which Desege addressed in his defence in these courageous words: "I look for judges among you, but see only accusers."
The king was completely calm, yet he knew that his life was threatened, and that he was standing before a tribunal of death. As on the day when he was first taken to the Convention, he requested Malesherbes to forward a note to the priest whose attendance he desired, and who he believed would not deny his presence and attentions. His name was Edgewarth de Pirmont. The time was not distant when not the services of advocates were wanted by the king, but exclusively those of the priest.
The sentence of death was pronounced on January 26, 1793. Louis received it calmly, and desired merely to see his family, to have a confessor come to him, and to prepare himself for his death.
During these dreadful weeks Marie Antoinette was separated from her husband, alone with her children, who no longer were able to smile, but who sat day after day with fixed eyes and silent lips. The queen knew that the king had been accused, had made a private reply to the charges brought against him, and had been brought before the Convention. But not a word, not a syllable of the trial which followed, reached her. Madame Tison, the female dragon who guarded her, watched her too well for any tidings to reach her.
At last, however, the word was brought which the heart of the queen had so long anticipated tremblingly, for which she had prepared herself during the long nights with tears and prayers, and which now filled her with grief, anger, and despair. The king was condemned to death! He wanted only to see his family, to take his leave of them!
The Convention had granted this privilege to him, and had even gone so far in its grace as to permit the family to be without the presence of witnesses. The meeting was appointed, however, in the little dining-room of the king, because a glass door led into the adjoining room, and the officials could then look in upon the royal family. The functionary had withdrawn in order to conduct the queen, the children, and the king's sister from the upper tower. The king was awaiting them, walked disquietly up and down, and then directed Clery, who was arranging the little room, to set the round table, which was in the middle of the apartment, on one side, and then to bring in a carafe of water and some glasses. "But," he added, considerately, "not ice-water, for the queen cannot bear it, and she might be made unwell by it."
But all at once the king grew pale, and, standing still, he laid his hand upon his loudly-beating heart. He had heard the voice of the queen.
The door opened and they came in--all his dear ones. The queen led the dauphin by the hand; Madame Elizabeth walked with the Princess Theresa.
The king went toward them and opened his arms to them. They all pressed up to him and clasped him in their midst, while loud sobs and heart-rending cries filled the room. Behind the door were the officials, but they could not look in upon the scene, for their own eyes were filled with tears. In the king's cabinet, not far away, the Abbe Edgewarth de Firmont was upon his knees, praying for the unfortunates whose wails and groans reached even him.
Gradually the sobs died away. They took their places--the queen at the left of her husband; Madame Elizabeth, his sister, at his right; opposite to him, his daughter, Maria Theresa, and between his knees the dauphin, looking up into his father's face with widely-opened eyes and a sad smile.
Louis was the first to speak. He told them of his trial, and of the charges which they had brought against him. But his words were gentle and calm, and he expressed his pity for the "poor, misled men" who had condemned him. He asked his family, too, to forgive them. They answered him only with sobs, embraces, tears, and kisses.
Then all was still. The officials heard not a word, but they saw the queen, with her children and sister-in-law, sink upon their knees, while the king, standing erect in the midst of the group, raised his hands and blessed them in gentle, noble words, which touched the heart of the Abbe Edgewarth, who was kneeling behind the door of the neighboring cabinet.
The king then bade the family rise, took them again in his arms, and kissed the queen, who, pale and trembling, clung to him, and whose quivering lips were not able to restrain a word of denunciation of those who had condemned him.
"I have forgiven them," said the king, seriously. "I have written my will, and in it you will read that I pardon them, and that I ask you to do the same. Promise me, Marie, that you will never think how you may avenge my death."
A smile full of sadness and despair flitted over the pale lips of the queen.
"I shall never be in a situation to take vengeance upon them," she said. "But," she added quickly, "even if I should ever be able, and the power should be in my hands, I promise that I will exact no vengeance for this deed."
The king stooped down and imprinted a kiss upon her forehead.
"I thank you, Marie, and I know that you all, my dear ones, will sacredly regard my last testament, and that my wishes and words will be engraven on your hearts. But, my son"--and he took the dauphin upon his knee, and looked down into his face tenderly--"you are still a child, and might forget. You have heard what I have said, but as an oath is more sacred than a word, raise your hand and swear to me you will fulfil my wish and forgive all our enemies."
The boy, turning his great blue eyes fixedly on the king, and his lips trembling with emotion, raised his right hand, and even the officials in the next room could distinctly hear the sweet child's voice repeating the words: "I swear to you, papa king, that I will forgive all our enemies, and will do no harm to those who are going to kill my dear father!"
A shudder passed through the hearts of the men in the next room; they drew back from the door with pale faces. It seemed to them as if they had heard the voice of an angel, and a feeling of inexpressible pain and regret passed through their souls.
Within the king's room all now was still, and the abbe in the cabinet heard only the gentle murmuring of their prayers, and the suppressed weeping and sobs.
At last the king spoke. "Now, go, my dear ones. I must be alone. I need to rest and collect myself."
A loud wail was the answer. After some minutes, Clery opened the glass door, and the royal family were brought into the view of the officials once more. The queen was clinging to the right arm of Louis; they each gave a hand to the dauphin. Theresa had flung her arms around the king's body, his sister Elizabeth clung to his left arm. They thus moved forward a few steps toward the door, amid loud cries of grief and heart-breaking sobs.
"I promise you," said Louis, "to see you once more tomorrow morning, at eight o'clock."
"At eight! Why not at seven?" asked the queen, with a foreboding tone.
"Well, then," answered the king, gently, "at seven. Farewell, farewell!"
The depth of sadness in his utterance with which he spoke the last parting word, doubled the tears and sobs of the weeping family. The daughter fell in a swoon at the feet of her father, and Clery, assisted by the Princess Elizabeth, raised her up.
"Papa, my dear papa," cried the dauphin, nestling up closely to his father, "let us stay with you."
The queen said not a word. With pale face and with widely-opened eyes she looked fixedly at the king, as though she wanted to impress his countenance on her heart.
"Farewell, farewell!" cried the king, once more, and he turned quickly around and hurried into the next room.
A single cry of grief and horror issued from all lips. The two children, soon to be orphans, then clung closely to their mother, who threw herself, overmastered by her sobbing, on the neck of her sister-in-law.
"Forward! The Capet family will return to their own apartments!" cried one of the officials.
Marie Antoinette raised herself up, her eye flashed, and with a voice full of anger, she cried: "You are hangmen and traitors!" [Footnote: Beauchesne, vol. 1. , p. 49.]
The king had withdrawn to his cabinet, where the priest, Abbe Edgewarth de Firmont, addressed him with comforting words. His earnest request had been granted, to give the king the sacrament before his death. The service was to take place very early the next morning, so ran the decision of the authorities, and at seven the king was to be taken to execution.
Louis received the first part of this communication joyfully, the second part with complete calmness.
"As I must rise so early," he said to his valet Clery, "I must retire early. This day has been a very trying one for me, and I need rest, so as not to be weak to-morrow." He was then undressed by the servant, and lay down. When Clery came at five the next morning to dress him, he found the king still asleep, and they must have been pleasant dreams which were passing before him, for a smile was playing on his lips.
The king was dressed, and the priest gave him the sacrament, the vessels used having been taken from the neighboring Capuchin church of Marais. An old chest of drawers was converted by Clery into an altar, two ordinary candlesticks stood on each side of the cup, and in them two tallow candles burned, instead of wax. Before this altar kneeled King Louis XVI., lost in thought and prayer, and wearing a calm, peaceful face.
The priest read the mass; Clery responded as sacristan; and even while the king was receiving the elements, the sound of the drums and trumpets was heard without, which awakened Paris that morning and told the city that the King of France was being led to his execution. Cannon were rattling through the streets, and National Guardsmen were hurrying on foot and on horse along the whole of the way that led from the Temple to the Place de la Concorde. A rank of men, four deep and standing close to one another, armed with pikes and other weapons, guarded both sides of the street, and made it impossible for those who wanted to liberate the king during the ride, to come near to him. The authorities knew that one of the bravest and most determined partisans of the king had arrived in Paris, and that he, in conjunction with a number of young and brave- spirited men, had resolved on rescuing the king at any cost, during his ride to the place of execution. The utmost precautions had been taken to render this impossible. Through the dense ranks of the National Guard, which to-day was composed of mere sans-culottes, the raging, bloodthirsty men of the suburbs drove the carriage in which was the king, followed and escorted by National Guardsmen on horseback. The windows were all closed and the curtains drawn in the houses by which the procession passed; but behind those curtained windows it is probable that people were upon their knees praying for the unhappy man who was now on his way to the scaffold, and who was once King of France.
All at once there arose a movement in this dreadful hedge of armed men, through which the carriage was passing. Two young men cried: "To us, Frenchmen--to us, all who want to save the king!"
But the cry found no response. Every one looked horrified at his neighbor, and believed he saw in him a spy or a murderer; fear benumbed all their souls, and the silence of death reigned around.
The two young men wanted to flee, to escape into a house close by. But the door was closed, and before the very door they were cut down and hewn in pieces by the exasperated sans-culottes.
The carriage of the king rolled on, and Louis paid no more attention to objects around him; in the prayer-book which he carried in his hands he read the petitions for the dying, and the abbe prayed with him.
The coachman halted at the foot of the scaffold, and the king dismounted. A forest of pikes surrounded the spot. The drummers beat loudly, but the king cried with a loud voice, "Silence!" and the noise ceased. On that, Santerre sprang forward and commanded them to commence beating their drums again, and they obeyed him. The king took off his upper garments, and the executioners approached to cut off his hair. He quietly let this be done, but when they wanted to tie his hands, his eyes flashed with anger, and with a firm voice he refused to allow them to do so.
"Sire," said the priest, "I see in this new insult only a fresh point of resemblance between your majesty and our Saviour, who will be your recompense and your strength."
Louis raised his eyes to heaven with an indescribable expression of grief and resignation. "Truly," he said, "only my recollection of Him and His example can enable me to endure this new degradation."
He gave his hands to the executioner, to let them be bound. Then resting on the arm of the abbe, he ascended the steps of the scaffold. The twenty drummers, who stood around the staging, beat their drums; but the king, advancing to the very verge of the scaffold, commanded them with a loud voice to be silent, and the noise ceased.
In a tone which was audible across the whole square, and which made every word intelligible, the king said: "I die innocent of all the charges which are brought against me. I forgive those who have caused my death, and I pray God that the blood which you spill this day may never come back upon the head of France. And you, unhappy people--" "Do not let him go on talking this way," cried Santerre's commanding voice, interrupting the king, then turning to Louis he said, in an angry tone, "I brought you here not to make speeches, but to die!"
The drums beat, the executioners seized the king and bent him down. The priest stooped over him and murmured some words which only God heard, but which a tradition full of admiration and sympathy has transposed into the immortal and popular formula which is truer than truth and more historical than history: "Son of St. Louis, ascend to Heaven!"
The drums beat, a glistening object passed through the air, a stroke was heard, and blood spirted up. The King of France was dead, and Samson the executioner lifted up the head, which had once borne a crown, to show it to the people.
A dreadful silence followed for an instant; then the populace broke in masses through the rows of soldiers, and rushed to the scaffold, in order to bear away some remembrances of this ever-memorable event. The clothes of the king were torn to rags and distributed, and they even gave the executioner some gold in exchange for locks of hair from the bleeding head. An Englishman gave a child fifteen louis d'or for dipping his handkerchief in the blood which flowed from the scaffold. Another paid thirty louis d'or for the peruke of the king. [Footnote: These details I take from the "Vossische Zeitung," which, in its issue of the 5th of February, 1798, contains a full report of the execution of King Louis XVI., and also announces that the court of Prussia will testify its grief at the unmerited fate by wearing mourning for a period of four weeks. The author of this work possesses a copy of the " Vossische Zeitung " of that date, in small quarto form, printed on thick, gray paper. In the same number of the journal is a fable by Hermann Pfeffel, which runs in the following strain: First moral, then political freedom.
A fable, by Hermann Pfeffel. Zeus and the Tigers.
To Zeus there came one day A deputation of tigers. "Mighty potentate," Thus spoke their Cicero before the monarch's throne, "The noble nation of tigers, Has long been wearied with the lion's choice as king. Does not Nature give us an equal claim with his? Therefore, O Zeus, declare my race To be a people of free citizens!" "No," said the god of gods, "it cannot be; You are deceivers, thieves, and murderers, Only a good people merits being free." [Footnote: "Marie Antoinette et sa Famine," par Lescure, p. 648.]
On the evening of the same day, the executioner Samson, shocked at the terrible deed which he had done, went to a priest, paid for masses to be said for the repose of the king, then laid down his office, retired into solitude, and died in six months. His son was his successor in his ghostly office, and, in a pious manner, he continued what his father began. The masses for the king, instituted by the two Samsons, continued to be read till the year 1840.
On the morrow which followed this dreadful day, the "Widow Capet" requested the authorities to provide for herself and her family a suite of mourning of the simplest kind.
The republic was magnanimous enough to comply with this request.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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21
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TOULAN.
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The citizen Toulan is on guard again at the Temple, and this time with his friend Lepitre. He is so trustworthy and blameless a republican, and so zealous a citizen, that the republic gives him unconditional confidence. The republic had appointed him as chief of the bureau for the control of the effects of emigres. Toulan is, besides, a member of the Convention; and it is not his fault that, on the day when the decision was made respecting the king's life or death, he was not in the Assembly. He had been compelled at that time to make a journey into the provinces, to attach the property of an aristocrat who had emigrated. Had Toulan been in Paris, he would naturally have given his voice in favor of the execution of the king. He says this freely and openly to every one, and every one believes him, for Toulan is an entirely unsuspected republican. He belongs to the sans-culottes, and takes pride in not being dressed better than the meanest citizen. He belongs to the friends of Marat, and Simon the cobbler is always happy when Toulan has the watch in the Temple; for Toulan is such a jovial, merry fellow, he can make such capital jokes and laugh so heartily at those of others. They have such fine times when Toulan is there, and the sport is the greatest when his friend Lepitre is with him on service in the Temple. Then the two have the grandest sport of all; they even have little plays, which are so funny that Simon has to laugh outright, and even the turnkey Tison, and his wife, forget to keep guard, and leave the glass door through which they have been watching the royal family, in order to be spectators at Toulan's little farces.
"These are jolly days when you are both in the Temple," said Simon, "and you cannot blame me if I like to have you here, and put you on service pretty often."
"Oh, we do not blame you for that," said Toulan, "on the other hand, we particularly like being with you, you are such a splendid fellow!"
"And then," adds Lepitre to this, "it is so pleasant to see the proud she-wolf and her young ones, and to set them down a little. These people, when they were living in the Tuileries, have turned up their noses at us often enough, and acted as if we were only dust that they must blow away from their exalted presence. It is time that they should feel a little that they are only dust for us to blow away!"
"Yes, indeed," chimed in Toulan, "it is high time that they should feel it!"
"And you both understood that matter capitally," said Simon, with a laugh, "I always see that it particularly provokes the queen to have you on service, and I like that, and I am especially glad to have you here."
"I've thought out a joke for to-day," said Toulan. "I will teach the widow to smoke. You know, brother Simon, that she always pretends not to be able to bear the smell of tobacco, she shall learn to bear it. I will hand her a paper cigarette to-day, and tell her that if she does not want us to smoke, she must smoke with us."
"Splendid joke!" said Simon, with a loud laugh. "But there's one thing to be thought of about that," said Lepitre, reflectively. "the widow Capet might perhaps promise to smoke, if we would tell her that we would never smoke afterward. But then we should not keep our word, of course."
"What! you say we should not keep our word!" said Toulan, in amazement. "We are republicans; more than that, we are sans- culottes! and shall we not keep our word? ought we not to be better than the cursed aristocrats, that never kept their word to the people? How can you disgrace us and yourself so much? Ask our noble friend and brother Simon, whether he is of the opinion that a free man ought not to keep his word, even if he has only given it to a woman in prison."
"I am of that opinion," said Simon, with dignity. "I swore to myself that the king should lose his head, and I kept my word. I promised the she-wolf that she should be hanged, and I hope to keep this promise too. If I keep my word to her in what is bad, I must do so also in what is good. If a republican promises any thing, he must hold to it."
"Right, Simon, you are a noble and wise man. It remains fixed, then, that the queen shall smoke, but if we have our joke out, we shall not smoke any more."
"I will put up a placard on the door: 'Smoking forbidden in the anteroom of the she-wolf.'"
"Good," cried Toulan, "that is worthy of you."
"Let us go up now," said Simon, "the two other sentries are up- stairs already, they will wonder that you come so late, but I do like to chat with you. Come on, let's go up. I'll stay there to see the joke. But wait a moment, there is something new. It has been proposed that not so many guards are needed to watch the Capets, and that it has the appearance as if the government was afraid of these howling women and this little monkey, whom the crazy royalists call King Louis XVII. It is very likely that they will reduce the guard to two."
"Very good," said Toulan, approvingly. --"What's the use of wearying out so many other men and condemning them to such idleness? We cannot be making jokes all the time; and then again it is not pleasant always looking on these people's long faces."
"So only two guards," said Lepitre; "but that seems to me rather too few, for what if the widow should succeed in winning them over and getting them to help her escape?"
"Impossible!" cried Simon, "she'll never come around me, and as long as I have my eyes open, she and her brood will never get away. No one can come down the staircase without my hearing and seeing it, for you know my rooms are near the stairs, and the door is always open and I am always there, and then there is the turnkey Ricard, who watches the door that leads to the court like a cerberus. Then there are three sentries at the doors leading from the inner court to the outer one, and the four sentries at the doors leading from the outer court to the street. No, no, my friends, if the she-wolf wants to escape she must use magic, and make wings grow on her shoulders and fly away."
"That is good, I like that," said Toulan, springing up the staircase.
"And that settles my doubts too," said Lepitre. "I should think two official guards would suffice, for it is plain that she cannot escape. Simon is on the look-out, and it is plain that the she-wolf cannot transform herself into an eagle."
"Well said," laughed Simon; "here we are before the door, let's go in and have our fun."
He dashed the door open noisily, and went into the room with the two men. Two officials were sitting in the middle of the room at the table, and were actively engaged playing cards. Through the open door you could look into the sitting-room of the Capet family. The queen was sitting on the divan behind the round table, clothed in her sad suit of mourning, with a black cap upon her gray locks.
She was busy in dictating an exercise to the dauphin from a book which she held in her hand. The prince, also clad in black and with a broad crape about his arm, sat upon a chair by her side. His whole attention was directed to his work, and he was visibly making an effort to write as well as possible, for a glowing red suffused hia cheeks.
On the other side of the queen sat Madame Elizabeth; near her the Princess Maria Theresa, both busy in preparing some clothing for the queen.
No one of the group appeared to notice the loud opening of the door, no one observed the entering forms, or cast even a momentary glance at them.
But Toulan was not contented with this; he demanded nothing less than that the she-wolf should look at him. He hurried through the anteroom with a threatening tread, advanced to the door of the sitting-room, and stopped upon the threshold, making such a deep and ceremonious bow, and swinging his arm so comically, that Simon was compelled to laugh aloud.
"Madame," cried Toulan, "I have the inexpressible honor of greeting your grace."
"He is a brick, a perfect brick," roared Simon.
Lepitre had gone to the window, and turned his back upon the room; he was perhaps too deficient in spirit to join in the joke. Nobody paid any attention to him; nobody saw him take a little packet from his coat-pocket, and slide it slowly and carefully behind the wooden box that stood beneath the window.
"Madame," cried Toulan, in a still louder voice, "I fear your grace has not heard my salutation."
The queen slowly raised her eyes, and turned them to the man who was still standing upon the threshold. "I heard it," she said, coldly, "go on writing, my son." And she went on in the sentence that she had just then begun to dictate.
"I am so happy at being heard by Madame Veto that I shall have to celebrate it by a little bonfire!" --said Toulan, taking a cigar from his breast-pocket. "You see, my friends, that I am a very good courtier, though I have the honor to be a sans-culottes. In the presence of handsome ladies I only smoke cigars! Hallo! bring me a little fire."
One of the officials silently passed him his long pipe. Toulan lighted his cigar, placed himself at the threshold, and blew great clouds of smoke into the chamber.
The ladies still continued to sit quietly without paying any attention to Toulan. The queen dictated, and the dauphin wrote. The queen only interrupted herself in this occupation, when she had to cough and wipe her eyes, which the smoke filled with tears.
Toulan had followed every one of her movements with an amused look. "Madame does not appear to take any pleasure in my bonfire!" he said. "Will madame not smoke?"
The queen made no reply, but quietly went on with her dictation.
"Madame," cried Toulan, laughing loudly, "I should like to smoke a pipe of peace with you, as our brown brethren in happy, free America do--madame, I beg you to do me the honor to smoke a pipe of peace with me."
A flash lightened in the eyes which the queen now directed to Toulan. "You are a shameless fellow!" she said.
"Hear that," said Simon, "that is what I call abusing you."
"On the contrary, it delights me," cried Toulan, "for you will confess that it would be jolly if she should smoke now, and I tell you, she will smoke."
He advanced some paces into the room, and made his deep bow again.
"He understands manners as well as if he had been a rascally courtier himself," said Simon, laughing. "It is a splendid joke."
The two princesses had arisen at the entrance of Toulan, and laid their sewing-work aside. A ball of white cotton had fallen to the ground from the lap of one of them, and rolled through the room toward Toulan.
He picked it up, and bowed to the princesses. "May I view this little globe," he said, "as a reminder of the favor of the loveliest ladies of France? Oh, yes, I see in your roguish smile that I may, and I thank you," said Toulan, pressing the round ball to his lips, and then putting it into his breast-pocket.
"He plays as well as the fellows do in the theatre," said Simon, laughing.
"Go into our sleeping-room," said Marie Antoinette, turning to the princesses. "It is enough for me to have to bear these indignities-- go, my son, accompany your aunt."
The dauphin stood up, pressed a kiss upon the hand of his mother, and followed the two princesses, who had gone into the adjoining apartment.
"Dear aunt," whispered the dauphin, "is this bad man the good friend who--" "Hush!" whispered Madame Elizabeth, "hush! Madame Tison is listening."
And, in fact, at the glass-door, which led from the sleeping-room to the little corridor, stood Madame Tison, looking with sharp, searching glances into the chamber.
After the princesses had left the room, Toulan approached still closer to the queen, and taking a cigar from his breast-pocket, he handed it to the queen. "Take it, madame," he said, "and do me the honor of smoking a duet with me!"
"I do not smoke, sir," replied the queen, coolly and calmly. "I beg you to go into the anteroom. The Convention has not, so far as I understand, ordered the officers of the guard to tarry in my sitting-room."
"The Convention has not ordered it, nor has it forbidden it. So I remain!"
He took a chair, seated himself in the middle of the room, and rolled out great clouds of smoke, which filled Simon with unspeakable delight when they compelled Marie Antoinette to cough violently.
"Madame Capet, you would not be so sensitive to smoke if you would only join me. I beg you, therefore, to take this cigar."
The queen repeated calmly, "I do not smoke."
"You mistake, madame, you do smoke."
"See the jolly fellow," exclaimed Simon, "that is splendid."
"I will show you at once that you do smoke," continued Toulan. "Madame, if you will do me the honor to join me in smoking a cigar, I will give you my word as a republican and a sans-culottes, that neither I nor my brothers will ever smoke here again."
"I do not believe you," said the queen, shaking her head.
"Not believe me? Would you believe it if the citizen Simon were to repeat it?"
"Yes," said the queen, fixing her great, sad eyes upon Simon, "if the citizen Simon should confirm it, I would believe it, for he is a trustworthy man, who I believe; never breaks his word."
"Oh! only see how well the Austrian understands our noble brother Simon," cried Lepitre.
"Yes, truly, it seems so," said Simon, who had been flattered by this praise to consent to what he had no inclination for. "Well, I give my word to Widow Capet, as a republican and a sans-culottes, that there shall be no smoking in the anteroom after this time, if she will do my friend Toulan the favor of smoking a pipe of peace with him."
"I believe your word," said the queen, with a gentle inclination of her head; and then turning to Toulan, she continued, "sir--" "There are no 'sirs' here, only 'citizens,'" interrupted the cobbler.
"Citizen Toulan," said the queen, changing her expression, "give me the cigar, I see that I was wrong, I do smoke!"
Simon cried aloud with laughter and delight, and could scarcely control himself, when, kneeling before the queen, as the players do in the grand plays at the theatre, he handed her a cigar.
But he did not see the supplicatory look which Toulan fixed upon the queen; he did not see the tears which started into his eyes, nor hear her say, during his inordinate peals of laughter, "I thank you, my faithful one!"
"Is it enough if I take the cigar in my mouth, or must I burn it?" asked the queen.
"Certainly, she must burn it," cried Simon. "Light the cigar for her, Citizen Toulan."
Toulan drew a bit of paper from his pocket, folded it together, kindled it, and gave it to the queen. Then, as soon as the dry cigar began to burn, he put out the light, and threw it carelessly upon the table.
The queen put the little smoking cigarette into her mouth. "Bravo, bravo!" shouted the officials and Simon.
"Bravo, Citizen Toulan is a perfect brick! He has taught Widow Capet how to smoke."
"I told you I would," said Toulan, proudly. "Widow Capet has had to comply with our will, and that is enough. You need not go on, madame. You have acknowledged our power, and that is all we wanted. That is enough, Simon, is it not? She does not need to smoke any longer, and we, too, must stop."
"No, she does not need to smoke any longer, and there will be no more smoking in the antechamber."
The queen took the paper cigarette from her mouth, put out the burning end, and laid the remaining portion in her work-basket.
"Citizen Toulan," said she, "I will keep this cigar as a remembrancer of this hour, and if you ever smoke here again, I shall show it to you."
"I should like to see this Austrian woman doubting the word of a sans-culottes," cried Simon.
"And I too, Simon," replied Toulan, going back into the anteroom. "We will teach her that she must trust our word. You see that I am a good teacher."
"An excellent one," cried Simon; "I must compliment you on it, citizen. But if you have no objections, we will play a game or two of cards with the citizens here."
"All right," replied Toulan. "But I hope you have got the new kind of cards, which have no kings and queens on them. For, I tell you, I do not play with the villanous old kind."
"Nor I," chimed in Lepitre. "It makes me mad to see the old stupids with their crowns on that are on the old kind of cards."
"You are a pair of out-and-out republicans," said Simon, admiringly. "Truly, one might learn of you how a sans-culottes ought to bear himself."
"Well, you can calm yourselves about these, brothers," said one of the officials; "we have no tyrant-cards--we have the new cards of the republic. See there! instead of the king, there is a sans- culottes; instead of the queen, we have a 'knitter,' [Footnote: The market-women and hucksters had the privilege of claiming the first seats on the spectators' platform, near the guillotine. They sat there during the executions, knitting busily on long stockings, while looking at the bloody drama before them. Every time that a head was cut off and dropped into the basket beneath the knife, the women made a mark in their knitting-work, and thus converted their stockings into a kind of calendar, which recorded the number of persons executed. From this circumstance the market-women received the name of "knitters."] and for the jack, we have a Swiss soldier, for they were the menials of the old monarchy." [Footnote: Historical.-See "Memoires de la Marquise de Crequi," vol. III.]
"That is good; well, we will play then," cried Toulan, with an air of good-humor.
They all took their places at the table, while the queen took up the sewing on which the princesses had been engaged before.
After some time, when the thread with which she was sewing was exhausted, Marie Antoinette raised her eyes and turned them to the men, who had laid their pipes aside, and were zealously engaged upon their cards. The mien of the queen was no longer so calm and rigidly composed as it had been before, and when she spoke, there was a slight quivering discernible in her voice.
"Citizen Toulan," she said, "I beg you to give me the ball of thread again. I have no more, and this dress is in a wretched condition; I must mend it."
Toulan turned toward her with a gesture of impatience.
"You disturb me, madame, and put me out in the game. What are you saying?"
"I asked you, Citizen Toulan, to give me the thread again, because, without it, I cannot work."
"Oh! the ball which little Miss Capet gave me a short time ago. And so you won't let me keep a remembrance of the pretty girl?"
"I must mend this dress," said the queen, gently.
"Well, if you must, you must," growled Toulan, rising.
"Wait a moment, brothers, till I carry her the ball."
"What do you want to get up for?" asked Simon.
"You can throw it from here."
"Or give it a roll like a ball," added Lepitre.
"That is a good idea," cried Toulan, "I'll have a little game of nine-pins. I am quite at home there, and can do it well. Now look sharp! I will contrive to roll the ball between the four feet of the table, and strike the foot of the queen."
"There is no queen," cried Lepitre, passionately.
"I am speaking of the game, Citizen Lepitre; do me the pleasure of not making yourself an ass. Now look, and see me roll it as I said!"
"Well, go ahead; we should like to see you do it," cried Simon.
"Yes, we would like to see you do it," chimed in the officials, laying down their cards.
Toulan now drew out of his breast-pocket a black ball of silk, and counted "One, two, three!" He then gave it a skilful roll across the floor. With attention and laughing looks, they all watched it take its course across the waxed floor, as it moved just where Toulan had said it would.
"Bravo, bravo!" shouted the men, as the ball struck the foot of the queen, who stooped down slowly and picked it up.
"Toulan is a jolly good fellow," cried Simon, striking the table with his fists in an ecstasy of delight. "But I declare it seems to me that the ball is a good deal larger now than it was before."
"It may be," answered Toulan, emphatically. "Every thing grows and enlarges itself, that a true and genuine sans-culottes carries next to his heart."
"Well said," replied Lepitre. "But listen to me, I want to make a proposition to you. I must say that it is hard work--playing cards without smoking."
"I find it so, too," sighed Toulan.
"I rather think we all do," chimed in the others.
"But we must keep our word, or else the she-wolf will think that we republicans are no better than the aristocrats were!"
"Yes, we must keep our word," said Lepitre, "and that is why I wanted to make the proposition that we go out and establish ourselves in the entry. We can put the table close to the door, and then we are certainly safe--that no one can step in. What do you say, brother Simon?"
"I say that it is a very good plan, and that we will carry it into execution directly. Come, friends, let us take up the table, and carry it out. If the dogs are on the watch outside, the badger does not creep out of his house. Come, it is much pleasanter out there, and we are not ambitious of the honor of looking at Widow Capet all the time. We are perfectly satisfied, if we do not see her. I hope there will be an end of this tedious service, and that she will soon go to the place whither Louis Capet has already gone."
"Or," cried Toulan, laughing, "she must change herself into an eagle, and fly out of the window. Come, brothers, I long for my pipe. Let us carry the table out into the entry."
Simon opened the door that led out upon the landing, the officials took up the table, and Toulan and Lepitre the wooden stools. One quick look they cast into the room of the queen, whose eyes were turned to them. A sudden movement of Lepitre's hand pointed to the bench beneath the window: a movement of Toulan's lips said "To- morrow;" then they both turned away; went with their stools out upon the landing, and closed the door.
The queen held her breath and listened. She heard them moving the chairs outside, and pushing the table up against the door, and detected Simon's harsh voice, saying, "Now that we have put a gigantic wooden lock on the door, let us smoke and play."
The queen sprang up. "God bless my faithful one," whispered she; "yes, God bless him!"
She went hastily into the anteroom, pressed her hand in behind the bench beneath the window, took out the package which Lepitre had placed there, and with a timid, anxious look, stepped back into her room. Here she unfolded the bundle. It consisted of a boy's soiled dress, an old peruke, and an old felt hat.
The queen looked at it with the utmost attention; then, after casting one long, searching look through the room, she hastened to the divan, pushed back the already loosened cover of the seat, concealed the things beneath it, and then carefully smoothed down the upholstery again.
She now hurried to the door of the sleeping-room, and was going to open it hastily. But she bethought herself in time. Her face showed too much emotion, her voice might betray her. Madame Tison was certainly lurking behind the glass door, and might notice her excitement. Marie Antoinette again put on her ordinary sad look, opened the door slowly and gravely, and quietly entered the sleeping-room. Her great eyes, whose brightness had long since been extinguished by her tears, slowly passed around the chamber, rested for a moment on the glass door, descried behind it the spying face of Tison, and turned to the two princesses, who were sitting with the dauphin on the little divan in the corner.
"Mamma," asked the boy, "are the bad men gone?"
"Do not call them so, my child," replied Marie Antoinette, gently. "These men only do what others order them to do."
"Then the others are bad, mamma," said the boy, quickly. "Oh, yes, very bad, for they make my dear mamma weep so much."
"I do not weep about them," answered his mother. "I weep because your father is no more with us. Think about your father, my son, and never forget that he has commanded us to forgive his and our enemies."
"And never to take vengeance on them," added the boy, with a grave look beyond his years, as he folded his hands. "Yes, I have sworn it to my dear papa, and I shall keep my word. I mean never to take vengeance on our enemies."
"Sister," said the queen, after a pause, "I want to ask you to help me a little in my work. You know how to mend, and I want to learn of you. Will you come into the sitting-room?"
"And we, too, mamma," asked the dauphin, "may we not stay here? Theresa has promised to tell me an interesting story if I did my examples in arithmetic correctly, and I have done them."
"Well, she may tell you the story. We will leave the door open so that we can see you; for you know, my children, you are now the only comfort left to your aunt and me. Come, sister!"
She turned slowly and went into the next room, followed by Madame Elizabeth.
"Why, what does this mean?" asked the princess, in amazement, as she saw the anteroom deserted and the door closed.
"All his work, Elizabeth--all the work of this noble, faithful Toulan. He went through a whole farce in order to get the people out of here, and to make them swear that they never would smoke after this in the anteroom. Oh, I shall never be able to repay him for what he has done for us at the peril of his life."
"We will pray for him every morning and evening," replied the pious Elizabeth. "But tell me, sister, did Toulon keep our ball of thread?"
"Yes, sister, and succeeded in giving me another in exchange for it. Here it is. To-night, when the guards are asleep, we will unwind it and see what it contains. But here are other important things which we must examine. Here, this half-burned light and this cigarette! Let us be on the watch that no one surprise us."
She went again to the threshold of the sleeping-room. "Can you hear me talk, children? Nod with your head if you heard me. Good. If Tison comes in, speak to her loudly, and call her by name, so that we may hear."
"And now, sister," she continued, turning to the table, "let us see what Toulan has sent us. First, the cigar-light!"
She unfolded the paper, one side of which was burned, and showed a black, jagged edge.
"A letter from M. de Jarjayes," she said, and then, in a subdued voice, she hastily read: "I have spoken with the noble messenger whom you sent to me with a letter. He has submitted his plan to me, and I approve it entirely, and am ready to undertake any thing that is demanded of me in behalf of those to whom my life, my property, and my blood belong, and who never shall have occasion to doubt my fidelity. The 'true one' will bring you to-morrow every thing that is needful, and talk the matter over with you. --J." "And now the cigarette," said the queen, taking it out of her basket.
"Let us first tear the paper to pieces," said Princess Elizabeth, warningly.
"No, no, Tison would find the bits, and think them suspicious. I will hide the paper in my dress-pocket, and this evening when we have a light we will burn it. Quickly now, the cigar!"
"A paper cigarette!" said Elizabeth.
"Yes, and see on the outer paper, 'Unroll carefully!'"
And with extreme caution Marie Antoinette removed the external covering. Beneath it was another, closely written over; this the queen proceeded to unfold.
"What is it?" asked the Princess Elizabeth, impatiently.
"See," said Marie Antoinette, with a faint smile: "'Plan for the escape of the royal family. To learn by heart, and then to burn.' Oh! sister, do you believe that escape is possible for us?"
At this instant Simon was heard outside, singing with his loud, coarse voice: "Madame a sa tour monte Ne salt quand descendra, Madame Veto la dansera." [Footnote: "Madame will take her turn, She knows not when it will come, But Madame Veto will swing."]
The queen shuddered, and Madame Elizabeth folded her hands and prayed in silence.
"You hear the dreadful answer, sister, that this sans-culotte gives to my question! Well, so long as there is a breath left within us we must endeavor to save the life of King Louis XVII. Come, sister, we will read this plan for our escape, which the faithful Toulan has made."
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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22
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THE PLAN OF THE ESCAPE.
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Marie Antoinette and Madame Elizabeth listened again at the door, and as Simon was just then beginning a new verse of his ribald song, they carefully unrolled the paper and spread it out before them.
"Read it to me, sister," said the queen. "My eyes are bad and pain me very much; and then the words make more impression when I hear them than when I read them; I beg you therefore to read it."
In a light whisper the princess began to read "The Plan of Escape." "The queen and Princess Elizabeth must put on men's clothes. The necessary garments are already in their possession, for T. and L. have within the last few days secreted them in the cushions and mattresses. In addition, the queen receives to-day a dirty, torn boy's suit and a peruke, and a pair of soiled children's shoes. These are for the dauphin and Madame Royale; and if the queen looks attentively at the things, she will find that they are exact copies of the clothing in which the two children appear who always accompany the lamplighter into the tower and assist him in lighting the lamps. So much for the clothing. The plan of escape is as follows: To-morrow evening, at six o'clock, the royal children will change their dress in the little tower next to the chamber of the queen. In their soiled costume they will remain within the tower, whither it is known that Tison and his wife never come, and will wait there until some one gives them a signal and calls them. Toulan and Lepitre will arrange to have the watch again to-morrow in the tower. At a quarter before seven in the evening, Toulan will give a pinch of snuff to Madame Tison and her husband, who are both passionately fond of it, and they will speedily take it as they always do. This pinch of snuff will consist entirely of colored opium. They will fall into a heavy sleep, which will last at least seven hours, and during this times the flight of all the members of the royal family must be accomplished--" "Wait a moment, sister," whispered the queen, "I feel dizzy, and my heart beats violently, as if we were engaged now in the very execution of the plan. It seems to me as if, in the darkness of the dreadful night which surrounds us, a glimmer of hope was suddenly appearing, and my eyes are blinded with it. Oh, sister, do you really think it possible that we can escape this place of torment?"
"Escape we will certainly, my dear sister," answered Elizabeth, gently, "but it lies in God's hands whether it is our bodies or our souls only that will escape. If we do not succeed, they will kill us, and then our freed souls will ascend to God. Oh, my noble queen and sister, let us pray that God would give us courage and steadfastness to hope in Him and to conform to His will."
"Yes, sister, let us pray," said the queen, folding her hands, and reverentially bending her head. Then after a pause, in which they could hear from without the noisy laughter of Simon and his comrades, the queen raised herself up, and her countenance had regained its wonted calm and grave expression.
"And now, Elizabeth, read on further. Let us hear the continuation of the plan."
Madame Elizabeth took the paper and read on in a whispering voice: "As soon as Tison and his wife have fallen asleep, the queen and Madame Elizabeth will put on their clothes. Over the men's garments they will throw the cloaks which Toulan brought yesterday, and these cloaks will disguise their gait and size. But care must be taken that the tri-colored sashes of the commissaries which Lepitre brought yesterday with the admission-cards of the same authorities, should peep out from beneath the cloaks so as to be visible to every one. Thus arrayed, the two ladies will pass by the sentry, showing him the card as they go out (meanwhile talking with Lepitre), leave the Temple, and go with Lepitre to the Rue de la Conderie, where M. de Jarjayes will be waiting to conduct the ladies farther."
"But the children," whispered the queen, "do the children not accompany us? Oh! they ought not to think that I would leave this place while my dear children are compelled to remain here. What is to be done with the children, Elizabeth?"
"We shall soon learn that, sister; allow me to read on. 'At seven o'clock, as soon as the guard is changed, a man disguised as a lamplighter, with his tin filler in his hand, will appear at the gate of the Temple, knock loudly and demand of the guard that his children, who had this day been taking care of the lantern, should be allowed to come out. On this, Toulan will bring the dauphin and Madame Royale in their changed costume, and while delivering them over to the supposed lamplighter he will scold him soundly for not taking care of the lanterns himself, but giving it to the children. This is the plan whose execution is possible and probable, if every thing is strictly followed. Before the affair is discovered, there will be at least seven hours' advantage and the royal family will be able, with the passes already secured by M. Jarjayes, to be a long way off before their flight will be discovered by Tison. In a secure house, whither Toulan will lead them, the royal family will find simple citizen's clothing. Without exciting any stir, and accompanied by Messieurs Jarjayes and Toulan, they will reach Normandy. A packet-boat furnished by an English friend lies in readiness to receive the royal family and take them to their--' " "Good-day, Madame Tison!" cried the dauphin loudly, "good-day, my dear Madame Tison!"
Madame Elizabeth hastily concealed the paper in her bosom, and Marie Antoinette had scarcely time to hide the ball of thread in her pocket, when Tison appeared upon the threshold of the door, looked with her sharp lynx-eyes around, and then fixed them upon the two ladies.
She saw that Marie Antoinette did not display her accustomed dignified calmness, and that Elizabeth's pale cheeks were unusually red.
"Something is going on," said the spy to herself, "and what does it mean that to-day the commissaries are not in the anteroom, and that they let these women carry on their chattering entirely unwatched?"
"Madame has been reading?" asked Tison, subjecting every object upon the table before which the ladies were sitting, to a careful scrutiny. "Madame has been reading," she repeated; "I heard paper rattling, and I see no book."
"You are under a mistake," replied Madame Elizabeth, "we have not been reading, we have been sewing; but supposing we were reading, is there any wrong in that? Have they made any law that forbids that?"
"No," answered Tison, "no--I only wondered how people could rattle paper and there be none there, but all the same--the ladies of course have a right to read, and we must be satisfied with that."
And she went out, looking right and left like a hound on the scent, and searching every corner of the room.
"I must see what kind of officials we have here to-day," said Tison to herself, slipping through the little side-door and through the corridor; "I shouldn't wonder if it were Toulan and Lepitre again, for every time when they two--right!" she ejaculated, looking through the outer door, "right! it is they, Toulan and Lepitre. I must see what Simon's wife has to say to that."
She slipped down the broad staircase, and passed through the open door into the porter's lodge. Madame Simon, one of the most savage of the knitters, had shortly returned from the guillotine, and was sitting upon her rush chair, busily counting on a long cotton stocking which she held in her hand.
"How many heads to-day?" asked Tison.
Madame Simon slowly shook her head, decorated with a white knit cap.
"It is hardly worth the pains," she said dismally,--"the machine works badly, and the judges are neglectful. Only five cars to-day, and on every one only seven persons." "What!" cried Tison, "only thirty-five heads to-day in all?"
"Yes, only thirty-five heads," repeated Madame Simon, shaking her head; "I have just been counting on my stocking, and I find only thirty-five seam-stitches, for every seam-stitch means a head. For such a little affair we have had to sit six hours in the wet and cold on the platform. The machine works too slowly, I say-- altogether too slowly. The judges are easy, and there is no more pleasure to be derived from the executions."
"They must be stirred up," said Tison with a fiendish look; "your husband must speak with his friend, citizen Marat, and tell him that his best friends the knitters, and most of all, Simon's wife, are dissatisfied, and if it goes on so, the women will rise and hurry all the men to the guillotine. That will stir them up, for they do respect the knitters, and if they fear the devil, they fear yet more his proud grandmother, and every one of us market-women and knitters is the devil's grandmother."
"Yes, they do respect us and they shall," said Madame Simon, setting her glistening needles in motion again, and working slowly on the stocking; "I will myself speak with citizen Marat, and believe me, I will fire him up, and then we shall have better play, and see more cars driven up to the guillotine. We must keep our eyes well open, arid denounce all suspicious characters."
"I have my eyes always open," cried Tison, with a coarse laugh, "and I suspect traitors before they have committed any thing. There, for example, are the two officials, Toulan and Lepitre, do you have confidence in them?"
"I have no confidence in them whatever, and I have never had any confidence in them," answered Madame Simon, with dignity, and setting her needles in more rapid motion. "In these times you must trust nobody, and least of all those who are so very earnest to keep guard over the Austrian woman; for a true republican despises the aristocracy altogether too much to find it agreeable to be with such scum, and shows it as much as he can, but Toulan is always wanting to be there. Wait a moment, and I will tell you how many times Toulan and Lepitre have kept guard the present month."
She drew a little memorandum-book from her reticule, which hung by black bands from her brown hairy arm, and turned over the leaves. "There, here it is," she said.
"To-day is the 20th of February, and the two men have already kept guard eight times the present month. That is three times as many as they need to do. Every one of the officials who were appointed to keep guard in the Temple is obliged to serve only once a week, and both of these traitors are now here for the eighth time. And my husband is so stupid and so blinded that he believes this prattler Toulan when he tells him he comes here merely to be with citizen Simon; but they cannot come round me with their talk; they cannot throw dust in my eyes. I shall keep them open, wide open, let me tell you."
"They are not sitting inside in the antechamber to-day," whispered Tison, "but outside on the landing, and they have closed the door of the anteroom, so that the Austrian has been entirely alone and unobserved these hours."
"Alone!" cried the knitter, and her polished needles struck so violently against each other that you could hear them click. "My husband cannot be to blame for that; Toulan must have talked him into it, and he must have a reason for it; he must have a reason, and if it is only from his having pity upon her, that is enough and more than enough to bring him under suspicion and to build an accusation upon. He must be removed, say I. There shall no such compassionate worms as he creep into the Temple. I will clear them out--I will clear them out with human blood!"
She looked so devilish, her eyes glared so with such a cruel coldness, and such a fiendish smile played upon her pale, thin lips, that even Madame Tison was afraid of her, and felt as if a cold, poisonous spider was creeping slowly over her heart.
"They are sitting still outside, you say?" asked Madame Simon, after a pause.
"Yes, they are still sitting outside upon the landing, and the Austrian woman is at this time alone unwatched with her brood, and she will be alone for two hours yet, for there is no change of guard till then."
"That is true, yes, that is true," cried the knitter, and her nostrils expanded like those of the hyena when on the scent of blood. "They will sit up there two hours longer, playing cards and singing stupid songs, and wheedling my monkey of a husband with their flatteries, making him believe that they love him, love him boundlessly, and they let themselves be locked into the Temple for his sake, and--oh! if I had them here, I would strangle them with my own hands! I would make a dagger of every one of my knitting-needles and thrust it into their hearts! But quiet, quiet," she continued in a grumbling tone, "every thing must go on in a regular way. Will you take my place here for half an hour and guard the door? I have something important to do, something very important."
"It will be a very great honor," replied Madame Tison, "a very great honor to be the substitute of one so well known and respected as you are, of whom every one knows that she is the best patriot and the most courageous knitter, whose eyelashes never quiver, and who can calmly go on with her stitches when the heads fall from the guillotine into the basket."
"If I did tremble, and my eyelashes did quiver, I would dash my own fists into my eyes!" said Madame Simon, with her hard coarse voice, rising and throwing her thin, threadbare cloak over her shoulders. "If I found a spark of sympathy in my heart, I would inundate it with the blood of aristocrats till it should be extinguished, and till that should be, I would despise and hate myself, for I should be not only a bad patriot, but a bad daughter of my unfortunate father. The cursed aristocrats have not only brought misery on our country and people, but they murdered my dear good father. Yes, murdered I say. They said he was a high traitor. And do you know why? Because he told aloud the nice stories about the Austrian woman, who was then our queen, which, had been whispered into his ear, and because he said that the king was a mere tool in the hands of his wife. They shot my good, brave father for what he had said, and which they called treason, although it was only the naked truth. Yet I will not work myself into a passion about it, and I will only thank God that that time is past, and I will do my part that it shall not come back. And that is why we must be awake and on our guard, that no aristocrat and no loyalist tie left, but that they all be guillotined, all! There, take your place on my chair, and take my knitting-work. Ah! if it could speak to you as it does to me--if it could tell you what heads we two have seen fall, young and old, handsome, distinguished--it would be fine sport for you and make you laugh. But good-by just now! Keep a strict lookout! I shall come back soon."
And she did come back soon, this worthy woman, with triumphant bearing and flashing eyes, looking as the cat looks when it has a mouse in its soft velvety paws, and is going to push its poisonous claws into the quivering flesh. She took her knitting-work up and bade Tison to go up again to her post.
"And when you can," she said, "just touch the Austrian woman a little, and pay her off for being so many hours unwatched. In that way you will merit a reward from the people, and that is as well as deserving one of God. Provoke her--provoke the proud Austrian!"
"It is very hard to do it," said Tison, sighing--"very hard, I assure you, for the Austrian is very cold and moderate of late. Since Louis Capet died, the widow is very much changed, and now she is so uniform in her temper that it seems as if nothing would provoke or excite her."
"What weak and tender creatures you all are!" said Simon's wife, with a shrug. "It is very plain that they fed you on milk when you were young. But my mother nursed me with hate. I was scarcely ten years when they shot my father, and not a day passed after that without my mother's telling me that we must avenge his murder on the whole lineage of the king. I had to swear that I would do it. She gave me, for my daily food, hatred against the aristocrats; it was the meat to my sauce, the sugar to my coffee, the butter to my bread! I lived and throve upon it. Look at me, and see what such fare has made of me! Look at me! I am not yet twenty-four years old, and yet I have the appearance of an old woman, and I have the feeling and the experience of an old woman! Nothing moves me now, and the only thing that lives and burns in my heart is revenge. Believe me, were I in your place I should know how to exasperate the Austrian; I should succeed in drawing out her tears."
"Well, and how would you begin? Really, I should like to know how to bring this incarnation of pride to weeping."
"Has not she children?" asked Madame Simon, with a horrible calmness. "I would torture and provoke the children, and that would soon make the heart of the woman humble and pliable. Oh, she may count herself happy that I am not in your place, and that her children are not under my tender hands. But if it ever happens that I can lay my fingers upon the shoulders of the little wolves, I will give them something that will make them cry out, and make the old wolf howl with rage. I will show her as little favor then as she showed when my poor mother and I were begging for my dear father! Go up, go up and try at once. Plague the children, and you will see that that will make the Austrian pliable."
"That is fine talk," muttered Tison, as she went up the staircase, "but she has no children, while I have a daughter, a dear, good daughter. She is not with me, but with my mother in Normandy, because she can be taken better care of there than here. It is better for the good child that she has not gone through these evil days full of blood and grief with us. But I am always thinking of her, and when one of these two children here looks up to me so gravely with great, open eyes, it always makes me think of my Solonge. She has exactly such large, innocent eyes, and that touches my heart so that I cannot be harsh with the children. They, of course, are not at all to blame for having such bad, miserable parents, who have treated the people shamefully, and made them poor and wretched. No, they have had nothing to do with it, and I cannot be severe with the children, for I am always thinking of my little Solonge! I will provoke the Austrian woman as much as I can, but not the children--no, not the children!"
Meanwhile, Mistress Simon had taken her place upon the chair near the open door in the porter's lodge, and sat there with her cold, immovable face staring into empty space with her great coal-black, glistening eyes, while her hands were busily flying, making the polished knitting-needles click against each other.
She was still sitting there, when at last her husband came down the stairs to open the outer door of the Temple, conduct his friends past the inner court, and to bring back the two officials who were to keep guard during the night.
They passed the knitter with a friendly salutation and a bit of pleasantry--Toulan stopping a moment to ask the woman after her welfare, and to say a few smooth words to her about her courage and her great force of character.
She listened quietly, let him go on with his talk, and when he had ended, slowly raised her great eyes from her knitting to him.
"You are a traitor," she said, with coldness, and without any agitation. "Yes, you are a traitor, and you, too, will have your turn at the guillotine!"
Toulan paled a little, but collected himself immediately, took leave of the knitter with a smile, and hastened after the officials, who were waiting for him at the open door--the two who were to hold the watch during the night having already entered.
Simon closed the door after them, exchanged a few words with them, and then went into his lodge to join his rigid better half.
"This has been a pleasant afternoon, and it is a great pity that it is gone, for I have had a very good time. We have played cards, sung, smoked, and Toulan has made jokes and told stories, and made much fun. I always wonder where he gets so many fine stories, and he tells them so well that I could hear him day and night. Now that he is gone, it seems tedious and dull enough here. Well, we must comfort ourselves that to-morrow will come by and by."
"What do you mean by that?" asked his wife, sternly.
"What sort of a day do you expect to-morrow to be?"
"A pleasant day, my dear Heloise, for Citizen Toulan will have the watch again. I begged him so long, that he at last promised to exchange with Citizen Pelletan, whose turn regularly comes to- morrow. Pelletan is not well, and it would be very hard for him to sit up there all day, and, besides, he would be dreadfully stupid. It is a great deal pleasanter to have Toulan here with his jokes and jolly stories, and so I begged him to come and take Pelletan's place. He is going to accommodate me and come."
His wife did not answer a word, but broke out in a burst of shrill, mocking laughter, and with her angry black eyes she scrutinized her husband's red, bloated face, as though she were reading him through and through.
"What are you laughing at?" he asked, angrily. "I would like to be beyond hearing when you give way in that style. What are you laughing at?"
"Because I wonder at you, you Jack," she answered sharply. "Because you are determined to make an ass of yourself, and let dust be thrown in your eyes, and put yourself at the disposal of every one who soaps you over with smooth words."
"Come," said Simon, "none of that coarseness! and if you--" "Hist!" she answered, commandingly. "I will show you at once that I have told you the truth, and that you are making an ass of yourself, or at least that you are on the point of doing so. Now, listen."
The knitter laid her work aside, and had a long conversation in a whisper with her husband. When it ended, Simon stood up wearing a dark look, and walked slowly backward and forward in the little room. Then he stopped and shook his fist threateningly at the room above. "She shall pay for this," he muttered--" by God in heaven! she shall pay for this. She is a good-for-nothing seducer! Even in prison she does not leave off coquetting, and flirting, and turning the heads of the men! It is disgraceful, thoroughly disgraceful, and she shall pay for it! I will soon find means to have my revenge on her!"
During the whole evening Mistress Tison did not leave her place behind the glass door for a moment, and at each stolen glance which the queen cast thither she always encountered the malicious, glaring eyes of the keeper, directed at her with an impudent coolness.
At last came the hour of going to bed--the hour to which the queen looked impatiently forward. At night she was at least alone and unguarded. After the death of the king, it had been found superfluous to trouble the officials with the wearisome night- watches, and they were satisfied, after darkness had set in and the candles were lighted, with locking the three doors which led to the inner rooms.
Did Marie Antoinette weep and moan at night, did she talk with her sister, did she walk disconsolately up and down her room? --the republic granted her the privilege. She could, during the night at least, have a few hours of freedom and of solitude.
But during the night Marie Antoinette did not weep or moan; this night her thoughts were not directed to the sad past, but to the future; for the first ray of hope which had fallen upon her path for a long time now encountered her.
"To escape, to be free!" she said, and the shadow of a smile flitted over her face. "Can you believe it? Do you consider it possible, sister?"
"I should like to believe it," whispered Elizabeth, "but there is something in my heart that reminds me of Varennes, and I only pray to God that He would give us strength to bear all the ills they inflict upon us. We must, above all things, keep our calmness and steadfastness, and be prepared for the worst as well as the best."
"Yes, you are right, we must do that," said Marie Antoinette, collecting herself. "When one has suffered as we have, it is almost more difficult to hope for good fortune than to prepare for new terrors. I will compel myself to be calm. I will read Toulan's plan, once more, and will impress it word for word upon my memory, so as to burn the dangerous sheet as soon as possible."
"And while you are doing that I will unwind the ball that Toulan brought us, and which certainly contains something heavy," said the princess.
"What a grand, noble heart! what a lofty character has our friend Toulan!" whispered the queen. "His courage is inexhaustible, his fidelity is invincible, and he is entirely unselfish. How often have I implored him to express one wish to me that I might gratify, or to allow me to give him a draft of some amount! He is not to be shaken- -he wants nothing, he will take nothing. Ah, Elizabeth, he is the first friend, of all who ever drew toward me, who made no claims and was contented with a kind word. When I implored him yesterday to tell me in what way I could do him a service, he said: 'If you want to make me happy, regard me always as your most devoted and faithful servant, and give me a name that you give to no one besides. Call me Fidele, and if you want to give me another remembrancer than that which will always live in my heart, present me, as the highest token of your favor, with the little gold smelling-bottle which I saw you use in the Logograph box on that dreadful day.' I gave him the trinket at once. He kneeled down in order to receive it, and when he kissed my hand his hot tears fell upon it. Ah, Elizabeth, no one of those to whom in the days of our happiness I gave jewels, and to whom I gave hundreds of thousands, cherished for me so warm thanks as Toulan--no, as Fidele--for the poor, insignificant little remembrancer."
"God is good and great," said the princess, who, while the queen was speaking, was busily engaged in unwinding the thread; "in order that we might not lose faith in humanity and confidence in man, He sent us in His mercy this noble, true-hearted one, whose devotion, disinterestedness, and fidelity were to be our compensation for all the sad and heart-rending experiences which we have endured. And, therefore, for the sake of this one noble man let us pardon the many from whom we have received only injury; for it says in the Bible that, for the sake of one righteous man, many sinners shall be forgiven, and Toulan is a righteous man."
"Yes, he is a righteous man, blessings on him!" whispered the queen. Then she took the paper in her hand, and began to read the contents softly, repeating every sentence to herself, and imprinting every one of those hope-bringing words upon her memory; and while she read, her poor, crushed heart gradually began to beat with firmer confidence, and to embrace the possibility of realizing the plan of Toulan and finding freedom in flight.
During this time Princess Elizabeth had unwound the thread of the ball, and brought to light a little packet enveloped in paper.
"Take it, my dear Antoinette," she said, "it is addressed to you."
Marie Antoinette took it and carefully unfolded the paper. Then she uttered a low, carefully-suppressed cry, and, sinking upon her knees, pressed it with its contents to her lips.
"What is it, sister?" cried the princess, hurrying to her. "What does Toulan demand?"
The queen gave the paper to the princess. "Read," she said--"read it, sister."
Elizabeth read: "Your majesty wished to possess the relics which King Louis left to you. They consist of the wedding-ring of his majesty, his little seal, and the hair which the king himself cut off. These three things lay on the chimney-piece in the closed sitting-room of the king. The supervisor of the Temple took them from Clery's hand, to whom the king gave them, and put them under seal. I have succeeded in getting into the sitting-room; I have opened the sealed packet, taken out the sacred relics, put articles of similar character in their place, and sealed it up again. With this letter are the relics which belong to your majesty, and I swear by all that is sacred and dear to me--I swear by the head of my queen, that they are the true articles which the blessed martyr, King Louis XVI., conveyed to his wife in his testament. I have stolen them for the exalted heir of the crown, and I shall one day glory in the theft before the throne of God." [Footnote: Goncourt, " Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 384.]
"See, Elizabeth," said the queen, unfolding the little things, each one of which was carefully wrapped in paper--"see, there is his wedding-ring. There on the inside are the four letters, 'M. A. A. A., 19th April, 1770.' The day of our marriage! --a day of joy for Austria as well as for France! Then--but I will not think of it. Let me look further. Here is the seal! The cornelian engraved on two sides. Here on one side the French arms; as you turn the stone, the portrait of our son the Dauphin of France, with his helmet on his head. Oh! my son, my poor dear child, will your loved head ever bear any other ornament than a martyr's crown; will God grant you to wear the helmet of the warrior, and to battle for your rights and your throne? How pleased my husband was when on his birthday I brought him this seal! how tenderly his looks rested upon the portrait of his son, his successor! and now--oh, now! King Louis XVI. cruelly, shamefully murdered, and he who ought to be the King of France, Louis XVII., is nothing but a poor, imprisoned child--a king without a crown, without hope, without a future!"
"No, no, Antoinette," whispered Elizabeth, who had kneeled before the queen and had tenderly put her arms around her--" no, Antoinette, do not say that your son has no hope and no future. Build upon God, hope that the undertaking which we are to-morrow to execute will lead to a fortunate result, that we shall flee from here, that we shall be free, that we shall be able to reach England. Oh, yes, let us hope that Toulan's fine and bold plan will succeed, and then it may one day be that the son of my dear brother, grown to be a young man, may put the helmet on his head, gird himself with the sword, reconquer the throne of his fathers, and take possession of it as King Louis XVII. Therefore let us hope, sister."
"Yes, therefore let us hope" whispered the queen, drying her tears. "And here at last," she continued, opening the remaining paper, "here is the third relic, the hair of the king! --the only thing which is left us of the martyr king, the unfortunate husband of an unfortunate wife, the pitiable king of a most pitiable people! Oh, my king! they have laid your poor head that bore this white hair-- they have laid it upon the scaffold, and the axe, the dreadful axe-- " The queen uttered a loud shriek of horror, sprang up, and raised both her hands in conjuration to Heaven, while a curse just trembled on her lips. But Princess Elizabeth threw herself into her arms, and pressed on the cold, quivering lips of the queen a long, fervent kiss.
"For God's sake, sister," she whispered, "speak softly. If Tison heard your cry, we are lost. Hush! it seems to me I hear steps, hide the things. Let us hurry into bed. Oh, for God's sake, quick!"
She huddled the papers together, and put them hastily into her bosom, while Marie Antoinette, gathering up the relics, dashed into her bed.
"She is coming," whispered Elizabeth, as she slipped into her bed. "We must pretend to be asleep."
And in fact Princess Elizabeth was right. The glass-door, which led from the sleeping-room of the children to the little corridor, and from there to the chamber of Mistress Tison, was slowly and cautiously opened, and she came with a lamp in her hand into the children's room. She stood near the door, listening and spying around. In the beds of the children she could hear the long-drawn, calm breathing, which indicated peaceful slumbers; and in the open, adjoining apartment, in which the two ladies slept, nothing was stirring.
"But I did hear a sound plainly," muttered Tison. "I was awaked by a loud cry, and when I sat up in bed I heard people talking."
She stole to the beds of the children, and let the light fall upon their faces. "They are sleeping soundly enough," she muttered, "they have not cried or spoken, but we will see how it is in the other room." Slowly, with the lamp in her hand, she crept into the neighboring apartment. The two ladies lay motionless upon their beds, closing their eyes quickly when Mistress Tison crossed the threshold, and praying to God for courage and steadfastness.
Tison went first to the bed of Princess Elizabeth and let the lamp fall full upon her face. The glare seemed to awaken her. "What is it?" she cried, "what has happened? sister, what has happened? where are you, Marie Antoinette?"
"Here, here I am, Elizabeth," cried the queen, rising suddenly up in bed, as if awakened. "Why do you call me, and who is here?"
"It is I," muttered Tison, angrily. "That is the way if one has a bad conscience! One is startled then with the slightest sound."
"We have no bad conscience," said Elizabeth, gently, "but you know that if we are awakened from sleep we cry out easily, and we might be thinking that some one was waking us to bring us happy tidings."
"I hope so," cried Tison, with a scornful laugh, "Happy news for you! that means unhappy and sad news for France and for the French people. No, thank God! I did not waken you to bring you any good news."
"Well," said the queen, gently, "tell us why you have wakened us and what you have to communicate to us."
"I have nothing at all to communicate to you," growled Tison, "and you know best whether I wake you or you were already awake, talking and crying aloud. Hist! it is not at all necessary that you answer, I know well enough that you are capable of lying. I tell you my ears are open and my eyes too. I let nothing escape me; you have talked and you have cried aloud, and if it occurs again I shall report it to the supervisor and have a watch put here in the night again, that the rest of us may have a little quiet in the night-time, and not have to sleep like the hares, with our eyes open."
"But," said the princess gently, "but dear woman--" "Hush!" interrupted Tison, commandingly, "I am not your 'dear woman,' I am the wife of Citizen Tison, and I want none of your confidence, for confidence from such persons as you are, might easily bring me to the scaffold."
She now passed through the whole room with her slow, stealthy tread, let the light fall upon every article of furniture and the floor, examined all the objects that lay upon the table, and then, after one last threatening look at the beds of the two ladies, went slowly out. She stopped again at the cribs of the children, and looked at them with a touch of gentleness. "How quietly they sleep!" the whispered. "They lie there exactly as they lay before. One would think they were smiling in their sleep--I suppose they are playing with angels. I should like to know how angels come into this old, horrid Temple, and what Simon's wife would say if she knew they came in here at night without her permission. See, see," she continued, "the boy is laughing again, and spreading out his hands, as if he wanted to catch the angels. Ah! I should like to know if my dear little Solange is sleeping as soundly as these children, and whether she smiles in her sleep and plays with angels; I should like to know if she dreams of her parents, my dear little Solange, and whether she sometimes sees her poor mother, who loves her so and yearns toward her so tenderly that" [Footnote: This Mistress Tison, the cruel keeper of the queen, soon after this fell into lunacy, owing both to her longings after her daughter and her compunctions of conscience for her treatment of the queen. The first token of her insanity was her falling upon her knees before Marie Antoinette, and begging pardon for all the pain she had occasioned, and amid floods of tears accusing herself as the one who would be answerable for the death of the queen. She then fell into such dreadful spasms, that four men were scarcely able to hold her. They carried her into the Hotel Dieu, where she died after two days of the most dreadful sufferings and bitter reproaches of herself. --See Goncourt, p. 280. ]
She could not go on; tears extinguished her utterance, and she hastened out, to silence her longings on the pillow of her bed.
The ladies listened a long time in perfect silence; then, when every thing was still again, they raised themselves up softly, and began to talk to each other in the faintest of whispers, and to make their final preparations for the flight of the morrow. They then rose and drew from the various hiding-places the garments which they were to use, placed the various suits together, and then tried to put them on. A fearful, awful picture, such as a painter of hell, such as Breugel could not surpass in horror! --a queen and a princess, two tender, pale, harmless women, busied, deep in the night, as if dressing for a masquerade, in transforming themselves into those very officials who had led the king to the scaffold, and who, with their pitiless iron hands, were detaining the royal family in prison!
There they stood, a queen, a princess, clad in the coarse, threadbare garments of republican officials, the tri-colored sashes of the "one indivisible republic" around their bodies, their heads covered with the three-cornered hats, on which the tri-colored cockade glittered. They stood and viewed each other with sad looks and heavy sighs. Ah, what bright, joyous laughter would have sprung from the lips of the queen in the days of her happiness, if she had wanted to hide her beauty in such attire for some pleasant masquerade at Trianon! What charming sport it would have been then and there! How would her friends and courtiers have laughed! How they would have admired the queen in her original costume, which might well have been thought to belong to the realm of dreams and fantasies! A tri-colored cockade--a figment of the brain--a tri- colored sash--a merry dream! The lilies rule over France, and will rule forever!
No laughter resounded in the desolate room, scantily lighted with the dim taper--no laughter as the queen and the princess put on their strange, fearful attire. It was no masquerade, but a dreadful, horrible reality; and as they looked at each other wearing the costume of revolutionists, tears started from the eyes of the queen; the princess folded her hands and prayed; and she too could not keep back the drops that slowly coursed over her cheeks.
The lilies of France are faded and torn from the ground! From the palace of the Tuileries waved the tri-color of the republic, and in the palace of the former Knights Templars is a pale, sad woman, with gray hair and sunken eyes, a broken heart, and a bowed form. This pale, sad shadow of the past is Marie Antoinette, once the Queen of France, the renowned beauty, the first woman in a great kingdom, now the widow of an executed man, she herself probably with one foot-- No, no, she will be saved! God has sent her a deliverer, a friend, and this friend, this helper in her need, has made every thing ready for her flight.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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23
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THE SEPARATION.
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Slowly and heavily the hours of the next day rolled on. Where was Toulan? Why did he not come? The queen waited for him the whole of that long, dreadful day in feverish expectation. She listened to every sound, to every approaching step, to every voice that echoed in the corridor. At noon Toulan had purposed to come to take his post as guard. At six, when the time of lighting the lamps should arrive, the disguises were to be put on. At seven the carefully and skilfully-planned flight was to be made.
The clock in the tower of the Temple had already struck four. Toulan had not yet come, and the guards of the day had not yet been relieved. They had had a little leisure at noon for dinner, and during the interim Simon and Tison were on guard, and had kept the queen on the rack with their mockery and their abusive words. In order to avoid the language and the looks of these men, she had fled into the children's room, to whom the princess, in her trustful calmness and unshaken equanimity, was assigning them lessons. Marie Antoinette wanted to find protection here from the dreadful anxiety that tortured her, as well as from the ribald jests and scurrility of her keepers. But Mistress Tison was there, standing near the glass window, gazing in with a malicious grin, and working in her wonted, quick way upon the long stocking, and knitting, knitting, so that you could hear the needles click together.
The queen could not give way to a word or a look. That would have created suspicion, and would, perhaps, have caused an examination to be made. She had to bear all in silence, she had to appear indifferent and calm; she had to give pleasant answers to the dauphin's innocent questions, and even compel a smile to her lips when the child, reading in her looks, by the instinct of love, her great excitement, tried to cheer her up with pleasant words.
It struck five, and still Toulan did not come. A chill crept over her heart, and in the horror which filled her she first became conscious how much love of life still survived in her, and how intensely she had hoped to find a possibility of escape.
Only one last hour of hope left! If it should strike six, and he should not come, all would be lost! The doors of her prison would be closed forever--never opening again excepting to allow Marie Antoinette to pass to the guillotine.
Mistress Tison had gone, and her cold, mocking face was no longer visible behind the glass door. The guards in the anteroom had also gone, and had closed the doors behind them. The queen was, therefore, safe from being watched at least! She could fall upon her knees, she could raise her hands to God and wrestle with Him in speechless prayer for pity and deliverance. She could call her children to herself, and press them to her heart, and whisper to them that they must be composed if they should see something strange, and not wonder if they should have to put on clothing that they were not accustomed to.
"Mamma," asked the dauphin, in a whisper, "are we going to Varennes again?"
The queen shuddered in her inmost soul at this question, and hid her quivering face on the faithful breast of the princess.
"Oh, sister, I am suffocating with anxiety," she said. "I feel that this hour is to decide the lives of us all, and it seems to me as if Death were already stretching out his cold hand toward me. We are lost, and my son, my unhappy son, will never wear any other than the martyr's crown, and--" The queen was silent, for just then the tower-clock began to strike, slowly, peacefully, the hour of six! The critical moment! The lamplight must come now! If it were Toulan, they might be saved. Some unforeseen occurrence might have prevented his coming before; he might have borrowed the suit of the bribed lamplighter in order to come to them. There was hope still--one last, pale ray of hope!
Steps upon the corridor! Voices that are audible!
The queen, breathless, with both hands laid upon her heart, which was one instant still, and then beat with redoubled rapidity, listened with strained attention to the opening of the door of the anteroom. Princess Elizabeth approached her, and laid her hand on the queen's shoulder. The two children, terrified by some cause which they could not comprehend, clung to the hand and the body of their mother, and gazed anxiously at the door.
The steps came nearer, the voices became louder. The door of the anteroom is opened--and there is the lamp-lighter. But it is not Toulan--no, not Toulan! It is the man who comes every day, and the two children, are with him as usual.
A heavy sigh escaped from the lips of the queen, and, throwing her arms around the dauphin with a convulsive motion, she murmured: "My son, oh, my dear son! May God take my life if He will but spare thine!"
Where was Toulan? Where had he been all this dreadful day? "Where was Fidele the brave, the indefatigable?
On the morning of the day appointed for the flight, he left his house, taking a solemn leave of his Marguerite. At this parting hour he told her for the first time that he was going to enter upon the great and exalted undertaking of freeing the queen and her children, or of dying for them. His true, brave young wife had suppressed her tears and her sighs to give him her blessing, and to tell him that she would pray for him, and that if he should perish in the service of the queen, she would die too, in order to be united with him above.
Toulan kissed the beaming eyes of his Marguerite with deep fooling, thanked her for her true-hearted resignation, and told her that he had never loved her so much as in this hour when he was leaving her to meet his death, it might be, in the service of another lady.
"At this hour of parting," he said, "I will give you the dearest and most sacred thing that I possess. Take this little gold smelling- bottle. The queen gave it to me, and upon the bit of paper that lies within it Marie Antoinette wrote with her own hand, 'Remembrancer for Fidele.'
Fiddle is the title of honor which my queen has given me for the little service which I have been able to do for her. I leave this little gift for you as that which, next to your love, is the most sacred and precious thing to me on earth. If I die, preserve it for our son, and give it to him on the day when he reaches his majority. Tell him of the time when I made this bequest to him, in the hope that he would make himself worthy of it, and live and die as a brave son of his country, a faithful subject and servant of his king, who, God willing, will be the son of Marie Antoinette. Tell him of his father; say to him that I dearly loved you and him, but that I had devoted my life to the service of the queen, and that I gave it freely and gladly, in conformity with my oath. I have not told you about these things before, dear Marguerite--not because I doubted your fidelity, but because I did not want you to have to bear the dreadful burden of expectation, and because I did not want to trouble your noble soul with these things. And now I only tell you this much: I am going away to try to save the queen. If I succeed, I shall come back for a moment this evening at ten o'clock. If I remain away, if you hear nothing from me during the whole night, then--" "Then what?" asked Marguerite, throwing her arms around him, and looking into his face anxiously. "Say, what then?"
"Then I shall have died," he said, softly, "and our child will be an orphan! Do not weep, Marguerite! Be strong and brave, show a cheerful face to our neighbors, our friends, and the spies! But observe every thing! Listen to every thing! Keep the outer door open all the time, that I may be able to slip in at any moment. Have the little secret door in my room open too, and the passageway down into the cellar always free, that I may slip down there if need be. Be ready to receive me at any time, to hide me, and, it may possibly be, others who may come with me!"
"I shall expect you day and night," she whispered, "so long as I live!"
"And now, Marguerite," he said, pressing her tenderly to his heart, "one last kiss! Let me kiss your eyes, your beautiful dear eyes, which have always glanced with looks of love, and which have always given me new inspiration. Farewell, my dear wife, and God bless you for your love and fidelity!"
"Do not go, my precious one! Come once more to the cradle of our boy and give him a parting kiss!"
"No, Marguerite, that would unman me, and to-day I must be strong and master of myself. Farewell, I am going to the Temple!"
And, without looking at his wife again, he hurried out into the street, and turned his steps toward his destination. But just as he was turning the very next corner Lepitre met him, pale, and displaying great excitement in his face.
"Thank God!" he said, "thank God that I have found you. I wanted to hasten to you. We must flee directly--all is discovered. Immediate flight alone can save us!"
"What is discovered?" asked Toulan. "Speak, Lepitre, what is discovered?"
"For God's sake, let us not be standing here on the streets!" ejaculated Lepitre. "They have certainly sent out the constables to arrest us. Let us go into this house here, it contains a passage through to the next street. Now, listen! We are reported. Simon's wife has carried our names to the Committee of Public Safety as suspicious persons. Tison's wife has given out that the queen and her sister-in-law have won us both over, and that through our means she is kept informed about every thing that happens. The carpet- manufacturer, Arnault, has just been publicly denouncing us both, saying that Simon's wife has reported to him that we both have conducted conversation with the prisoners in low tones of voice, and have thereby been the means of conveying some kind of cheering information to the queen. [Footnote: Literally reproduced here. --See Concourt, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 290.] On that, our names were stricken from the list of official guards at the Temple, and we are excluded from the new ward committee that is forming to- day."
"And is that all?" asked Toulan, calmly. "Is that all the bad news that you bring? Then the projected flight is not discovered, is it? Nothing positive is known against us? Nothing more is known than the silly and unfounded denunciations of two old women?"
"For God's sake, do not use such idle words as these!" replied Lepitre. "We are suspected, our names are stricken from the ward list. Is not that itself a charge against us? And are not those who come under suspicion always condemned? Do not laugh, Toulan, and shake your head!
Believe me, we are lost if we do not flee; if we do not leave Paris on the spot and conceal ourselves somewhere. I am firmly resolved on this, and in an hour I shall have started, disguised as a sans- culotte. Follow my example, my friend. Do not throw away your life foolhardily. Follow me!"
"No," said Toulan, "I shall stay. I have sworn to devote my life to the service of the queen, and I shall fulfil my oath so long as breath remains in my body. I must not go away from here so long as there is a possibility of assisting her. If flight is impracticable to-day, it may be effected at some more favorable time, and I must hold myself in readiness for it."
"But they will take you, I tell you," said Lepitre, with a downcast air. "You will do no good to the queen, and only bring yourself to harm."
"Oh, nonsense! they will not catch me so soon," said Toulan, confidently. "Fortune always favors the bold, and I will show you that I am brave. Go, my friend, save yourself, and may God give you long life and a contented heart! Farewell, and be careful that they do not discover you!"
"You are angry with me, Toulan," said Lepitre. "You consider me cowardly. But I tell you, you are foolhardy, and your folly will plunge you into destruction."
"I am not angry with you, Lepitre, and you shall not be with me. Every one must do as best he can, and as his heart and his head dictate to him. One is not the better for this, and another the worse. Farewell, my friend! Take care for your own safety, for it is well that some faithful ones should still remain to serve the queen, and I know that you will serve her when she needs your help."
"Then give me your hand in parting, my friend. And if at last you come to the conclusion to flee, come to Normandy, and in the village of Lerne, near Dieppe, you will find me, and my father will receive you, and you shall be treated as if you were my brother."
"Thanks, my friend, thanks! One last shake of the hand. There! Now you are away, and I remain here."
Toulan went out into the street, walked along with a cheerful face, and repaired at once to the hall where the Committee of Safety were sitting.
"Citizens and brothers," he said, in aloud, bold voice, "I have just been informed that I have been brought under suspicion and denounced. Friends have warned me to betake to flight. But I am no coward, I have no bad conscience, and therefore do not fly, but come here and ask you is this true? Is it possible that you regard me as no patriot, and as a traitor?"
"Yes," answered President Hobart, with a harsh, hard voice, "you are under suspicion, and we mistrust you. This shameful seducer, this she-wolf Marie Antoinette has cast her foxy eyes upon you, and would doubtless succeed if you are often with her. We have therefore once for all taken your name from the list of the official guards in the Temple, and you will no longer be exposed to the wiles of the Austrian woman. But besides this, as the second denunciation has been made against you to-day, and as it is asserted that you are in relations with aristocrats and suspected persons, we have considered it expedient, in view of the common safety, to issue a warrant for your apprehension. An officer has just gone with two soldiers to your house, to arrest you and bring you hither. You have simply anticipated the course of law by surrendering yourself. Officer, soldiers, here!"
The persons summoned appeared, and put Toulan under arrest, preparatory to taking him to prison.
"It is well," said Toulan, with a noble calmness. "I know that the time will come when you will regret having so abused a true patriot; and I hope, for the peace of your consciences, that there will be a time then to undo the evil which you are doing to me to-day, and that my head will then be on my shoulders, that my lips may be able to testify to you what my heart now dictates, that I forgive you! You are in error about me, yet I know that you are acting not out of enmity to me, but for the weal of the country, and out of love for the great, united republic. As the true and tenderly loving son of this noble, exalted mother, I forgive you for giving ear to my unrighteous accusers, and, even if you shed my innocent blood, my dying wish will be a blessing on the republic."
"Those are noble and excellent words," said Hobart, coldly. "But if deeds speak in antagonism to words, we cannot let the latter beguile us out of our sense, but we must give heed to justice."
"That is the one only thing that I ask," cried Toulan, brightly. "Let justice be done, my brothers, and I shall very soon he free, and shall come out from an investigation like a spotless lamb. I make no resistance. Come, my friends, take me to prison! I only ask for permission to be escorted first to my house, to procure a few articles of clothing to use during my imprisonment. But I urge pressingly that my articles may be sealed up in my presence. For when the man of the house is not at home, it fares badly with the safety of his property, and I shall be able to feel at ease only when the seal of the republic is upon my possessions. I beg you therefore to allow my paper and valuables to be sealed in my presence. You will thus be sure that my wife and my friends have not removed any thing which might be used against me, and my innocence will shine out the more clearly. I beg you therefore to comply with my wish."
The members of the committee consulted with one another in low tones, and the chairman then announced to Toulan that his wish would be complied with, and that an escort of soldiers might accompany him to his house, to allow him to procure linen and clothing, and to seal his effects and papers in their presence.
Toulan thanked them with cheerful looks, and went out into the street between the two guards. As they were on the way to his house, he talked easily with them, laughed and joked; but in his own thoughts he said to himself, "You are lost! hopelessly lost, if you do not escape now. You are the prey of the guillotine, if the gates of the prison once close upon you; therefore escape, escape or die." While he was thus laughing and talking with the soldiers, and meanwhile thinking such solemn thoughts, his sharp black eyes were glancing in all directions, looking for a friend who might assist him out of his trouble. And fortune sent him such a friend! --Ricard, Ionian's most trusted counsellor, the abettor of his plans. Toulan called him with an animated face, and in loud tones told him that he had been denounced, and therefore arrested; and that he was only allowed to go to his house to procure some clothing.
"Come along, Ricard," he said. "They are going to put my effects under seal, and you have some papers and books on my writing-table. Come along, and take possession of your own things, so that they may not be sealed up as mine."
Ricard nodded assent, and a significant look told Toulan that his friend understood him, and that his meaning was, that Ricard should take possession of papers that might bring Toulan under suspicion. Continuing their walk, they spoke of indifferent matters, and at last reached Toulan's house. Marguerite met them with calm bearing. She knew that every cry, every expression of anxiety and trouble, would only imperil the condition of her husband, and her love gave her power to master herself.
"Ah! are you there, husband?" she said, with a smile, how hard to her no one knew. "You are bringing a great deal of company."
"Yes, Marguerite," said Toulan, with a smile, "and I am going to keep on with this pleasant company to prison."
"Oh!" she cried, laughing, "that is a good joke! Toulan, the best of patriots, in prison! Come, you ought not to joke about serious matters."
"It is no joke," said one of the guards, solemnly. "Citizen Toulan is arrested, and is here only to procure some articles of clothing, and have his effects put under seal."
"And to give back to his friend Ricard the books and papers that belong to him," said Toulan. "Come, let us go into my study, friends."
"There are my books and papers," cried Ricard, as they went into the next room. He sprang forward to the writing-table, seized all the papers lying upon it, and tried to thrust them into his coat-pocket. But the two soldiers checked him, and undertook to resist his movement. Ricard protested, a loud exchange of words took place--in which Marguerite had her share--insisting that all the papers on the table belonged to Ricard, and she should like to see the man who could have the impudence to prevent his taking them.
Louder and louder grew the contention; and when Ricard was endeavoring again to put the papers into his pocket, the two soldiers rushed at him to prevent it. Marguerite tried to come to his assistance, and in the effort, overthrew a little table which stood in the middle of the room, on which was a water-bottle and some glasses. The table came down, a rattle of broken glass followed, and amid the noise and outcries, the controversy and violence, no one paid attention to Toulan; no one saw the little secret door quietly open, and Toulan glide from view.
The soldiers did not notice this movement, but Marguerite and Ricard understood it well, and went on all the more eagerly with their cries and contentions, to give Toulan time to escape by the secret passage.
And they were successful. When the two guards had, after long searching, discovered the secret door through which the escape had been effected, and had rushed down the hidden stairway, not a trace of him was to be seen.
Toulan was free! Unhindered, he hastened to the little attic, which he had, some time before, hired in the house adjacent to the Temple, put on a suit of clothes which he had prepared there, and remained concealed the whole day.
As Marie Antoinette lay sleepless upon her bed in the night that followed this vain attempt at flight, and was torturing herself with anxious doubts whether Fidele had fallen a victim to his devotion, suddenly the tones of a huntsman's horn broke the silence; Marie Antoinette raised herself up and listened. Princess Elizabeth had done the same; and with suspended breath they both listened to the long-drawn and plaintive tones which softly floated in to them on the wings of the night. A smile of satisfaction flitted over their pale, sad faces, and a deep sigh escaped from their heavy hearts.
"Thank God! he is saved," whispered Marie Antoinette.
"Is not that the melody that was to tell us that our friend is in the neighborhood?"
"Yes, sister, that is the one! So long as we hear this signal, we shall know that Toulan is living still, and that he is near us."
And in the following weeks the prisoners of the Temple often had the sad consolation of hearing the tones of Toulan's horn; but he never came to them again, he never appeared in the anteroom to keep guard over the imprisoned queen. Toulan did not flee! He had the courage to remain in Paris; he was constantly hoping that an occasion might arise to help the queen escape; he was constantly putting himself in connection with friends for this object, and making plans for the flight of the royal captives.
But exactly what Toulan hoped for stood as a threatening phantom before the eyes of the Convention--the flight of the prisoners in the Temple. They feared the queen even behind those thick walls, behind the four iron doors that closed upon her prison! They feared still more this poor child of seven years, this little king without crown and without throne, the son of him who had been executed. The Committee of Safety knew that people were talking about the little king in the Temple, and that touching anecdotes about him were in circulation. A bold, reckless fellow had appeared who called himself a prophet, and had loudly announced upon the streets and squares, that the lilies would bloom again, and that the sons of Brutus would fall beneath the hand of the little king whose throne was in the Temple. They had, it is true, arrested the prophet and dragged him to the guillotine, but his prophecies had found an echo here and there, and an interest in the little prince had been awakened in the people. The noble and enthusiastic men known as the Girondists were deeply solicitous about the young royal martyr, and the application of this expression to the little dauphin, made in the earnest and impassioned speeches before the Convention, melted all hearers to tears and called out a deep sympathy.
The Convention saw the danger, and at once resolved to be free from it. On the 1st of July 1793, that body issued a decree with the following purport: "The Committee of Public Safety ordains that the son of Capet be separated from his mother, and be delivered to an instructor, whom the general director of the communes shall appoint."
The queen had no suspicion of this. Now that Toulan was no longer there, no news came to her of what transpired beyond the prison, and Fidele's horn-signals were the only sounds of the outer world that reached her ear.
The evening of the 3d of July had come. The little prince had gone to bed, and had already sunk into a deep sleep. His bed had no curtains, but Marie Antoinette had with careful hands fastened a shawl to the wall, and spread it out over the bed in such a manner that the glare of the light did not fall upon the closed eyes of the child and disturb him in his peaceful slumbers. It was ten o'clock in the evening, and the ladies had that day waited unwontedly long before going to bed. The queen and Princess Elizabeth were busied in mending the clothing of the family, and Princess Theresa, sitting between the two, had been reading to them some chapters out of the Historical Dictionary. At the wish of the queen, she had now taken a religious book, Passion Week, and was reading some hymns and prayers out of it.
Suddenly, the quick steps of several men were heard in the corridor. The bolts flew back, the doors were opened, and six officials came in.
"We are come," cried one of them, with a brutal voice, "to announce to you the order of the committee, that the son of Capet be separated from his mother and his family."
At these words the queen rose, pale with horror "They are going to take my child from me!" she cried. "No, no, that is not possible. Gentlemen, the authorities cannot think of separating me from my son. He is still so young and weak, he needs my care."
"The committee has come to this determination," answered the official, "the Convention has confirmed it, and we shall carry it into execution directly."
"I cannot allow it," cried Marie Antoinette in desperation. "In the name of Heaven, I conjure you not to be so cruel!"
Elizabeth and Theresa mingled their tears with those of the mother. All three had placed themselves before the bed of the dauphin; they clung to it, they folded their hands, they sobbed; the most touching cries, the most humble prayers trembled on their lips, but the guards were not at all moved.
"What is all this whining for?" they said. "No one is going to kill your child; give him to us of your own free will, or we shall have to take him by force."
They strode up to the bed. Marie Antoinette placed herself with extended arms before it, and held the curtain firmly; it however detached itself from the wall and fell upon the face of the dauphin. He awoke, saw what was going on, and threw himself with loud shrieks into the arms of the queen. "Mamma, dear Mamma, do not leave me!" She pressed him trembling to her bosom, quieted him, and defended him against the cruel hands that were reached out for him.
In vain, all in vain! The men of the republic have no compassion on the grief of a mother! "By free will or by force he must go with us."
"Then promise me at least that he shall remain in the tower of the Temple, that I may see him every day."
"We have nothing to promise you, we have no account at all to give you. Parbleu, how can you take on and howl so, merely because your child is taken from you? Our children have to do more than that. They have every day to have their heads split open with the balls of the enemies that you have set upon them."
"My son is still too young to be able to serve his country," said the queen, gently, "but I hope that if God permits it, he will some day be proud to devote his life to Him."
Meanwhile the two princesses, urged on by the officials, had clothed the gasping, sobbing boy. The queen now saw that no more hope remained. She sank upon a chair, and summoning all her strength, she called the dauphin to herself, laid her hands upon his shoulders, and pale, immovable, with widely-opened eyes, whose burning lids were cooled by no tear, she gazed upon the quivering face of the boy, who had fixed his great blue eyes, swimming with tears, upon the countenance of his mother.
"My child," said the queen, solemnly, "we must part. Remember your duties when I am no more with you to remind you of them. Never forget the good God who is proving you, and your mother who is praying for you. Be good and patient, and your Father in heaven will bless you."
She bent over, and with her cold lips pressed a kiss upon the forehead of her son, then gently pushed him toward the turnkey. But the boy sprang back to her again, clung to her with his arms, and would not go.
"My son, we must obey. God wills it so." A loud, savage laugh was heard. Shuddering, the queen turned around. There at the open door stood Simon, and with him his wife, their hard features turned maliciously toward the pale queen. The woman stretched out her brown, bare arms to the child, grasped him, and pushed him before her to the door.
"Is she to have him?" shrieked Marie Antoinette. "Is my son to remain with this woman?"
"Yes," said Simon, with a grinning smile, as he put himself, with his arms akimbo, before the queen--" yes, with this woman and with me, her husband, little Capet is to remain, and I tell you he shall receive a royal education. We shall teach him to forget the past, and only to remember that he is a child of the one and indivisible republic. If he does not come to it, he must be brought to it, and my old cobbler's straps will be good helpers in this matter."
He nodded at Marie Antoinette with a fiendish smile, and then followed the officials, who had already gone out. The doors were closed again, the bolts drawn, and within the chamber reigned the stillness of death. The two women put their arms around one another, kneeled upon the floor and prayed.
From this day on, Marie Antoinette had no hope more; her heart was broken. Whole days long she sat fixed and immovable, without paying any regard to the tender words of her sister-in-law and the caresses of her daughter, without working, reading, or busying herself in any way. Formerly she had helped to put the rooms in order, and mend the clothes and linen; now she let the two princesses do this alone and serve her.
Only for a few hours each day did her countenance lighten at all, and the power of motion return to this pale, marble figure. Those were the hours when she waited for her son, as he went with Simon every day to the upper story and the platform of the tower. She would then put her head to the door and listen to every step and all the words that he directed to the turnkey as he passed by.
Soon she discovered a means of seeing him. There was a little crack on the floor of the platform on which the boy walked. The world revolved for the queen only around this little crack, and the instant in which she could see her boy.
At times, too, a compassionate guard who had to inspect the prison brought her tidings of her son, told her that he was well, that he had learned to play ball, and that by his friendly nature he won every one's love. Then Marie Antoinette's countenance would lighten, a smile would play over her features and linger on her pale lips as long as they were speaking of her boy. But oh! soon there came other tidings about the unhappy child. His wailing tones, Simon's threats, and his wife's abusive words penetrated even the queen's apartments, and filled her with the anguish of despair. And yet it was not the worst to hear him cry, and to know that the son of the queen was treated ill; it was still more dreadful to hear him sing with a loud voice, accompanied by the laugh and the bravoes of Simon and his wife, revolutionary and obscene songs--to know that not only his body but his soul was doomed to destruction.
At first the queen, on hearing these dreadful songs, broke out into lamentations, cries, and loud threats against those who were destroying the soul of her child. Then a gradual paralysis crept over her heart, and when, on the 3d of August, she was taken from the Temple to the prison, the pale lips of the queen merely whispered, "Thank God, I shall not have to hear him sing any more!"
BOOK V.
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{
"id": "3451"
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24
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THE DEATH OF THE QUEEN.
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The Bartholomew's night of the murderous Catharine de Medicis, and her mad son, Charles IX., now found in France its horrible and bloody repetition; but the night of horror which we are now to contemplate was continued on into the day, and did not shrink even before the light.
The sun shone down upon the streams of blood which flowed through the streets of Paris, and upon the pack of wild dogs that swarmed in uncounted numbers on the thoroughfares of the city, and lived on this blood, which gave back even to the tame their natural wildness. The sun shone down upon the scaffold, that rose like a threatening monster upon the Place de la Revolution, and upon the dreadful axe which daily severed so many noble forms, and then rose from the block glittering and menacing.
The sun shone on that day, too, when Marie Antoinette ascended the scaffold, as her husband had done before, and so passed to her rest, from all the pains and humiliations of her last years.
That day was the 16th of October, 1793. For four months Marie Antoinette looked forward to it as to a joyful deliverance. It was four months from the time when she was transferred from the Temple to the prison, and she knew that those who were confined in the latter place only left it to gain the freedom, not that man gives, but which God grants to the suffering--the freedom of death!
Marie Antoinette longed for the deliverance. How far behind her now lay the days of her happy, joyous youth! how long ago the time when the tall, grave woman, her face full of pride and yet of resignation, had been charming Marie Antoinette, the very impersonation of beauty, youth, and love, carrying out in Trianon the idyl of romantic country life--in the excess of her gayety going disguised to the public opera-house ball, believing herself so safe amid the French people that she could dispense with the protection of etiquette--hailed with an enthusiastic admiration then, as she was now saluted with the savage shouts of the enraged people!
No, the former queen, Marie Antoinette, who, in the gilded saloons of Versailles and in the Tuileries, had received the homage of all France, and with a smiling face and perfect grace of manner acknowledged all the tribute that was brought to her, had no longer any resemblance to the widow of Louis Capet, sitting before the revolutionary tribunal, and giving earnest answers to the questions which were put to her. She arranged her toilet that day--but how different was the toilet of the Widow Capet from that which Queen Marie Antoinette had once displayed! At that earlier time, she, the easy, light-hearted daughter of fortune, had shut herself up for hours with her intimate companion, Madame Berthier, the royal milliner, planning a new ball-dress, or a new fichu; or her Leonard would lavish all the resources of his fancy and his art inventing new styles of head-dress, now decorating the beautiful head of the queen with towering masses of auburn hair; now braiding it so as to make it enfold little war-ships, the sails of which were finely woven from her own locks; now laying out a garden filled with fruits and flowers, butterflies and birds of paradise.
The "Widow Capet" needed no milliner and no hairdresser in making her toilet. Her tall, slender figure was enveloped with the black woollen dress which the republic had given her at her request, that she might commemorate her deceased husband. Her neck and shoulders, which had once been the admiration of France, was now concealed by a white muslin kerchief, which her keeper Bault had given her out of sympathy. Her hair was uncovered, and fell in long, natural locks on both sides of her pale, transparent face. Her hair needed no powder now; the long, sleepless nights and the sorrowful days have whitened it more than any powder could do; and the widow of Louis Capet, though but thirty-eight years old, had the gray locks of a woman of seventy.
In this toilet Marie Antoinette appeared before the revolutionary tribunal, from the 6th to the 13th of October. Nothing royal was left about her but her look and her proud bearing.
The people, pressing in dense masses into the spectators' seats, did not weary of seeing the queen in her humiliation and in her mourning-robe, and constantly demanded that Marie Antoinette should rise from the woven rush chair on which she was sitting, that she should allow herself to be stared at by this throng, brought there not out of compassion, but curiosity.
Once, as she rose in reply to the demand of the public, she was heard to whisper, as to herself: "Ah, will this people not soon be satisfied with my sufferings?" [Footnote: Marie Antoinette's own words. --See Goncourt, "Histoire de Marie Antoinette," p. 404.] At another time, her pale, dry lips murmured, "I am thirsty!" but no one around her dared to have compassion on this cry of distress; every one looked perplexed at the others, and no one dared give her a glass of water. At last one of the gens d'armes ventured to do it, and Marie Antoinette thanked him with a look that brought tears into his eyes, and that perhaps caused him to fall on the morrow under the guillotine as a traitor.
The gens d'armes who guarded the queen, they alone had the courage to show her compassion. One night, when she was conducted from the session-room to her prison, Marie Antoinette felt herself so exhausted, so overcome, that she murmured to herself, as she staggered on, "I cannot see, I cannot walk any farther." [Footnote: Goncourt, p.416] The guard who was walking by her side gave her his arm, and, supported by him, Marie Antoinette reeled up the stone steps that led to her prison.
At last, in the night intervening between the 14th and 15th of October, at four o'clock in the morning, her sentence was pronounced--"Death! execution by the guillotine!"
Marie Antoinette received it with unshakable calmness, while the tumult of the excited mob was hushed as by magic, and while many faces even of the exasperated fish-wives grew pale!
Marie Antoinette remained calm; gravely and coldly she rose from her seat, and with her own hands opened the balustrade in order to leave the hall to return to her prison!
Finally, on the morning of the 16th of October, her sufferings were allowed to end, and she was permitted to take refuge in the grave. It almost made her joyful; she had suffered so much, that to die was for her really blessedness.
She employed the still hours of the night before her death in writing to her sister-in-law, Madame Elizabeth, and her letter was at the same time her testament. But the widow of Louis Capet had no riches, no treasures to convey. She had nothing more that she could call her own but her love, her tears, and her farewell greetings. These she left to all who had loved her. She sent a special word to her brothers and sisters, and bade them farewell.
"I had friends," she says, "and the thought that I am to be forever separated from them, and their sorrow for me, is the most painful thing in this hour; they shall at least know that I thought of them to the last moment."
After Marie Antoinette had ended this letter, whose writing was here and there blotted with her tears, she turned her thoughts to the last remembrances she could leave to her children--a remembrance which should not be profaned by the hand of the executioner. This was her long hair, whose silver locks, the only ornament that remained to her, was at the same time the sad record of her sorrows.
Marie Antoinette, with her own hands, despoiled herself of this ornament, and cut off her long back-hair, that it might be a last gift to her children, her relations, and friends. Then, after a period of meditation, she prepared herself for the last great ceremony of her career--her death. She felt herself exhausted, worn out, and recognized her need of some physical support during the hard way which lay before her. She asked for nourishment, and ate with some relish the wing of a fowl that was brought to her. After that she made her toilet--the toilet of death!
At the request of the queen, the wife of the turnkey gave her one of her own chemises, and Marie Antoinette put it on. Then she arrayed herself in the same garments which she had worn at her trial, with this single change--that over the black woollen dress, which she had often mended with her own hand, she now wore a cloak of white pique, Around her neck she tied a simple kerchief of white muslin, and as she would not be allowed to ascend the scaffold with uncovered head, she put on a plain linen cap, such as was in general use among the people. Black stockings covered her feet, and over these were shoes of black woollen stuff.
Her toilet was at last ended; she was done with all earthly things! Ready to meet her death, she lay down on her bed and slept.
She was still sleeping when it was announced to her that a priest was there, ready to meet her, if she wanted to confess. But Marie Antoinette had already unveiled her heart before God: she wanted none of those priests of reason whom the republic had appointed after it had banished or guillotined the priests of the Church.
"As I am not mistress of my own will," she had written to her sister Elizabeth, "I shall have to submit if a priest is brought to me; but I solemnly declare that I will not speak a word to him, and that I shall treat him as a person with whom I wish to have no relations."
And Marie Antoinette kept her word; she did not refuse to allow Geroid to enter; but when he asked her if she wished to receive the consolations of religion from him, she declined.
Then, in order to warm her feet, which were cold, she walked up and down her little room. As it struck seven the door opened. It was Samson, the public executioner, who entered!
A slight thrill passed through the form of the queen.
"You have come very early, sir; could you not delay a little?" When Samson denied her request, Marie Antoinette put on her calm, cold manner. She drank, without resistance, a cup of chocolate which was brought to her; she remained possessed, and wore her wonted air of dignity as they bound her hands behind her with thick cords.
At eleven o'clock she left her room, passed through the corridor, and ascended the car, which was waiting for her before the prison door. No one accompanied her, no one bade her a last farewell, not a look of pity or compassion was bestowed upon her by her keepers.
Alone, between the rows of gens d'armes that were placed along the sides of the corridor, the queen advanced, Samson walking behind her, carrying the end of the rope with which the queen's hands were bound, and behind him his two assistants and the priest. This is the retinue of the queen, the daughter of an emperor, on the way to her execution!
It may be, that at this hour thousands are on their knees, offering their fervent prayers to God in behalf of Marie Antoinette, whom, in their hearts, they continued to call "the queen;" it may be that thousands are pouring out tears of compassion for her who now mounts the wretched car, and sits down on the board which is bound by ropes to the sides of the vehicle. But those who are praying and weeping have withdrawn to the solitude of their own apartments, and only God can see their tears and hear their cries. The eyes which witnessed the queen in this last drive were not allowed to shed a tear; the words which followed her on her last way could express no compassion.
All Paris knew the hour of the execution, and the people were ready to witness it. On the streets, at the windows, on the roofs, immense masses had congregated, and the whole Place de la Revolution (now the Place de la Concorde) was filled with a dark, surging crowd.
And now the drums of the guards stationed before the Conciergerie began to beat. The great white horse, (which drew the car in which the queen sat, side by side with the priest, and facing backward,) was driven forward by a man who was upon his back. Behind Marie Antoinette were Samson and his assistants.
The queen was pale, all the blood had left her cheeks and lips, but her eyes were red! Poor queen, she bore even then the marks of much weeping! But she could shed no tears then! Not a single one obscured her eye as her look ranged, gravely and calmly, over the mass, up the houses to the very roofs, then slowly down, and then away over the boundless sea of human faces.
Her face was as cold and grave as her eyes, her lips were firmly compressed; not a quiver betrayed whether she was suffering, and whether she shrank from the thousand and ten thousand scornful and curious looks which were fixed upon her. And yet Marie Antoinette saw it all! She saw a woman raise a child, she saw the child throw her a kiss with its little hand! At that the queen gave way for an instant, her lips quivered, her eyes were darkened with a tear! This solitary sign of human sympathy reanimated the heart of the queen, and gave her a little fresh life.
But the people took good care that Marie Antoinette should not carry this one drop of comfort to the end of her journey. The populace thronged around the car, howled, groaned, sang ribald songs, clapped their hands, and pointed their fingers in derision at Madame Veto.
The queen, however, remained calm, her gaze wandering coldly over the vast multitude; only once did her eye flash on the route. It was as she passed the Palais Royal, where Philippe Egalite, once the Duke d'Orleans, lived, and read the inscription which he had caused to be placed over the main entrance of the palace.
At noon the car reached its destination. It came to a halt at the foot of the scaffold; Marie Antoinette dismounted, and then walked slowly and with erect head up the steps.
Not once during her dreadful ride had her lips opened, not a complaint had escaped her, not a farewell had she spoken. The only adieu which she had to give on earth was a look--one long, sad look- -directed toward the Tuileries; and as she gazed at the great pile her cheeks grew paler, and a deep sigh escaped from her lips.
Then she placed her head under the guillotine,--a momentary, breathless silence followed.
Samson lifted up the pale head that had once belonged to the Queen of France, and the people greeted the sight with the cry, "Long live the republic!"
That same evening one of the officials of the republic made up an account, now preserved in the Imperial Library of Paris, and which must move even the historian himself to tears. It runs as follows: "Cost of interments, conducted by Joly, sexton of Madelaine de la Ville l'Eveque, of persons condemned by the Tribunal of the Committee of Safety, to wit, No. 1 . . . ." Then follow twenty-four names and numbers, and then "No. 25. Widow Capet: For the coffin, . . . . . . . . . . . . .6 francs. For digging the grave,. . . . . . . . . 25 francs."
Beneath are the words, "Seen and approved by me, President of the Revolutionary Tribunal, that Joly, sexton of the Madelaine, receive the sum of two hundred and sixty-four francs from the National Treasury, Paris, llth Brumaire. Year II. of the French Republic. Herman, President."
The interment of the Queen of France did not cost the republic more than thirty-one francs, or six American dollars.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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25
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KING LOUIS THE SEVENTEENTH.
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The "one and indivisible republic" bad gained the victory over the lilies of France. In their dark and unknown graves, in the Madelaine churchyard, King Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette slept their last sleep. The monarchy had perished on the guillotine, and the republicans, the preachers of liberty, equality, and fraternity, repeated triumphantly: "Royalty is forever extinguished, and the glorious republic is the rising sun which is to bring eternal deliverance to France."
But, in spite of this jubilant cry, the foreheads of the republican leaders darkened, and a peculiar solicitude took possession of their hearts when their eyes fell upon the Temple--that great, dismal building, that threw its dark shadows over the sunny path of the republic. Was it regret that darkened the brows of the regicides as they looked upon this building, which had been the sad prison of the king and queen? Those hearts of bronze knew no regret; and when the heroes of the revolution crossed the Place de la Guillotine, on which the royal victims had perished, their eyes flashed more proudly, and did not fall even when they passed by the Madelaine churchyard.
No, it was not the recollection of the deed that saddened the brows of the potentates of the republic when they looked at the dismal Temple, but the recollection of him who was not yet dead, but who was still living as a captive in the gloomy state-prison of the republic.
This prisoner was indeed only a child of eight years, but the legitimists--and there were many of them still in the country-- called him the King of France; and priests in loyal Vendee, when they had finished the daily mass for the murdered king, prayed to God, with uplifted hands, for grace and deliverance for the young captive at the Temple, the young king, Louis XVII.
"Le roi est mort--Vive le roi!"
There were, it must be confessed, among the royalists and legitimists many who thought of the young prisoner with bitterness and anger, and who accused and blamed him as the calumniator of his mother! As if the child knew what he was doing when, at the command of his tormentor Simon, he wrote with trembling hand his name upon the paper which was laid before him in the open court. As if the poor innocent boy knew what meaning the dreadful questions had, which the merciless judges put to him, and which he answered with no, or with yes, according as his scrutinizing looks were able to make out the fitting answer on the hard face of Simon, who stood near him. For the unhappy lad had already learned to read the face of the turnkey, and knew very well that every wrinkle of the forehead which was caused by him must be atoned for with dreadful sufferings, abuses, and blows.
The poor boy was afraid of the heavy fist that came down like an iron club upon his back and even on his face, when he said any thing or did any thing that displeased Simon or his wife; and therefore he sought to escape this cruel treatment, confirming with his yes and no what Simon told the judges, and what the child in his innocence did not understand! And therefore he subscribed the paper without reluctance in which he unconsciously gave evidence that disgraced his mother.
With this testimony they ventured to accuse Marie Antoinette of infamy, but the queen gave it no other answer than scornful silence and a proud and dignified look, before which the judges cast down their eyes in shame. Then after a pause they repeated their question, and demanded an answer.
Marie Antoinette turned her proud and yet gentle glance to the women who had taken possession in dense masses of the spectators' gallery, and who breathlessly awaited the answer of the queen.
"I appeal to all mothers present," she said, with her sad, sonorous voice--" I ask whether they hold such a crime to be possible."
No one gave audible reply, but a murmur passed through the ranks of the spectators, and the sharp ear of the judges understood very well the meaning of this sound, this language of sympathy, and it seemed to them wiser to let the accusation fall rather than rouse up the compassion of the mothers still more in behalf of the queen. Her condemnation was an event fixed upon, the "guilty" had been spoken in the hearts of the judges long before it came to their lips, and brought the queen to the guillotine.
Marie Antoinette referred to this dreadful charge in the letter which she wrote to her sister-in-law Elizabeth in the night before her execution, a letter which was at the same time her testament and her farewell to life.
"May my son," she wrote, "never forget the last words of his father! I repeat them to him here expressly: 'May he never seek to avenge our death!' And now I have to speak of a matter which surely grieves my heart, I know what trouble this child must have occasioned you. Forgive him, my dear sister; think how young he is, and how easy it is to induce a child to say what people want to have him say, and what he does not understand. The day will come, I hope, when he shall better comprehend the high value of your goodness and tenderness to both of my children." [Footnote: Beauchesne, "Louis XVII., sa Vie, son Agonie," etc., vol. i. . , p. 150, facsimile of Marie Antoinette's letter.] * At the same hour when Marie Antoinette was writing this, there was a dispute between Simon and his wife, who had been ordered by the Convention to watch that night, in order that the enraged legitimists might not make an effort to abduct the son of the queen. They were contending whether the execution would really occur the next day. Simon, in a jubilant tone, declared his conviction that it would, while his wife doubted. "She is still handsome," she said, gloomily, "she knows how to talk well, and she will be able to move her judges, for her judges are men."
"But Justice is a woman, and she is unshakable," cried Simon emphatically, and as his wife continued to contradict, Simon proposed a bet. The wager was, that if the Queen of France should be guillotined the next noon, the one who lost should furnish brandy and cakes the next evening for a jollification.
The next morning Simon repaired with the little prisoner to the platform of the tower, from which there was a free lookout over the streets, and where they could plainly see what was going on below.
His wife meanwhile had left the Temple at early dawn with her dreadful knitting-work. "I must be on the spot early if I want a good place to-day," she said, "and it would be a real misfortune for me, if I should not see the miserable head of the she-wolf drop, and not make a double stitch in my stocking."
"But you forget, Jeanne Marie," said Simon, with a grin, "you forget that you lose your bet if you make the mark in your stocking."
"I would rather lose all the bets that were ever made than not make the mark in my stocking," cried the knitter, grimly. "I would rather lose my wedding-dress and my marriage-ring than win this bet. Go up to the platform with the young wolf, and wait for me there. As soon as I have made the mark in my stocking, I will run home and show it to you."
"It is too bad that I cannot go with you," said Simon, sighing. "I wish I had never undertaken the business of bringing up the little Capet. It is hateful work, for I can never leave the Temple, and I am just as much a prisoner as he is."
"The republic has done you a great honor," said the knitter, solemnly. "She has confidence that you will make out of the son of the she-wolf, out of the worthless scion of tyrants, a son of the republic, a useful citizen."
"Good talk," growled Simon, "and you have only the honor of the affair, and the satisfaction besides of plaguing the son of our tyrants a bit."
"Of taking revenge," struck in the knitter--"revenge for the misery which my family has suffered from the tyrants."
"But I," continued Simon, "I have certainly the honor of the thing, but I have also the burden. In the first place, it is very hard to make a strong and useful citizen, of the republic out of this whining, tender, and sensitive urchin. And then again it is very unpleasant and disagreeable to have to live like a prisoner always."
"Listen, Simon, hear what I promise you," said Jeanne Marie, laying her hard brown hand upon Simon's shoulder. "If the Austrian atones to-day for her crimes, and the executioner shows her head to the avenged people, I will give up my place at the guillotine as a knitter, will remain with you here in the Temple, will take my share in the bringing up of the little Capet, and you yourself shall make the proposition to the supervisor, that your wife like yourself shall not be allowed to leave the Temple."
"That is something I like to hear," cried Simon, delighted; "there will then be at least two of us to bear the tedium of imprisonment. So go, Jenne Marie, take your place for the last time at the guillotine, for I tell you, you will lose your bet; you will have to furnish brandy and cakes, and stay with me here at the Temple to bring up the little Capet. So go, I will go up to the platform with the boy, and wait there for your return."
He called the little Louis Charles, who was sitting on the tottering rush-chair in his room, and anxiously waiting to see whether "his master" was going to take him that day out of the dismal, dark prison.
"Come, little Capet," cried Simon, pushing the door open with his foot--" come, we will go up on the platform. You can take your ball along and play, and I advise you to be right merry to-day, for it is a holiday for the republic, and I am going to teach you to be a good republican. So if you want to keep your back free from my straps, be jolly to-day, and play with your ball" "Oh!" cried the child, springing forward merrily with his ball--" oh! only be good, master, I will certainly be merry, for I like to play with my ball, and I am ever so fond of holidays. What kind of one is it to-day?"
"No matter about your knowing that, you little toad!" growled Simon, who in spite of himself had compassion on the pale face of the child that looked up to him so innocently and inquiringly. "Up the staircase quick, and play and laugh."
Louis obeyed with a smile, sprang up the high steps of the winding stairway, jumped about on the platform, throwing his ball up in the air, and shouting aloud when he caught it again with his little thin hands.
Meanwhile Simon stood leaning on the iron railing that surrounded the platform, looking with his searching eyes down into the street which far below ran between the dark houses like a narrow ribbon.
The wind now brought the sustained notes of the drums to him; then he saw the street below suddenly filled with a dark mass, as if the ribbon were turning into crape that was filling all Paris.
"The people are in motion by thousands," cried Simon, delightedly, "and all rushing to the Place de la Revolution. I shall win my bet."
And again he listened to the sound that came up to him, now resembling the beat of drums, and now a loud cry of exultation.
"Now I think Samson must be striking the head off the wolf!" growled Simon to himself, "and the people are shouting with pleasure, and Jeanne Marie is making a mark in her stocking, and I, poor fellow, cannot be there to see the fine show! And this miserable brat is to blame for it," he cried aloud, turning suddenly round to the child who was playing behind him with his ball, and giving him a savage blow with his fist.
"You are the cause, stupid, that I cannot be there today!"
"Master," said the child, beseechingly, lifting his great blue eyes, in which the tears were standing, up to his tormentor--" master, I beg your forgiveness if I have troubled you."
"Yes, you have troubled me," growled Simon, "and you shall get your thanks for it in a way you will not like. Quick, away with your tears, go on with your play if you do not want your back to make acquaintance with my straps. Merry, I say, little Capet, merry!"
The boy hastily dried his tears, laughed aloud as a proof of his merriment, and began to jump about again and to play with his ball.
Simon listened again, and looked down longingly into the streets, which were now black with the surging masses of men. Steps were now heard upon the stairway, and Jeanne Marie presently appeared on the platform. With a grave, solemn air she walked up to her husband, and gave him her stocking, on which three great drops of blood were visible.
"That is her blood," she said, calmly. "Thank God, I have lost the bet!"
"What sort of a bet was it?" asked the boy, with a smile, and giving his ball a merry toss.
"The bet is nothing to you," answered Jeanne Marie, "but if you are good you will get something by and by, and have a share in the payment of the bet!"
That evening there was a little feast prepared in the gloomy rooms of the Simons. The wife paid the wager, for the Queen of France had really been executed, and she had lost. She provided two bottles of brandy and a plum cake, and the son of the murdered queen had a share in the entertainment. He ate a piece of the plum cake, and, under the fear of being beaten if he refused, he drank some of the brandy that was so offensive to him.
From this time the unhappy boy remained under the hands of the cobbler and his cruel wife. In vain his aunt and his sister implored their keepers to be allowed to see and to talk with the prince. They were put off with abusive words, and only now and then could they see him a moment through a crack in the door, as he passed by with Simon, on his way to the winding staircase. At times there came up through the floor of their room--for Simon, who was no longer porter, had the rooms directly beneath these occupied by the princesses--the crying and moaning of the little prince, filling their hearts with pain and bitterness, for they knew that the horrible keeper of the dauphin was giving his pitiable ward a lesson, i.e., he was beating and maltreating him. "Why? For what reason? One day, perhaps, because he refused to drink brandy, the next because he looked sad, or because he asked to be taken to his mother or the princesses, or because he refused to sing the ribald songs which Simon tried to teach him about Madame Veto or the Austrian she-wolf.
In this one thing the boy remained immovable; neither threats, abuse, nor blows would force him to sing scurrilous songs about his mother. Out of fear he did every thing else that his tormentor bade him. He sung the Marseillaise, and the Caira, he danced the Carmagnole, uttered his loud hurrahs as Simon drank a glass of brandy to the weal of the one and indivisible republic; but when he was ordered to sing mocking songs about Madame Veto, he kept a stubborn silence, and nothing was able to overcome what Simon called the "obstinacy of the little viper."
Nothing, neither blows nor kicks, neither threats nor promises! The child no longer ventured to ask after its mother, or to beg to be taken to his aunt and sister, but once in a while when he heard a noise in the room above, he would fix his eyes upon the ceiling for a long time, and with an expression of longing, and when he dropped them, again the clear tears ran over his cheeks like transparent pearls.
He did not speak about his mother, but he thought of her, and once in the night he seemed to be dreaming of her, for he raised himself up in bed, kneeled down upon the miserable, dirty mattress, folded his hands and began to repeat in a loud voice the prayer which his mother had taught him.
The noise awakened Simon, who roused his wife, to let her listen to the "superstitious little monkey," whom he would cure forever of his folly.
He sprang out of bed, took a pitcher of cold water, that was standing on the table, and poured it upon the head of the kneeling boy. Louis Charles awoke with a shriek, and crouched down in alarm. But the whole bed was wet, only the pillow had been spared. The boy rose carefully, took the pillow, carried it into a corner of the room, and sat down upon it. But his teeth chattered with the cold in spite of himself. This awakened Simon a second time, just as he was dropping asleep. With a wild curse he jumped out of bed and dressed himself.
"That is right!" cried Jeanne Marie, "bring the brat to his senses. Make little Capet know that he is to behave respectfully."
And Simon did make the poor boy understand it, sitting on the pillow, shivering in his wet shirt. He seized him by his shoulders, shook him angrily from one side to another, and shouted: "I will teach you to say your Pater Noster, and get up in the night like a Trappist!"
The boy remaining silent, Simon's rage, which knew no bounds when he thought he was defied or met with stubbornness, entirely took possession of him. He caught up his boot, whose sole was secured with large iron nails, and was on the point of hurling it at the head of the unoffending boy, when the latter seized his arm with convulsive energy.
"What have I done to you, master, that you should kill me?" cried the little Louis.
"Kill you, you wolf-brat!" roared Simon. "As if I wanted to, or ever had wanted to! Oh, the miserable viper! So you do not know that if I only took fairly hold of your neck, you never would scream again!"
And with his powerful arm he seized the boy and hurled him upon the water-soaked bed. Louis lay down without a word, without a complaint, and remained there shivering and with chattering teeth until morning. [Footnote: Beauchesne, "Louis XVII.," vol. ii., p. 185.]
From this period there was a change in the boy. Until this time his moist eyes had fixed themselves with a supplicating look upon his tormentors when they threatened him, but after this they were cast down. Until now he had always sought to fulfil his master's commands with great alacrity; afterward he was indifferent, and made no effort to do so, for he had learned that it was all to no purpose, and that he must accept a fate of slavery and affliction. The face of the child, once so rosy and smiling, now took on a sad, melancholy expression, his cheeks were pale and sunken. The attractive features of his face were disfigured, his limbs grew to a length disproportionate to his age; his back bent into a bow, as if he felt the burden of the humiliations which were thrown upon him. When the child had learned that every thing that he said was twisted, turned into ridicule, and made the cause of chastisement, he was entirely silent, and only with the greatest pains could a word be drawn from him.
This silence exasperated Simon, and made him furiously command the boy to sing, laugh, and be merry. At other times he would order Louis to be silent and motionless for hours, and to have nothing to do with the bird-cage, which was on the table, and which was the only thing left that the little fellow could enjoy.
This cage held a number of birds, and a piece of mechanism, an automaton in the form of a bird, which ate like a living creature, drank, hopped from one bar to another, opened his bill, and sang the air which was so popular before the revolution, "Oh, Richard! oh, my king!"
This article had been found among the royal apparel, and a compassion ate official guard had told Simon about it, and induced him to apply to the authorities in charge of the Temple and ask for it for the little Capet.
Simon, who, as well as his wife, could no more leave the building than their prisoner could, took this solitary, confined life very seriously, and longed for some way to mitigate the tedium. He therefore availed himself gladly of the official's proposition, and asked for the automaton, which was granted by the authorities. The boy was delighted with the toy at first, and a pleased smile flitted over his face. But he soon became tired of playing with the thing and paid no attention to it.
"Does not your bird please you any longer?" asked Miller, the official, as he came one day to inspect the Temple. "Do you have no more sport with your canary?"
The boy shook his head, and as Simon was in the next room and so could not strike him, he ventured to speak.
"It is no bird," he answered softly and quickly. "But I should like to have a bird."
The good inspector nodded to the boy, and then went out to have a long talk with Simon, and so to avert any suspicion of being too familiar with, or too fond of, the prince. But after leaving the Temple he went to his friends and acquaintances, and told them, with tears in his eyes, about the little prisoner in the Temple, the "dauphin," as the royalists used always to call him beneath their breath, and how he wanted a living bird. Every one was glad to have an opportunity of gratifying the wish of the dauphin, and on the next day Miller brought the prince a cage, in which were fourteen real canaries.
"Ah! those are real birds," cried the child, as he took them one after the other and kissed them. The playing of the birds, which all lived in one great cage, together with the automaton, was now the only pleasure of the boy. He began to tame them, and among the little feathered flock he found one to which he was especially drawn, because he was more quiet than the others, allowed itself to be easily caught, sat still on the finger of the prince, and, turning his little black eyes to the boy, warbled a little, sweet melody. At such moments the countenance of the boy beamed as it had done in the days of his happiness; his cheeks flushed with color, and out of his large blue eyes, which rested with inexpressible tenderness upon the bird, there issued the rays of intelligence and sensibility. He had now something to love, something to which all his gentle sympathies could flow out, which hitherto had all been suppressed beneath the harsh treatment of his keepers.
He was no longer alone, he was no longer joyless! His little friend was there in the great cage among the twittering companions who were indifferent to the little prince. In order to know him at first sight, and always to be able to recognize him, Louis took the rose- colored ribbon from the neck of the automaton, and tied it around the neck of his darling. The bird sang merrily at this, and seemed to be as well pleased with the decoration as if it had been an order which King Louis of France was hanging around the neck of a favorite courtier.
It was a fortunate thing for the boy that Simon himself was fond of birds, else the objections of his wife would soon have robbed the little fellow of his last remaining comfort. It was for the keeper a little source of amusement, an interruption in the dreadful monotony of his life. The birds were allowed to stay therefore, and their singing and twittering animated a little the dark, silent rooms, and reminded him of the spring, the fresh air, the green trees!
But very soon this source of comfort and cheer was to be banished from the dismal place! On the 19th of December, 1793, the inspectors of the Temple made their rounds. Just at the moment when they entered the room of the little Louis Capet, the automaton began to sing with his loud, penetrating voice, "Oh! Richard, oh my king!"
The officials came to a halt upon the threshold, as though petrified at this unheard-of license, and fixed their cold, angry looks now upon the bird-, now upon the boy, who was sitting upon his rush- chair before the cage, looking at the birds with beaming eyes.
A second time the automaton began the unfortunate air, and the exasperated inspectors strode up to the cage. "What does this mean?" asked one of them. "How does any one dare to keep up, in the glorious republic, such worthless reminders of the cursed monarchy."
"Only see," cried another--"see the order that one of the birds is wearing. It is plain that the old passion of royalty still lurks here, for even here ribbons are given away as signs of distinction. The republic forbids such things, and we will not suffer such infamy."
The inspector put his hand into the cage, seized the little canary- bird with the red ribbon, and squeezed him so closely that the poor little creature gave one faint chirp and died. The man drew him out, and hurled him against the wall of the room.
The little boy said not a word, he uttered not a complaint; he gazed with widely-opened eyes at his dead favorite, and two great tears slowly trickled down his pale cheeks.
The next day the inspectors gave a report of this occurrence, couched in terms of worthy indignation, and all hearts were stirred with righteous anger at the story of the automaton that sang the royal aria, and of the living bird that wore the badge of an order about its neck. They were convinced that the secret royalists were connected with this thing, and it was registered in the communal acts as "the conspiracy of the canary-bird."
The little winged conspirators, the automaton as well as the living birds, were of course instantly removed from the Temple; and Simon had the double vexation of receiving a reprimand from the authorities, and then the losing his little merry companions from the prison. It was all the fault of this little, good-for-nothing boy, who knew how to make long faces, and allowed himself to waken and disturb his master in the night by his crying and sobbing.
"The worthless viper has spoiled my sleep for me," growled Simon the next morning. "My head is as heavy as a bomb, and I shall have to take a foot-bath, to draw the blood away from my ears."
Jeanne Marie silently carried her husband the leaden foot-bath, with the steaming water, and then drew back into the corner, in whose dismal shadow she often sat for hours, gazing idly at her "calendar of the revolution," the long stocking, on which traces of the blood of the queen were still visible.
Meanwhile, Simon took his foot-bath, and while he did so, his wicked, malicious eyes now fell upon his wife, who had once been so cheerful and resolute, and who now had grown so sad and broken, now upon the boy, who, since yesterday, when his canaries had been taken from him, had spoken not a word, or made a sound, and who sat motionless upon the rush-chair, folding his hands in his lap, and gazing at the place where his dead bird lay yesterday.
"This life would make one crazy," growled Simon, with the tone of a hyena. "Capet," he cried aloud, "take the towel and warm it at the chimney-fire, so as to wipe my feet."
Louis rose slowly from his chair, took the towel and crept to the chimney-fire to spread it out and warm it; but the glow of the coals burned his little thin hands so badly, that he let the cloth fall into the fire, and before the trembling, frightened child had time to draw it back, the towel had kindled and was burning brightly.
Simon uttered a howl of rage, and, as with his feet in the water he was not able to reach the boy, he heaped curses and abuse upon him, and not alone on him, but on his father and mother, till his voice was hoarse, and he was exhausted with this outpouring of his wrath.
Deceived by the quiet which followed, little Louis took another towel, warmed it carefully at the chimney, and then cautiously approached his master, to wipe his feet. Simon extended them to the boy and let himself he served as if by a little slave; but just as soon as his feet were dry he kicked the boy's head with such force that without a cry Louis fell down, striking his head violently on the floor. Perhaps it was this pitiful spectacle that exasperated the cobbler still more. He beat the unconscious boy, roused him with kicks and with the noise of his curses, raised his clinched fists and swore that he would now dash the viper in pieces, when he suddenly felt his hands grasped as in iron clamps, and to his boundless astonishment saw before him the pale, grim face of his wife, who had come out from her corner and fixed her black, glistening eyes upon him, while she held his hands firmly.
"What is it, Jeanne Marie?" said Simon, surprised! "why are you holding me so?"
"Because I do not want you to beat him to death," she said, with a hoarse, rough voice.
He broke out into loud laughter. "I really believe that the knitter of the guillotine has pity on the son of the she-wolf."
A convulsive quiver passed through her whole frame. A singular, gurgling sound came from her chest; she put both her hands to her neck and tore the little kerchief off, as if it were tied tight enough to strangle her.
"No," she said, in a suppressed tone, "no compassion on the wolf's brood! But if you beat him to death, they will have to bring you to the guillotine, that it may not appear as if they had ordered you to kill the little Capet."
"True," said Simon, "you are right, and I thank you, Jeanne Marie, that you may remind me of it. It shows that you love me still, although you are always so quiet. Yes, yes, I will be more careful; I will take care to beat the little serpent only so much that it may not bite, but cannot die."
Jeanne Marie made no reply, but sat down in the corner again, and took up her stocking, without touching the needles, however, and going on with her work.
"Get up, you cursed snake!" growled Simon, "get up and go out of my sight, and do not stir me up again."
The child rose slowly from the floor, crept to the wash-basin and with his trembling, bruised hands wiped away the blood that was flowing out of his nose and mouth. A loud, gurgling sound came from the corner where Jeanne Marie sat. It seemed half like a cry, half like a sob. When Simon looked around, his wife lay pale and motionless on the floor; she had sunk from her chair in a swoon.
Simon grasped her in his strong arms and carried her to the bed, laid her gently and carefully down, and busied himself about her, showing a manifest anxiety.
"She must not die," he murmured, rubbing her temples with salt water; "she must not leave me alone in this horrible prison and with this dreadful child. --Jeanne Marie, wake up, come to yourself!" She opened her eyes, and gazed at her husband with wild, searching looks.
"What is the matter, Jeanne Marie?" he asked. "Have you pain? Are you sick?"
"Yes," she said, "I am sick, I am in pain."
"I will go to bring you a physician, you shall not die! No, no, you shall not die, you shall have a physician. The Hotel Dieu is very near, they will certainly allow me to go as far as there, and bring a doctor for my dear Jeanne."
He was on the point of hastening away, but Jeanne Marie held him fast. "Remain here," she murmured, "do not let me be alone with him- -I am afraid of him!"
"Of whom?" asked Simon, astonished; and as he followed the looks of his wife, they rested on the boy, who was still busy in checking the blood that was flowing freely from his swollen nose.
"Of him!" asked Simon, in amazement.
Jeanne Marie nodded. "Yes," she whispered, "I am afraid of him, and I do not want to remain alone with him, for he would kill me." Simon burst into a loud, hoarse laugh. "Now I see that you are really sick, and the doctor shall come at once. But they certainly will not let me leave this place, for this despicable brat has made us both prisoners, the miserable, good-for-nothing thing!"
"Send him away; let him go into his own room," whispered Jeanne Marie. "I cannot bear to see him; he poisons my blood. Send him away, for I shall be crazy if I have to look at him longer."
"Away with you, you viper!" roared Simon; and the boy, who knew that he was meant--that the term viper was applied only to him--hastily dried his tears, and slipped through the open door into his little dark apartment.
"Now I will run and call the porter," said Simon, hurriedly; "he shall send some one to the Hotel Dieu, and bring a physician for my poor, dear, sick Jeanne Marie."
He hastened out, and turned back, after a few minutes, with the report that the porter himself had gone to bring a doctor, and that help would come at once.
"Nonsense!" cried Jeanne Marie; "no doctor can help me, and there is nothing at all that I want. Only give me something to drink, Simon, for my throat burns like fire, and then call little Capet in, for in his dark room his eyes glisten like stars, and I cannot bear them."
Simon shook his head sadly; and, while holding a glass of cold water to her lips, he said to himself: "Jeanne Marie is really sick! She has a fever! But we must do what she orders, else it will come to delirium, and she might become insane."
And with a loud voice he called, "Capet, Capet! come here, come here! you viper, you wolf's cub, come here!"
The boy obeyed the command, slowly crept into the room, and sat down in the rush-chair in the corner. "He shall not look at me," shrieked Jeanne Marie; "he shall not look into my heart with his dreadful blue eyes, it hurts me--oh! so much, so much!"
"Turn around, you viper!" said Simon. "Look round this way again, or I'll tear your eyes out of your head! I--" The door leading to the corridor now opened, and an old man, leaning on a cane, entered, wearing on his head a powdered peruke, his bent form covered with a black satin coat, beneath which a satin vest was seen; on his feet, silk stockings and buckled shoes; in his lace- encircled hand, a cane with a gold head.
"Well," cried Simon, with a laugh, "what sort of an old scarecrow is that? And what does it want here?"
"The scarecrow wants nothing of you," said the old man, in a kindly way, "but you want something of it, citizen. You have sent for me."
"Ah! so you are the doctor from the Hotel Dieu."
"Yes, my friend, I am Citizen Naudin."
"Naudin, the chief physician at the Hotel Dieu?" cried Simon. "And you come yourself to see my sick wife?"
"Does that surprise you, Citizen Simon?"
"Yes, indeed, it surprises me. For I have been told so often that Citizen Naudin, the greatest and most skilful physician in all Paris, never leaves the Hotel Dieu; that the aristocrats and ci- devants have begged him in vain to attend them, and that even the Austrian woman, in the days when she was queen, sent to no purpose to the celebrated Naudin, and begged him to come to Versailles.
We heard that the answer was: 'I am the physician of the poor and the sick in the Hotel Dieu, and whoever is poor and sick may come to me in the house which bears the name of God. But whoever is too rich and too well for that, must seek another doctor, for my duties with the sick do not allow me to leave the H6tel Dieu.' And after that answer reached the palace--so the great Doctor Marat told me--the queen had her horses harnessed, and drove to Paris, to consult Doctor Naudin at the Hotel Dieu, and to receive his advice. Is the story really true, and are you Doctor Naudin?"
"The story is strictly true, and, my friend, I am Doctor Naudin."
"And you now leave the Hotel Dieu to come and visit my sick wife?" asked Simon, with a pleasant look and a flattered manner.
"Does your wife not belong to my poor and sick?" asked the doctor. "Is she not a woman of the people, this dear French people, to whom I have devoted my services and my life? For a queen Doctor Naudin might not leave his hospital, but for a woman of the people he does it. And now, citizen, let me see your sick wife, for I did not come here to talk."
Without waiting for Simon's answer, the physician walked up to the bed, sat down on the chair in front of it, and began at once to investigate the condition of the woman, who reached him her feverish hand, and, with an almost inaudible voice, answered his professional questions.
The cobbler stood at the foot of the bed, and directed his little cunning eyes to the physician in amazement and admiration. Behind him, in the corner, sat the son of Marie Antoinette, humiliated, still, and motionless. Yet, in spite of the injunction of Jeanne Marie, he had turned around, and was looking toward the bed; but not to the knitter of the guillotine were his looks directed, but to this venerable old gentleman with his powdered peruke, his satin coat, silk stockings, breeches, shoe-buckles, gold embroidered waistcoat and lace ruffles. This costume reminded him of the past; the halls of Versailles came back to him, and he saw before him the shadowy figures of the cavaliers of that time, all clothed like the dear old gentleman who was sitting before the bed there.
"Why do you look at me in such a wondering way, Citizen Simon?" asked Naudin, who was now through with his examination.
"I really wonder--I really do wonder immensely," said Simon, "and that is saying much, for, in these times, when there are so many changes, a man can hardly wonder at any thing. Still I do wonder, Citizen Naudin, that you can venture to go around in this costume. That is the style of clothing worn by traitorous ci-devants and aristocrats. Anybody else who dare put it on would have only one more walk to take, that to the guillotine, and yet you venture to come here!"
"Venture?" repeated Naudin, with a shrug. "I venture nothing, citizen. I wear my clothes in conformity with a habit of years' standing: they fitted well under the monarchy, they fit just as well under the republic, and I am not going to be such a fool as to put by my soft and comfortable silk clothes, and put on your hateful, uncomfortable thick ones, and strut about in them. I am altogether too old to take up the new fashions, and altogether too well satisfied with my own suit to learn how to wear your cloth coats with swallow-tails, and your leather hose and top-boots. Defend me from crowding my old limbs into such stuffs!"
"Citizen doctor," cried Simon, with a laugh, "you are a jolly, good old fellow, and I like you well. I do not blame you for preferring your comfortable silk clothes to the new style that our revolutionary heroes have brought into mode, that nothing might remind us of the cursed, God-forsaken monarchy. I wonder merely that they allow it, and do not make you a head shorter!"
"But how would they go on with matters in the Hotel Dieu? Without a head nothing could be done with the sick and the suffering, for without a head there is no thinking. Now, as I am the head of the hospital, and as they have no head to take my place, and as, in spite of my old-fashioned clothes, my sick are cured, and have confidence in me, the great revolutionary heroes wink at me, and let me do as I please, for they know that under the silk dress of an aristocrat beats the heart of a true democrat. But that is not the question before us now, citizen. We want to talk about the health of your wife here. She is sick, she has a fever, and it will be worse yet with her, unless we take prompt measures and provide a cooling drink for her."
"Do it, citizen doctor," said Simon; "make my Jeanne Marie well and bright again, or I shall go crazy here in this accursed house. Jeanne Marie is sick just with this, that she is not accustomed to be idle, and to sit still and fold her hands in her lap, and run around like a wild beast in its cage. But here in the Temple it is no better than in a cage; and I tell you, citizen, it is enough to make one crazy here, and it has made Jeanne sick to have no fresh air, no exercise and work."
"But why has she no exercise and no work? Why does she not go out into the street and take the air?"
"Because she cannot," cried Simon, passionately. "Because the cursed little viper there embitters our whole life and makes us prisoners to this miserable, wretched prisoner, Look at him there, the infernal little wolf! he is the one to blame that I cannot go into the street, cannot visit the clubs, the Convention, or any meeting, but must lire here like a Trappist, or like an imprisoned criminal. He is the one to blame that my wife can no longer take her place at the guillotine, and knit and go on with her work there."
"Yes," cried Jeanne Marie, with a groan, raising her head painfully from the pillow, "he is to blame for it all, the shameless rascal. He has made me melancholy and sad; he has worried, and vexed, and changed me! Oh! oh! he is looking at me again, and his eyes burn into my heart!"
"Miserable viper," cried Simon, dashing toward the boy with clinched fists, "how dare you turn your hateful eyes toward her, after her expressly forbidding it? Wait, I will teach you to disobey, and give you a lesson that you will not forget."
His heavy hand fell on the back of the boy, and was raised again for a second stroke, when it was held as in an iron vice.
"You good-for-nothing, what are you doing?" cried a thundering voice, and two blazing eyes flashed on him from the reddened face of Doctor Naudin.
Simon's eyes fell before the angry look of the physician, then he broke out into a loud laugh.
"Citizen doctor, I say, what a jolly fellow you are," he said, merrily. "You did that just as if you were in a theatre, and you called out to me just as they call out to the murderers in a tragedy. What do you make such a halloo about when I chastise the wolf's cub a bit, as he has richly deserved?"
"It is true," said Naudin, "I was a little hasty. But that comes from the fact, citizen, that I not only held you to be a good republican, but a good man as well, and therefore it pained me to see you do a thing which becomes neither a republican nor a good man."
"Why, what have I done that is not proper?" asked Simon, in amazement.
"Look at him, the poor, beaten, swollen, stupefied boy," said Naudin, solemnly, pointing to Louis, who sat on his chair, weeping and trembling in all his limbs--"look at him, citizen, and then do not ask me again what you have done that is not proper."
"Well, but he deserves nothing better," cried Simon, with a sneer. "He is the son of the she-wolf, Madame Veto."
"He is a human being," said Doctor Naudin, solemnly, "and he is, besides, a helpless boy, whom the one, indivisible, and righteous republic deprived of his father and mother, and put under your care to be educated as if he were a son of your own. I ask you, citizen, would you have struck a son of your own as you just struck this boy?"
A loud, convulsive sob came from the bed on which Jeanne Marie lay, and entirely confused and disturbed Simon.
"No," he said, softly, "perhaps I should not have done it. But," continued he eagerly, and with a grim look, "a child of my own would not have tried and exasperated me as this youngster does. From morning till evening he vexes me, for he does nothing that I want him to. If I order him to sing with me, he is still and stupid, and when he ought to be still he makes a noise. Would you believe me, citizen, this son of the she-wolf leaves me no quiet for sleep. Lately, in the night, he kneeled down in the bed and began to pray with a loud voice, so as to wake both my wife and myself."
"From that night on I have been sick and miserable," moaned Jeanne Marie; "from that night I have not been able to sleep."
"You hear, citizen doctor, my wife was so terrified with that, that it made her sick, and now you shall have a proof of the disobedience of the little viper. Capet, come here."
The boy rose slowly from his chair, and stole along with drooping head to his master.
"Capet, we will sing," said Simon. "You shall show the doctor that you are a good republican, and that you have entirely forgotten that you are the son of the Austrian, the rascally Madame Veto. Come, we will sing the song about Madame Veto. Quick, strike in, or I will beat you into pulp. The song about Madame Veto, do you hear? Sing!"
A short pause ensued. Then the boy raised his swollen face and fixed his great blue eyes with a defiant, flaming expression upon the face of the cobbler.
"Citizen," he said, with clear, decided tones, "I shall not sing the song about Madame Veto, for I have not forgotten my dear mamma, and I can sing nothing bad about her, for I love my dear mamma so much, so much, and--" The voice of the boy was drowned in his tears; he let his head fall upon his breast, ready to receive the threatened chastisement. But, before the fist of Simon, already raised, could fall upon the poor head of the little sufferer, a thrilling cry of pain resounded from the bed.
"Simon, come to me," gasped Jeanne Marie. "Help me draw the dagger out of my breast, I am dying--oh, I am dying!"
"What kind of a dagger?" cried Simon, rushing to the bed and taking the convulsed form of his wife in his arms.
"Hush!" whispered the doctor, who also had gone to the bed of the sick woman--"hush! she is speaking in her fever, and the dagger of which she talks she feels in her heart and conscience. You must spare her, citizen, if you do not want her to die. Every thing must be quiet around her, and you must be very careful not to agitate her nerves, lest she have an acute typhoid fever. I will send her some cooling medicine at once, and to-morrow morning I will come early to see how it fares with her. But, above every thing else, Simon, remember to have quiet, that your good wife may get well again."
"Who would have told me two weeks ago that Jeanne Marie had nerves?" growled Simon. "The first knitter of the guillotine, and now all at once nerves and tears, but I must be careful of her. For it would be too bad if she should die and leave me all alone with this tedious youngster. I could not hold out. I should run away. Go, Capet, get into your room, and do not get in my way again to-day, else I will strangle you before you can make a sound. Come, scud, clear, and do not let me see you again, if your life is worth any thing to you."
The child stole into his room again, sat down upon the floor, folded his little hands in one another, fixed his great blue eyes on the ceiling above, and held his breath to listen to every little sound, every footfall that came from the room above.
All at once he heard plainly the steps of some one walking up and down, and a pleased smile flitted across the face of the boy.
"That is certainly my dear mamma," he whispered to himself. "Yes, yes, it is my mamma queen, and she is taking her walk in the sitting-room, just as she has done since she has not been allowed to go out upon the platform. Oh, mamma, my dear mamma, I love you so much!"
And the child threw a kiss up to the ceiling, not knowing that she to whom he sent his greeting had long been resting in the silent grave, and that with the very hand which was throwing kisses to her, he had himself signed the paper which heaped upon his mother the most frightful calumnies.
Even Simon had not had the cruel courage to tell the boy of the death of his mother, and of the unconscious wrong that he, poor child, had done to her memory, and in his silent chamber his longing thoughts of her were his only consolation.
And so he sat there that day looking up to the ceiling, greeting his dear mamma with his thoughts, and seeing her in spirit greeting him again, nodding affectionately to him and drawing her dear little Louis Charles to her arms.
These were the sweet, transporting fancies which made the child close his eyes so as not to lose them. Immovably he sat there, until gradually thoughts and dreams flowed into each other, and not only his will, but sleep as well, kept his eyes closed. But the dreams remained, and were sweet and refreshing, and displayed to the sleeping child, so harshly treated in his waking hours, only scenes of love and tenderness. And it was not his mother alone who embraced him in his happy slumbers; no, there were his aunt and his sister as well, and at last even--oh how strange dreams are! --at last he even saw Simon's wife advancing toward him with kindly and tender mien. She stooped down to him, took him up in her arms, kissed his eyes, and begged him in a low, trembling voice to forgive her for being so cruel and bad. And while she was speaking the tears streamed from her eyes and flowed over his face. She kissed them away with her hot lips, and whispered, "Forgive me, poor, unhappy angel, and do not bring me to judgment. I will treat you well after this, I will rescue you from this hell, or I will die for you. Oh, how the bad man has beaten your dear angel face! But believe me, I have felt every blow in my own heart, and when he treated you so abusively I felt the pain of hell. Oh, forgive me, dear boy, forgive me!" and again the tears started from her eyes and flowed hot over his locks and forehead. All at once Jeanne Marie quivered convulsively, laid the boy gently down, and ran hastily away. A door was furiously opened now, and Simon's loud and angry voice was heard.
The tones awakened the little Louis. He opened his eyes and looked around. Yes, it had really all been only a dream--he had heard neither his mother nor Simon's wife, and yet it had been as natural as if it had all really transpired. He had felt arms tenderly embracing him and tears hot upon his forehead.
Entirely unconscious he raised his hand to his brow and drew it back affrighted, for his hair and his temples were wet, as if the tears of which he dreamed had really fallen there.
"What does this mean, Jeanne Marie?" asked Simon, angrily, "Why have you got out of bed while I was away, and what have you had to do in the room of the little viper?"
"If you leave me alone with him I have to watch him, sick as I am," moaned she. "I had to see whether he was still there, whether he had not run away, and gone to report to the Convention that we have left him alone and have no care for him."
"Oh, bah! he will not complain of us," laughed Simon; "but keep quiet, Jeanne Marie, I promise you that I will not leave you alone again with the wolf's cub. Besides, here is the medicine that the doctor has sent, and to-morrow he will come himself again to see how you get on. So keep up a good heart, Jeanne Marie, and all will come right again."
The next morning, Dr. Naudin came again to look after the sick woman. Simon had just gone up-stairs to announce something to the two princesses in the name of the Convention, and had ordered the little Capet to remain in the anteroom, and, if the doctor should come, to open the door to him.
Nobody else was in the anteroom when Dr. Naudin entered, and the door leading into the next room was closed, so that the sick person who was there could see and hear nothing of what took place.
"Sir," whispered the boy, softly and quickly, "you were yesterday so good to me, you protected me from blows, and I should like to thank you for it."
The doctor made no reply, but he looked at the boy with such an expression of sympathy that he felt emboldened to go on.
"My dear sir," continued the child, softly, and with a blush, "I have nothing with which to show my gratitude to you but these two pears that were given me for my supper last night. And just because I am so poor, you would do me a great pleasure if you would accept my two pears." [Footnote: The boy's own words. --See Beauchesne, vol. ii., p. 180.]
He had raised his eyes to the doctor with a gentle, supplicatory expression, and taking the pears from the pocket of his worn, mended jacket, he gave them to the physician.
Then happened something which, had Simon entered the room just then, would probably have filled him with exasperation. It happened that the proud and celebrated Dr. Naudin, the director and first physician of the Hotel Dieu, sank on his knee before this poor boy in the patched jacket, who had nothing to give but two pears, and that he was so overcome, either by inward pain or by reverence, that while taking the pears he could only whisper, with a faint voice: "I thank your majesty. I have never received a nobler or more precious gift than this fruit, which my unfortunate king gives me, and I swear to you that I will be your devoted and faithful servant."
It happened further that Dr. Naudin pressed to his lips the hand that reached him the precious gift, and that upon this hand two tears fell from the eyes of the physician, long accustomed to look upon human misery and pain, and which had not for years been suffused with moisture.
Just then, approaching steps being heard in the corridor, the doctor rose quickly, concealed the pears in his pocket, and entered the chamber of the sick woman at the same instant when Simon returned from his visit above-stairs.
Tne boy slipped, with the doctor, into the sick-room, and as no one paid any attention to him, he stole softly into his room, crouched down upon his straw bed, with fluttering heart, to think over all he had experienced or dreamed of that day.
"And how is it with our sick one to-day?" asked Doctor Naudin, sitting down near the bed, and giving a friendly nod to Simon to do the same.
"It goes badly with me," moaned Mistress Simon. "My heart seems to be on fire, and I have no rest day or night. I believe that it is all over with me, and that I shall die, and that is the best thing for me, for then I shall be free again, and not have to endure the torments that I have had to undergo in this dreadful dungeon."
"What kind of pains are they?" asked the doctor. "Where do you suffer?"
"I will tell you, citizen doctor," cried Simon, impatiently. "Her pains are everywhere, in every corner of this lonely and cursed building; and if it goes on so long, we shall have to pack and move. The authorities have done us both a great honor, for they have had confidence enough in us to give the little Capet into our charge; but it is our misfortune to be so honored, and we shall both die of it. For, not to make a long story of it, we both cannot endure the air of the prison, the stillness and solitude, and it is a dreadful thing for us to see nothing else the whole day than the stupid face of this youngster, always looking at me so dreadfully with his great blue eyes, that it really affects one. We are neither of us used to such an idle, useless life, and it will be the death of us, citizen doctor. My wife, Jeanne Marie, whom you see lying there so pale and still, used to be the liveliest and most nimble woman about, and could do as much with her strong arms and brown hands as four other women. And then she was the bravest and most outrageous republican that ever was, when it came to battling for the people. We both helped to storm the Bastile, both went to Versailles that time, and afterward took the wolf's brood from the Tuileries and brought them to the Convention. Afterward Jeanne Marie was always the first on the platform near the guillotine; and when Samson and his assistants mounted the scaffold in the morning, and waited for the cars, the first thing they did was to look over to the tribune to see if Mistress Simon was there with her knitting, for it used to seem to them that the work of hewing off heads went more briskly on if Jeanne Marie was there and kept the account in her stocking. Samson himself told me this, and said to me that Jeanne Marie was the bravest of all the women, and that she never trembled, and that her eyes never turned away, however many heads fell into the basket. And she was there too when the Austrian--" "Hush!" cried Jeanne Marie, rising up hastily in bed, and motioning to her husband to be silent. "Do not speak of that, lest the youngster hear it, and turn his dreadful eyes upon us. Do not speak of that fearful day, for it was then that my sickness began, and I believe that there was poison in the brandy that we drank that evening. Yes, yes, there was poison in it, and from that comes the fire that burns in my heart, and I shall die of it! Oh! I shall burn to death with it!"
She put her hands before her face and sank back upon the pillows, sobbing. Simon shook his head and heaved a deep sigh. "It is not that," murmured he; "it is not from that, doctor! The thing is, that Jeanne Marie has no work and no exercise, and that she is going to wreck, because we are compelled to live here as kings and aristocrats used to live, without labor and occupation, and without doing any more than to nurse our fancies. We shall all die of this, I tell you!"
"But if you know this, citizen, why do you not give up your situation? Why do you not petition the authorities to dismiss you from this service, and give you something else to do?"
"I have done that twice already," answered Simon, bringing his fist down upon the table near the bed so violently that the bottles of medicine standing there were jerked high into the air. "Twice already have I tried to be transferred to some other duty, and the answer has been sent back, that the country orders me to stand at my post, and that there is no one who could take my place."
"That is very honorable and flattering," remarked the physician.
"Yes, but very burdensome and disagreeable," answered Simon. "We are prisoners while holding these honorable and flattering posts. We can no more leave the Temple than Capet can, for, since his father died, and the crazy legitimists began to call him King Louis XVII., the chief magistrate and the Convention have been very anxious. They are afraid of secret conspiracies, and consider it possible that the little prisoner may be taken away from here by intrigue. We have to watch him day and night, therefore, and are never allowed to leave the Temple, lest we should meet with other people, and lest the legitimists should make the attempt to get into our good graces. Would you believe, citizen doctor, that they did not even allow me to go to the grand festival which the city of Paris gave in honor of the taking of Toulan! While all the people were shouting, and having a good time, Jeanne Marie and I had to stay here in this good-for- nothing Temple, and see and hear nothing of the fine doings. And this drives the gall into my blood, and it will make us both sick, and it is past endurance!"
"I believe that you are right, citizen," said the physician, thoughtfully. "Yes, the whole trouble of your wife comes from the fact that she is here in the Temple, and if she must be shut up here always she will continue to suffer."
"Yes, to suffer always, to suffer dreadfully," groaned Jeanne Marie. Then, all at once, she raised herself up and turned with a commanding bearing to her husband. "Simon," she said, "the doctor shall know all that I suffer. He shall examine my breast, and the place where I have the greatest pain; but in your presence I shall say nothing."
"Well, well, I will go," growled Simon. "But I think those are pretty manners!"
"They are the manners of a respectable and honorable woman," said the doctor, gravely--"a woman who does not show the pains and ailments of her body to any one excepting her physician. Go, go, Citizen Simon, and you will esteem your good wife none the less for not letting you hear what she has to say to her old physician."
"No, certainly not," answered Simon, "and that you may both see that I am not curious to hear what you have to say to one another, I will go with the youngster up to the platform and remain a whole hour with him."
"You will beat him again, and I shall hear him," said Jeanne Marie, weeping. "I hear every thing now that goes on in the Temple, and whenever you strike, the youngster, I feel every blow in my brain, and that gives me pain enough to drive me to distraction."
"I promise you, Jeanne Marie, that I will not strike him, and will not trouble myself about him at all. He can play with his ball. -- Halloa, Capet! Come! We are going up on the platform. Take your ball and any thing else you like, for you shall play to-day and have a good time."
The child stole out of his room with his ball, not looking particularly delighted, and the prospect of "playing" did not give wings to his steps, nor call a smile to his swollen face. He left the room noiselessly, and Simon slammed the doors violently behind him.
"And now we are alone," said Doctor Naudin, "and you can tell me about your sickness, and about every thing that troubles you."
"Ah, doctor, I do not dare to," she whispered. "I am overpowered by a dreadful fear, and I think you will betray me, and bring my husband and myself to the scaffold."
"I am no betrayer," answered the doctor, solemnly. "The physician is like a priest; he receives the secrets and disclosures of his patients, and lets not a word of them pass his lips. But, in order that you may take courage, I will first prove to you that I put confidence in you, by showing you that I understand you. I will tell you what the disease is that you are suffering from, and also its locality. Jeanne Marie Simon, you are enduring that with which no pains of the body can be compared. Your sickness has its seat in the conscience, and its name is remorse and despair."
Jeanne Marie uttered a heart-rending cry, and sprang like an exasperated tiger from her bed. "You lie!" she said, seizing the doctor's arm with both hands; "that is a foul, damnable calumny, that you have thought out merely to bring me under the axe. I have nothing to be sorry for, and my conscience fills me with no reproaches."
"And yet it is gnawing into you with iron teeth, which have been heated blood-red in the fires of hell," said the doctor, with a compassionate look at the pale, quivering face of the woman. "Do not raise any quarrel, but quietly listen to me. We have an hour's time to talk together, and we want to use it. But let us speak softly, softly, together; for what we have to say to each other the deaf walls themselves ought not to hear."
Simon had not returned from the platform with the boy, when Doctor Naudin ended his long and earnest conversation, and prepared to leave his patient, who was now quietly lying in her bed.
"You know every thing now that you have to do," he said, extending his hand to her. "You can reckon on me as I reckon on you, and we will both go bravely and cheerfully on. It is a noble work that we have undertaken, and if it succeeds your heart will be light again, and God will forgive you your sins, for two martyrs will stand and plead in your behalf at the throne of God! Now, do every thing exactly as I have told you, and speak with your husband to-night, but not sooner, that you may be safe, and for fear that in his first panic his face would betray him."
"I shall do every thing just as you wish," said Jeanne Marie, who had suddenly become humble and bashful, apparently entirely forgetful of the republican "thou." "It seems to me, now that I have disburdened my heart to you, that I have become well and strong again, and certainly I shall owe it to you if I do live and get my health once more. But shall you come again to-morrow, doctor?"
"No," he replied, "I will send a man to-morrow who understands better than I do how to continue this matter, and to whom you can give unconditional confidence. He will announce himself to you as my assistant, and you can talk over at length every thing that we have been speaking of. Hush! I hear Simon coming! Farewell!"
He nodded to Jeanne Marie, and hastily left the room. Outside, in the corridor, he met Simon and his silent young ward.
"Well, citizen doctor," asked Simon, "how is it with our sick one? She has intrusted all her secrets to you, and they must have made a long story, for you have been a whole hour together. It is fortunate that you are an old man, or else I should have been jealous of your long tete-a-tete with my wife."
"Then you would be a great fool, and I have always held you to be a prudent and good man. But, as concerns your wife, I must tell you something very serious, and I beg you, Citizen Simon, to mark my words well. I tell you this: unless your wife Jeanne Marie is out of this Temple in less than a week, and enjoys her freedom, she will either lose her senses or take her life. I will say to you this, besides: if Citizen Simon does not, as soon as possible, leave this cursed place and give up his hateful business, it will be the same with him as with his wife. He will not become insane, but he will lapse into melancholy, and if he does not take his own life consumption will take it for him, the result of his idle, listless life, the many vexations here, and the wretched atmosphere of the Temple."
"Consumption!" cried Simon, horrified. "Do you suppose I am exposed to that?"
"You have it already," said the doctor, solemnly. "Those red spots on your cheeks, and the pain which you have so often in the breast, announce its approach. I tell you that if you do not take measures to leave the Temple in a week, in three months you will be a dead man, without giving the guillotine a chance at you. Good-by! Consider well what I say, citizen, and then do as you like!"
"He is right," muttered Simon, as he looked after the doctor with a horrified look, as Naudin descended the staircase; "yes, I see, he is right. If I have to stay here any longer, I shall die. The vexations and the loneliness, and--something still more dreadful, frightful, that I can tell no one of-have made me sick, and the stitch in my side will grow worse and worse every day, and--I must and will get away from here," he said aloud, and with a decided air. "I will not die yet, neither shall Jeanne Marie. To-morrow I will hand in my resignation, and then be away!"
While Simon was walking slowly and thoughtfully toward his wife, Doctor Naudin left the dark building, went with a light heart out into the street, and returned with a quick step to the Hotel Dieu. The porter who opened the door for him, reported to him that during his absence the same old gentleman who had come the day before to consult him, had returned and was waiting for him in the anteroom.
Doctor Naudin nodded, and then walked, quickly toward his own apartments. Before the door he found his servant.
"Old Doctor Saunier is here again," he said, taking off his master's cloak. "He insisted on waiting for you. He said that he must consult you about a patient, and would not cease begging till you should consent to accompany him to the sick person's house. For, if a case seemed desperate, the great Naudin might still save it."
"You are an ass for letting him talk such nonsense, and for believing it yourself, Citizen Joly," cried Naudin with a laugh, and then entering the anteroom.
An old gentleman, clad in the same old-fashioned costume with Doctor Naudin, came forward. Citizen Joly, as he closed the door somewhat slowly, heard him say: "Thank God that you have come at last, citizen! I have waited for you impatiently, and now I conjure you to accompany me as quickly as possible to my patient."
Naudin, opening the door of his study, said in reply, "Come in, Citizen Saunier, and tell me first how it is with your sick one."
Nothing more could Joly, Naudin's servant, understand, for the two doctors had gone into the study, and the door was closed behind them. After a short time, however, it was opened. Naudin ordered the valet to order a tiacre at once, and a few minutes later Director Naudin rode away at the side of Doctor Saunier.
At a house in the Rue Montmartre the carriage stopped, and the two physicians entered. The porter, opening the little, dusty window of his lodge, nodded confidentially to Saunier.
"That is probably the celebrated Doctor Naudin of the Hotel Dieu, whom you have with you?" he asked.
"Yes, it is he," answered Saunier, "and if anybody can help our patient, it is he. Citizen Crage is probably at home?"
"Certainly he is at home, for you know he never leaves his sick boy. You will find him above. You know the way, citizen doctor!"
The two physicians passed on, ascended the staircase, and entered the suit of rooms whose door was only partially closed--left ajar, as it seemed, for them. Nobody came to meet them, but they carefully closed the door behind them, drew the bolt, and then walked silently and quickly across the anteroom to the opposite door.
Doctor Saunier knocked softly three times with a slight interval between, and cried three times with a loud voice, "The two physicians are come to see the patient."
A bolt was withdrawn on the inside, the door opened, and a tall man's figure appeared and motioned to the gentlemen to come in.
"Are we alone?" whispered Doctor Saunier, as they entered the inner room.
"Yes, entirely alone," answered the other. "There in the chamber lies my poor sick boy, and you know well that he can betray no one, and that he knows nothing of what is going on around him."
"Yes, unfortunately, I know that," answered Doctor Saunier sadly. "I promised you that I would bring you the most celebrated and skilful physician in Paris, and you see I keep my word, for I have brought you Doctor Naudin, the director of the Hotel Dieu and--the friend and devoted servant of the royal family, to whom we have both sworn allegiance until death. Doctor Naudin, I have not given you the name of the gentleman to whom I was taking you. It is a secret which only the possessor is able to divulge to you."
"I divulge it," said the other, smiling, "Doctor Naudin, I am the Marquis Jarjayes."
"Jarjayes, who made the plan for the escape of the royal family in the Temple?" asked Naudin eagerly.
"Marquis Jarjayes, who lost his property in the service of the queen, risked his life in her deliverance, and perhaps escaped the guillotine merely by emigrating and putting himself beyond the reach of Robespierre. Are you that loyal, courageous Marquis de Jarjayes?"
"I am Jarjayes, and I thank you for the praises you have given me, but I cannot accept them in the presence of him who merits them all much more than I do, and who is more worthy of praise than any one else. No, I can receive no commendation in the presence of Toulan, the most loyal, the bravest, the most prudent of us all; for Toulan is the soul of every thing, and our martyr queen confessed it in giving him the highest of all titles of honor, in calling him Fidele, a title which will remain for centuries."
"Yes, you are right," said Dr. Naudin, laying his hand on the shoulder of Dr. Saunier. "He is the noblest, most loyal, and bravest of us all. On that account, when he came to me a few days ago and showed me the golden salt* bottle of the queen in confirmation of his statement that he was Toulan, I was ready to do every thing that he might desire of me and to enter into all his plans, for Toulan's magnanimity and fidelity are contagious, and excite every one to emulate him."
"I beg you, gentlemen," said Toulan softly, "do not praise me nor think that to be heroism which is merely natural. I have devoted to Queen Marie Antoinette my life, my thought, my heart. I swore upon her hand that so long as I lived I would be true to her and her family, and to keep my vow is simple enough. Queen Marie Antoinette is no more. I was not able to save her, but perhaps she looks down from the heavenly heights upon us, and is satisfied with us, if she sees that we are now trying to do for her son what, unfortunately, we were not able to accomplish for her. This is my hope, and this spurs rue on to attempt every thing, in order to bring about the last wish of my queen--the freeing of her son. God in His grace has willed that I should not be alone in this effort, and that I should have the cooperation of noble men. He visibly blesses our plans, for is it not a manifest sign of His blessing that, exactly in those days when we are trying to find a means of approaching the unhappy, imprisoned son of the queen, accident affords us this means? Exactly at the hour when I went to Dr. Naudin and disclosed myself to him, the porter of the Temple came and desired in behalf of Simon's wife that Dr. Naudin should go to the Temple."
"Yes, indeed, it was a wonderful occurrence," said Naudin, thoughtfully. "I am not over-blessed with sensibility, but when I saw the son of the queen in his sorrow and humiliation, I sank on my knee before the poor little king, and in my heart I swore that Toulan should find in me a faithful coadjutor in his plan, and that I would do every thing to set him free."
"And so have I too sworn," cried Jarjayes, with enthusiasm. "The queen is dead, but our fidelity to her lives and shall renew itself to her son, King Louis XVII. I know well that the police are watching me, that they know who is secreting himself here under the name of Citizen Orage, that they follow every one of my steps and perhaps suffer me to be free only for the purpose of seeing with whom I have relations, in order to arrest and destroy me at one fell swoop, with all my friends at the same time. But we must use the time. I have come here with the firm determination of delivering the unhappy young king from the hands of his tormentors, and I will now confess every thing to you, my friends. I have gained for our undertaking the assistance and protection of a rich and noble patron, a true servant of the deceased king. The Prince de Conde, with whom I have lived in Vendee for the past few months, has furnished me with ample means, and is prepared to support us to any extent in our undertaking. If we succeed in saving the young king, the latter will find in Vendee a safe asylum with the prince, and will live there securely, surrounded by his faithful subjects. The immense difficulty, or, as I should have said a few days ago, the impossibility, is the release of the young prince from the Temple. But now that I have succeeded in discovering Toulan and uniting myself with him, I no longer say it is impossible, but only it is difficult."
"And," cried Toulan, "since I am sure of the assistance of the noble Doctor Naudin, I say, we will free him, the son of our Queen Marie Antoinette, the young King Louis XVII. The plan is entirely ready in my head, and in order to make its execution possible, I went a few days ago to see Doctor Naudin at the Hotel Dieu, in order to beg him to visit the sick boy that the marquis has here, and just at that moment Simon's messenger came to the Temple. Doctor Naudin is now here, and first of all it is necessary that he give us his last, decisive judgment on the patient. So take us to him, marquis, for upon Naudin's decision depends the fate of the young King of France."
The marquis nodded silently, and conducted the gentlemen into the next room. There, carefully propped up by mattresses and pillows, lay a child of perhaps ten years--a poor, unfortunate boy, with pale, sunken cheeks, fixed blue eyes, short fair hair, and a stupid, idiotic expression on his features. As the three gentlemen came to him he fixed his eyes upon them in a cold, indifferent way, and not a quiver in his face disclosed any interest in them. Motionless and pale as death the boy lay upon his bed, and only the breath that came hot and in gasps from his breast disclosed that there was still life in this poor shattered frame.
Doctor Naudin stooped down to the boy and looked at him a long time with the utmost attention.
"This boy is perfectly deaf!" he then said, raising himself up and looking at the marquis inquiringly.
"Yes, doctor, your sharp eye has correctly discerned it; he is perfectly deaf."
"Is it your son?"
"No, doctor, he is the son of my sister, the Baroness of Tardif, who was guillotined together with her husband. I undertook the care of this unfortunate child, and at my removal from Paris gave him to some faithful servants of my family to be cared for. On my return I learned that the good people had both been guillotined, and find the poor boy, who before had been at least sound in body, utterly neglected, and living on the sympathy of the people who had taken him on the death of his foster-parents. I brought the child at once to this house, which I had hired for myself under the name of Citizen Orage, and Toulan undertook to procure the help of a physician. It has now come in the person of the celebrated Doctor Naudin, and I beg you to have pity on the poor unfortunate child, and to receive him into the Hotel Dieu."
"Let me first examine the child, in order to tell you what is the nature of his disorder."
And Doctor Naudin stooped down again to the boy, examined his eyes, his chest, his whole form, listened to his breathing, the action of his heart, and felt his pulse. The patient was entirely apathetic during all this, now and then merely whining and groaning, when a movement of the doctor's hand caused him pain.
After the careful investigation had been ended, the doctor called the two gentlemen who had withdrawn to the window to the bed again.
"Marquis," said he, "this unfortunate child will never recover, and the least painful thing that could happen to him would be a speedy release from his miserable lot. Yet I do not believe that this will occur, but consider it possible that the boy will protract his unfortunate life a full year after his mind has entirely passed away, and nothing is left of him but his body. The boy, if you can regard such a poor creature as a human being, is suffering from an incurable form of scrofula, which will by and by consume his limbs, and convert him into an idiot; he is now deaf; he will be a mere stupid beast. If it were permitted to substitute the hand of science in place of the hand of God, I should say we ought to kill this poor creature that is no man and no beast, and has nothing more to expect of life than pain and torture, having no more consciousness of any thing than the dog has when he does not get a bone with which to quiet his hunger."
"Poor, unhappy creature!" sighed the marquis. "Now, I thank God that He released my sister from the pain of seeing her dear child in this condition.
"Doctor Naudin," said Toulan, solemnly, "is it your fixed conviction that this sick person will never recover?"
"My firm and undoubted conviction, which every physician who should see him would share with me."
"Are you of the opinion that this child has nothing in life to lose, and that death would be a gain to it?"
"Yes; that is my belief. Death would be a release for the poor creature, for life is only a burden to it as well as to others."
"Then," cried Toulan, solemnly, "I will give this poor sick child a higher and a fairer mission. I will make its life an advantage to others, and its death a hallowed sacrifice. Marquis of Jarjayes, in the name of King Louis XVI., in the name of the exalted martyr to whom we have all sworn fidelity unto death, Queen Marie Antoinette, I demand and desire of you that you would intrust to me this unhappy creature, and give his life into my hands. In the name of Marie Antoinette, I demand of the Marquis of Jarjayes that he deliver to me the son of his sister, that he do what every one of us is joyfully prepared to do if our holy cause demands it, that this boy may give his life for his king, the imprisoned Louis XVII."
While Toulan was speaking with his earnest, solemn voice, Jarjayes knelt before the bed of the poor sobbing child, and, hiding his face in his hands, he prayed softly.
Then, after a long pause, he rose and laid his hand on the feverish brow of the boy. "You have addressed me," he said, "in the name of Queen Marie Antoinette. You demand of me as the guardian of this poor creature that I give him to you, that he may give his life for his king. The sons and daughters of my house have always been ready and glad to devote their possessions, their happiness, their lives, to the service of their kings, and I speak simply in the spirit of my sister--who ascended the scaffold to seal her fidelity to the royal family with her death--I speak in the spirit of all my ancestors when I say, here is the last off-spring of the Baroness of Tardif, here is the son of my sister; take him and let him live or die for his king, Louis XVII., the prisoner at the Temple."
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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26
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THE CONSULTATION.
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During the night which followed the second visit of Doctor Naudin, Jeanne Marie Simon had a long and earnest conversation with her husband. The first words which the wife uttered, spoken in a whisper though they were, excited the cobbler so much that he threatened her with his clinched fist. She looked him calmly in the face, however, and said to him softly, "And so you mean to stay perpetually in this hateful prison? You want to remain shut up here like a criminal, and get no more satisfaction out of life than what comes from tormenting this poor, half-witted boy to death?"
Simon let his hand fall, and said, "If there were a means of escaping from this infernal prison, it would certainly be most welcome to me, for I am heartily tired of being a prisoner here, after having prayed for freedom so long, and worked for it so much. So, if there is a means--" "There is such a means," interrupted his wife. "Listen to me!"
And Simon did listen, and the moving and eloquent words of his wife at length found a willing ear. Simon's face gradually lightened up, and it seemed to him that he was now able to release his wife from an oppressive, burdensome load.
"If it succeeds," he muttered--"if it succeeds, I shall be free from the mountainous weight which presses upon me day and night and shall become a healthy man again."
"And if it does not succeed," whispered Jeanne Marie, "the worst that can happen to us is what has happened to thousands before us. We shall merely feed the machine, and our heads will tumble into the basket, with this difference, that I shall not be able to make any mark in my stocking. I would rather die all at once on the guillotine and have it over, than be dying here day after day, and hour after hour, having nothing to expect from life but pain and ennui."
"And I, too," said Simon, decidedly. "Rather die, than go on leading such a dog's life. Let your doctor come to me to-morrow morning. I will talk with him!"
Early the next day the doctor came in his long, black cloak, and with his peruke, to visit the sick Mistress Simon. The guards at the gate leading to the outer court quietly let him pass in, and did not notice that another face appeared in the peruke from that which had been seen the day before. The two official guards above, who had just completed their duties in the upper story, and met the doctor on the tower stairs, did not take any offence at his figure. The director of the Hotel Dieu was not personally known to them, and they were familiar with but little about him, excepting that he took the liberty of going about in his old-fashioned cloak, without giving offence to the authorities, and that he had permission from those authorities to come to the Temple for the purpose of visiting the wife of Simon.
"You will find two patients to-day up there," said one of the officials as he passed by. "We empower you, doctor, to take the second one, little Capet, under your charge. The boy appears to be really sick, or else he is obstinate and mulish. He answers no questions, and he has taken no nourishment, Simon tells us, since yesterday noon. Examine into the case, doctor, and then tell us what your opinion is. We will wait for you down in the council-room. So make as much haste as possible."
They passed on, and the doctor did really make haste to ascend the staircase. At the open door which led to the apartment of the little Capet and his "guardian," he found Simon.
"Did you hear, citizen?" asked the doctor. "The officials are waiting for me below."
"Yes, I heard, doctor," whispered Simon. "We have not much time. Come!"
He motioned to the physician to pass along the corridor and to enter the room, while he bolted and locked the outer door. As the doctor entered, Mistress Simon lay upon her bed and looked at the new-comer with curious, glowing eyes.
"Who are you?" she asked, rising quickly from her bed. "You are not Doctor Naudin whom I expected, and I do not know you!"
Meantime the doctor walked in silence to her bed, and stooped over Jeanne Marie, who sank back upon the pillow.
"I am the one who is to help you escape from the Temple," he whispered. "Doctor Naudin has sent me, to work in union with him and you in effecting your release and that of the unfortunate Capet."
"Husband," cried Jeanne Marie to the cobbler, who was just coming in, "this is the man who is going to deliver us from this hell!"
"That is to say," said the doctor, with a firm, penetrating voice, "I will free you if you will help me free the dauphin."
"Speak softly, for God's sake, speak softly," said Simon anxiously. "If any one should hear you, we are all lost! We will do every thing that you demand of us, provided that we can in that way escape from this miserable, good-for-nothing place. The air here is like poison, and to have to stay here is like being buried alive."
"And then the dreams, the frightful dreams," muttered Jeanne Marie, with a shudder. "I cannot sleep any more in this dreadful prison, for that pale, fearful woman, with great, fixed eyes, goes walking about through the Temple every night, and listens at the doors to see whether her children are alive yet, and whether we are not killing them. Lately, she has not only listened at the doors, but she has come into my room, and passed my bed, and gone into the chamber of little Capet. Simon was asleep, and did not see her. I sprang up, however, and stole softly to the door; for I thought somebody had crept in here in disguise, possibly Citizen Toulan, who had already twice made the attempt to release the Austrian and her children, and whom I then denounced at headquarters. There I saw-- although it was entirely dark in the hall--there I saw little Capet lying asleep on his mattress, his hands folded over his breast, and with an expression of countenance more happy, altogether more happy, than it ever is when he is awake. Near the mattress kneeled the figure in white, and it seemed as if a radiance streamed out from it that filled the whole room. Its face was pale and white, just like a lily, and it seemed as if the fragrance of a lily was in the apartment. Her two arms were raised, as if she would utter a benediction, over her sleeping boy; around her half-opened lips played a sweet smile, and her great eyes, which had the aspect of stars, looked up toward heaven. But while I was there in a maze, and watched the figure in a, transport of delight, there occurred, all at once, something wonderful, something dreadful. The figure rose from its knees, dropped its arms, turned itself around, and advanced straight toward me. The eyes, which had been turned so purely heavenward before, were directed to me, with a look which pierced my breast like the thrust of a knife. I recognized that look-that sad, reproachful glance. It was the same that Marie Antoinette gave me, when she stood on the scaffold. I was sitting in the front row of the knitters, and I was just going to make the double stitch for her in my stocking, when that look met me; those great, sad eyes were turned toward me, and I felt that she had recognized me, and her eyes bored into my breast, and followed me even after the axe had taken off her head. The eyes did not fall into the basket, they were not buried, bat they remain in my breast; they have been piercing me ever since, and burning me like glowing coals. But that night I saw them again, as in life--those dreadful eyes; and as the figure advanced toward me, it raised its hand and threatened me, and its eyes spoke to me, and it seemed as if a curse of God were going through my brain, for those eyes said to me--'Murder!' --spoke it so loudly, so horribly, that it appeared as if my head would burst, and I could not cry, and could not move, and had to look at it, till, at last, I became unconscious."
"There, see there, doctor," cried Simon, in alarm, as his wife fell back upon the pillow with a loud cry, and quivered in all her limbs; " now she has convulsions again, and then she will be, for a day or two, out of her mind, and will talk strangely about the pale woman with dreadful eyes; and when she goes on so, she makes even me sad, and anxious, and timid, and I grow afraid of the white ghost that she says is always with us. Ah! doctor, help us! See, now, how the poor woman suffers and twists!"
The doctor drew a bottle from his breast-pocket, and rubbed a few drops upon the temples of the sick woman.
"Those are probably the famous soothing-drops of Doctor Naudin?" asked Simon, in astonishment, when he saw how quiet his wife became, and that her spasms and groans ceased.
"Yes," answered the doctor, "and the eminent physician sends them as a present to your wife. They are very costly, and rich people have to pay a louis-d'or for every drop. But Doctor Naudin. gives them to you, for he wishes Jeanne Marie long to enjoy good health. How is it with you now?"
"I feel well, completely well," she said, as the doctor rubbed some drops a second time on her temple. "I feel easier than I have felt for a long time."
"Give me your hand," said the doctor. "Rise up, for you are well. Let us go into the chamber of the poor boy, for I have to speak with you there."
He walked toward the chamber-door, leading Jeanne Marie by the hand, while Simon followed them. Softly and silently they entered the dark room, and went to the mattress on which the child lay.
The boy stared at them with great, wide-opened eyes, but they were without expression and life, and only the breath, as it came slowly and heavily from the half-opened lips, showed that there was vitality still in this poor, little, shrunken form.
The doctor kneeled down beside the bed, and, bending over it, pressed a long, fervent kiss on the delicate, hot hand of the child. But Charles Louis remained motionless; he merely slowly dropped his lids and closed his eyes.
"You see, doctor, he neither hears nor sees," said Simon, in a low, growling voice. "He cares for nothing, and does not know any thing about what is going on around him. It is a week since he spoke a word."
"Not since the day when you wanted to compel the child to sing the song that makes sport of his mother."
"He did not sing it?" asked the doctor, with a tremulous voice.
"He is a mulish little toad," cried Simon, angrily. "I begged him at first, then I threatened, and when prayers and threats were of no use I punished him, as a naughty boy deserves when he will not do what his foster-father bids him do. But even blows did not bring him to it; the obstinate youngster would not sing the merry song with me, and since then he has not spoken a word. [Footnote: Historical. - -See Beauehesne'a "Histoirede Louis XVII.," vol. ii.] He seems as if he had grown deaf and dumb as a punishment for not obeying his good foster-father."
"He is neither deaf nor dumb," said the doctor, solemnly. "He is simply a good son, who would not sing the song which made sport of his noble and unfortunate mother. See whether I am not right: see these tears which run from his closed eyes. He has heard us, he has understood us, and he answers us with his tears! Oh, sire," he continued passionately, "by the sacred remembrance of your father and your mother, I swear devotion to you until death; I swear that I have come to set you free, to die for you. Look up, my king and my darling one! I intrust to you and to both these witnesses my whole secret; I let the mask fall to show myself to you in my true form, that you may confide in me, and know that the most devoted of your servants is kneeling before you, and that he dedicates his life to you. Open your eyes, Louis of France, and see whether you know me!"
He sprang up, threw off the great peruke, and the long black cloak, and stood before them in the uniform of an official guard.
"Thunder and guns!" cried Simon, with a loud laugh. "it is--" "Hush!" interrupted the other--"hush! He alone shall declare who I am! Oh, look at me, my king; convince these unbelieving ones here that your mind is clear and strong, and that you are conscious of what is going on around you. Look at me, and if you know me, speak my name!"
And with folded hands, in unspeakable emotion, he leaned over the bed of the child, that still lay with closed eyes.
"I knew that he could hear nothing, and that he was deaf," growled Simon, while his wife folded her trembling hands, and with tearful eyes whispered a prayer.
A deep silence ensued, and with anxious expectation each looked at the boy. At length he slowly raised the heavy, reddened eyelids, and looked with a timid, anxious glance around himself. Then his gaze fixed itself upon the eloquent, speaking face of the man whose tears were falling like warm dew-drops upon his pale, sunken features.
A quiver passed over the coutenance of the boy, a beam of joy lighted up his eyes, and something like a smile played around his trembling lips.
"Do you know me? Do you know my name?"
The child raised his hand in salutation, and said, in a clear, distinct voice: "Toulan! Fidele!"
Toulan fell on his knees again and covered the little thin hand of the boy with his tears and his kisses.
"Yes, Fidele," he sobbed. "That is the title of honor which your royal mother gave me--that is the name that she wrote on the bit of paper which she put into the gold smelling-bottle that she gave me. That little bottle, which a queen once carried, is my most precious possession, and yet I would part with that if I could save the life of her son, happy if I could but retain the hallowed paper on which the queen's hand wrote the word 'Fidele.' Yes, you poor, pitiable son of kings, I am Fidele, I am Toulan, at whom you have so often laughed when he played with you in your prison."
A flash like the sunlight passed over the face of the child, and a smile illumined his features.
"She used to laugh, too," he whispered--"she, too, my mamma queen."
"Yes, she too laughed at our jests," said Toulan, with a voice choked with tears; "and, believe me, she looks down from heaven upon us and smiles her blessing, for she knows that Toulan has come to free her dear son, and to deliver him from the executioner's hands. Tell me now, my king and my dearly-loved lord, will you trust me, will you give to your most devoted servant and subject the privilege of releasing you? Do you consent to accept freedom at the hands of your Fidele?"
The child threw a timid, anxious glance at Simon and his wife, and then, with a shudder, turned his head to one side.
"You make no answer, sire," said Toulan, imploringly. "Oh! speak, my king, may I set you free?"
The boy spoke a few words in reply, but so softly that Toulan could not understand him. He stooped down nearer to him, and put his ear close to the lips of the child. He then could hear the words, inaudible to all but him, "He will disclose you; take care, Toulan. But do not say any thing, else he will beat me to death!"
Toulan made no reply; he only impressed a long, tender kiss upon the trembling hand of the child.
"Did he speak?" asked Simon. "Did you understand, citizen, what he said?"
"Yes, I understood him," answered Toulan. "He consents; he allows me to make every attempt to free him, and is prepared to do every thing that we ask of him. And now I ask you too, are you prepared to help me release the prince?"
"You know already, Toulan," said Simon, quickly, "that we are prepared for every thing, provided that our conditions are fulfilled. Give me a tolerable position outside of the Temple; give me a good bit of money, so that I may live free from care, and if the new place should not suit me, that I could go into the country, and not have to work at all; give my Jeanne Marie her health and cheerfulness again, and I will help you set young Capet free."
"Through my assistance, and that of Doctor Naudin, you shall have a good place outside of the Temple," answered Toulan, eagerly. "Besides this, at the moment when you deliver the prince into my hands, outside of this prison, I will pay you in ready money the sum of twenty thousand francs; and as for the third condition, that about restoring her health to Jeanne Marie, I am sure that I can fulfil this condition too. Do you not know, Simon, what your wife is suffering from? Do you not know what her sickness is?"
"No, truly not. I am no doctor. How should I know what her sickness is?"
"Then I will tell you, Citizen Simon. Your wife is suffering from the worst of all complaints, a bad conscience! Yes, it is a bad conscience that robs her of her sleep and rest; it is that which makes her see the white, pale form of the martyred queen in the night, and read the word 'murderer' in her eyes."
"He is right! -oh, he is right!" groaned Jeanne Marie, falling on her knees. "I am to blame for her death, for I denounced Toulan to the authorities just when he was on the point of saving her. I tortured her! --oh, cruelly tortured her, and I laughed when she ascended the scaffold, and I laughed too, even when she gave me that dreadful look. But I have bitterly regretted it since, and now she gnaws at me like a scorpion. I wanted to drive her away from me at first, and therefore I was cruel to her son, for I wanted to put an end to the fearful remorse that was tormenting me. But it grew even more powerful within me. The more I beat the boy, the more his tears moved me, and often I thought I should die when I heard him cry and moan. Yes, yes, it is a bad conscience that has made me sick and miserable! But I will do right after this. I repent--oh, I repent! Here I lay my hand on the heart of this child and swear to his murdered mother I will do right again! I swear that I will free her son! I swear by all that is sacred in heaven and on earth that I will die myself, unless we succeed in freeing this child! I* swear to you, Marie Antoinette, that I will free him. But will you forgive me even then? Will you have rest in your poor grave, and not come to my bedside and condemn me and accuse me with your sad, dreadful eyes?"
"Free her son, Jeanne Marie," said Toulan, solemnly, "and his mother will forgive you, and her hallowed shade will no longer disturb your sleep, for you will then have restored to her the peace of the grave! But you, Citizen Simon, will you too not swear that you will faithfully assist in releasing the royal prince? Do you not know that conscience is awake in your heart too, and compels you to have compassion on the poor boy?"
"I know it, yes, I know it," muttered Simon, confused. "His gentle eyes and his sad bearing have made me as weak and as soft as an old woman. It is high time that I should be rid of the youngster, else it will be with me just as it is with my wife, and I shall have convulsions and see ghosts with daggers in their eyes. And so, in order to remain a strong man and have a good conscience and a brave heart, I must be rid of the boy, and must know that I have done him some service, and have been his deliverer. And so I swear by the sacred republic, and by our hallowed freedom, that I will help you and do all that in me lies to release little Capet and get him away from here. I hope you will be satisfied with my oath, Toulan, for there is nothing for me more sacred than the republic and freedom."
"I am satisfied, Simon, and I trust you. And now let us talk it all over and consider it, my dear allies. The whole plan of the escape is formed in my head, all the preparations are made, and if you will faithfully follow all that I bid you, in one week's time you will be free and happy."
"So soon as a week!" cried Simon, delightedly. "Yes, in a week, for it happens fortunately that one of the officials of the Public Safety service is dangerously sick and has been carried to the Hotel Dien. Doctor Naudin says that he can live but three days longer, and then the post will be vacant. We must be active, therefore, and take measures for you to gain the place. Now listen to me, and mark my words."
They had a long conversation by the bedside of the little prince, and they saw that he perfectly understood the whole plan which Toulan unfolded in eloquent words, for his looks took on a great deal of expression; he fixed his eyes constantly on Toulan, and a smile played about his lips.
Simon and Simon's wife were also perfectly satisfied with Toulan's communication, and repeated their readiness to do every thing to further the release of the prince, if they in return could only be removed from the Temple.
"I will at once take the steps necessary to the success of my plan," said Toulan, taking his leave with a friendly nod, and kissing the boy's hand respectfully.
"Fidele," whispered Louis, "Fidele, do you believe that I shall be saved?"
"I am sure of it, my dear prince. The grace of God and the blessing of your exalted parents will be our helpers in bringing this good work to a completion. Farewell, and preserve as long as you remain here the same mood that I found you in. Show little interest in what goes on, and appear numb and stupid. I shall not come again, for after this I must work for you outside of the prison. But Doctor Naudin will come every day to see you, and on the day of your flight I shall be by your side. Till then, God bless you, my dear prince!"
Toulan left the prison of the little Capet and repaired at once to the H6tel Dieu, where he had a long conversation with Doctor Naudin. At the end of it, the director of the hospital entered his carriage and drove to the city hall, in whose largest chamber a committee of the Public Safety officials were holding a public meeting. With earnest and urgent words the revered and universally valued physician gave the report about the visits which he had made at the Temple for some days at the command of the authorities, and about the condition of affairs there. Petion the elder, the presiding officer of the committee, listened to the report with a grave repose, and the picture of the low health of the "little Capet," while he paid the most marked attention to that part of the report which concerned the Simons.
"Citizen Simon has deserved much of the country, and he is one of the most faithful supporters of the one and indivisible republic," said Petion, when Doctor Naudin ended his report. "The republic must, like a grateful mother, show gratitude to her loyal sons, and care for them tenderly. So tell us, Citizen Naudin, what must be done in order to restore health to Citizen Simon and his wife."
"They are both sick from the same cause, and, therefore, they both require the same remedy. That remedy is, a change of air and a change of location. Let Simon have another post, where he shall be allowed to exercise freely out of doors, and where he shall not be compelled to breathe only the confined air of a cell; and let his wife not be forced to listen to the whining and the groaning of the little sick Capet. In one word, give to them both liberty to move around, and the free air, and they will, without any doubt, and within a short time, regain their health."
"It is true," said Petion, "the poor people lead a sad life in the Temple, and are compelled to breathe the air that the last scions of tyranny have contaminated with their poisonous breaths. We owe it to them to release them from this bad atmosphere, in consideration of their faithful and zealous service to the country. Citizen Simon has always taken pains to repair the great neglect in Capet's education, and to make the worthless boy prove some day a worthy son of the republic."
"But even if Simon should remain in the Temple, he would not be able to go on much longer with the education of the boy," said the hospital director, with a shrug.
"What do you mean by that, citizen doctor?" asked Petion, with a pleasant lighting up of his eyes.
"I mean that the boy has not a long time to live, for he is suffering at once from consumption and softening of the brain, and the latter disease will soon reduce him to an idiot, and render him incapable of receiving instruction."
"You are convinced that the son of the tyrants will not recover?" asked Petion, with a strained, eager glance.
"My careful examination of his case has convinced me that he has but a short time to live, and that he will spend the larger part of this time in an idiotic state. On this account Simon ought to be removed from the Temple, in order that his enemies may not be able to circulate a report about this zealous and worthy servant of the republic, that he is guilty of the death of little Capet--that Simon's method of bringing him up killed him. And besides, in order that the same charge should not be laid to the one and great republic, and it be accused of cruelty to a poor sick child, kindly attentions should be bestowed on him."
Petion's countenance clouded, and his eyes rested on the physician with a sinister, searching expression.
"You have a great deal of sensibility, doctor, and you appear to forget that the boy is a criminal by birth, and that the republic can have no special sympathy with him."
"For me," answered Naudin, with simplicity, "every sick person at whose bed I am called to stand, is a poor, pitiable Iranian being, and I never stop to think whether be is a criminal or not, but merely that he is a sufferer, and then I endeavor to discover the means to assist him. The hallowed and indivisible republic, however, is an altogether too magnanimous and exalted mother of all her children not to have pity on those who are reduced to idiocy, and in sore sickness. The republic is like the sun, which pours its beams even into the dungeon of the criminal, and shines upon the just and unjust alike."
"And what do you desire that the republic should do for the offspring of tyrants?" asked Petion, peevishly.
"I desire not much," answered Naudin, with a smile. "Let me be permitted to visit the sick child from time to time, and in his hopeless condition to procure him a little relief from his sufferings at least, and let him be treated like the child he is. Let a little diversion be allowed him. If it is not possible or practicable for him to play with children of his age, let him at least have some playthings for his amusement."
"Do you demand in earnest that the republic should condescend to provide playthings for her imprisoned criminals?" asked Petion, with a scornful laugh.
"You have commanded me to visit the sick boy in the Temple, to examine his condition, and to prescribe the necessary remedies for his recovery. I can offer no hope of recovery to the patient, but I can afford him some relief from his sufferings. Some of my medicines are called playthings! It lies with you to decide whether the republic will refuse these medicines to the sick one."
"And you say that the little Capet is incurable?" asked Petion, eagerly.
"Incurable, citizen representative."
"Well, then," said Petion, with a cold smile, "the republic can afford to provide the last of the Capets with toys. They have for centuries toyed fearlessly with the happiness of the people, and the last thing which the people of France give back to the tyrants is some toy with which they may amuse themselves on the way to eternity. Citizen doctor, your demands shall be complied with. The first place which shall become vacant shall be given to Citizen Simon, that he may be released from prison and enjoy his freedom. The little Capet will be provided with playthings, and, besides, you are empowered to give him all needful remedies for his relief. It is your duty to care for the sick child until its death."
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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27
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THE HOBBY-HORSE.
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In accordance with the instructions of Petion, playthings were procured and carried into the gloomy chamber of the prince on the very next day, and set by the side of the sick boy. But Mistress Simon labored in vain trying to amuse the little Louis with them. The men danced, the wooden cocks crowed, the dogs barked, and to all these sounds the child paid no heed; it did not once open its eyes, nor care in the least for the many-colored things which the officials had brought him.
"We must try something else," said the compassionate officer. "Do you know any plaything which would be likely to please little Louis Capet?"
"Give him a riding-horse," cried Simon, with a coarse laugh. "I am convinced if the obstinate youngster should hear that there was a riding-horse outside, and that he might ride through Paris, he would be well on the spot and get up. It is pure deceit, his lying there so pale and without interest in any thing about him."
"You are very cruel, citizen," muttered the official, with a compassionate glance at the child.
"Cruel? Yes, I am cruel!" said Simon, grimly. "But it is the cursed prison air that has made me so. If I stay here a week longer, Jeanne Marie will die, and I shall become crazy. The director of the hospital told us this, and you know, citizen, that he is the most clever doctor in all France. See if you would not be cruel if you had such an idea as that in your head!"
"Well, citizen, you have at least the satisfaction of knowing that it will not last long," answered the officer, consolingly. "The first vacancy is to be given to you."
"Well, I hope it will come soon, then," said Simon, with a sigh. "I will take a vow to you. If, in a week, I shall be released from this place, and get a good situation, I will give little Capet a horse to remember me by. That is, not a horse on which he might ride out of prison, but a wooden one, on which he can ride in prison. Say, little Capet," called Simon, stooping over the bed of the child, "would you not like to have a nice wooden horse to play with?"
Over the pale lips of the boy played the faint tint of a smile, and he opened his eyes. "Yes," he said, softly" yes; I should like to have a wooden horse, and I should have a good time with it."
"Come, citizen," said Simon, solemnly, "I take you to witness my vow. If I receive another place, I give a hobby-horse to little Capet. You grant me the privilege, citizen?"
"I allow you, Citizen Simon, and I will report the matter to the Public Welfare Committee, that it shall surprise no one by and by, and I am sure no one will gainsay you in your praiseworthy offer. For it certainly is praiseworthy to prepare a pleasure for a sick child; and the great republic, which is the gracious mother of all Frenchmen, will pity the poor child, too. I wish you success, citizen, in the fulfilment of all your hopes, and trust that you will speedily be released from your trying imprisonment."
And, in fact, this release did not have to be waited for long. A few days brought the accomplishment of Doctor Naudin's prophecy, and the official guard, who was then sick at the Hotel Dieu, died. The director of the hospital hastened to inform the authorities of this event, and on the same day Simon was appointed his successor. The same official who had brought the sick prince the playthings, came again to inform Simon, of his release, and was delighted at the stormy outbreak of rapturous joy with which the tidings were received.
"We will be off directly," cried Simon. "Our things have all been packed for three days, and every thing is ready."
"But you must wait patiently till to-morrow, my friends," said the official, with a smile. "Your successor cannot enter upon his duties here in the Temple before tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, and till then you must be content to wait quietly."
"That is sad," sighed Simon. "The time between now and ten o'clock to-morrow morning, will lie like lead upon my shoulders. I assure you, citizen, the Temple could get along without me for one night. The two Misses Capet above stairs are locked up, and as for the little Capet down here, it is not necessary to lock him up, for he will not run away, but lie quietly here upon his mattress."
"So the child is really very sick?" asked the officer, with feeling.
"Not exactly very sick," answered Simon, indifferently; "but Doctor Naudin, who visits him every day. thinks that the youngster might not be all right in the head, and he has ordered, on this account, that his long thick hair should be cut off, that his head might be a little cooler. So Jeanne Marie is going to cut it off, and that will probably be the last service that she will have to do for him. We are going to clear out of this--we are going to clear out of this!"
"And have you really nothing more to do for the little Capet, than merely to cut off his hair?" asked the officer with a fixed, searching look.
"No," answered Simon, with a laugh; "nothing but that. Oh! yes, there is something else. I did not think of that. My vow to you! I forgot that. I swore that, if I were to get away from here, I would give little Capet a hobby-horse."
"I am glad, Citizen Simon, that you remember your promise," said the officer, gravely. "I must tell you that the Public Welfare Committee, to which I communicated your intention, was very curious to know whether Citizen Simon would remember to carry it into effect. It is on this account that I was instructed to inform you of your transfer, and to report to them whether you intended to keep your promise. Your superiors will rejoice to learn that you are a man of honor, with whom it is a sacred duty to keep his word; and who, in prosperous days, does not forget to do what he promised to do in less propitious times. So, go and buy for little Capet the promised hobby-horse, and I will inform the Welfare Committee that it was not necessary for me to remind you of your vow, and that you are not only a good citizen, but a good man as well. Go and buy the plaything, and make your arrangements to leave the Temple to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, and to enter upon your new duties as collector of customs at Porte Macon."
"The great bell of Notre Dame will not have growled out its ten strokes to-morrow morning, before Jeanne Marie and I, with our goods, will have left the place," replied Simon, with a laugh. "And now I will run and fulfil my promise." He clapped his red-flannel cap upon his black, thick hair, and left the Temple with a hurried step. As the porter opened the door of the court which led to the street, for the worthy citizen and "man of honor," Simon stopped a moment to chat, telling him of his new situation, and of the vow which he was about to discharge.
"Do not wonder, therefore, citizen," he said, "if you see me come back, by-and-by, with a horse--with this distinction, that it will not be the horse that carries me, but that it will be I that will carry the horse. I was such a fool as to promise little Capet a horse, and I must keep my word, particularly as the Committee of Safety allows it."
"Well, if that is so," said the porter, with mock gravity, "I shall let you in, even if you do not make your appearance until night. With the permission of the Safety Committee, every thing; without it, nothing--for I want to keep my head a little longer on my shoulders."
"And I do not grudge you the privilege," said Simon, with a broad grin. "We know very little about what we have here, but much less about the place where the dear machine takes us. But, if you like, you can ask Roger, the official guard, whether I have permission to bring the wooden horse into the Temple. He is inside, and will probably be there when I come back."
He nodded to the porter, and went out into the street. As the door closed behind him, Simon stopped a moment, and cast a quick glance up and down the street. Above, at the corner of the little cross- street, stood quietly a young commissioner in his blouse, apparently waiting for some one to employ him. Simon crossed the street and went up to him.
"Well," asked the latter aloud, "have you any thing for me to do, citizen?"
"Yes," answered Simon, softly and quickly. "Yes, Toulan, I am all ready for you. To-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, I leave the Temple."
"I know it," whispered Toulan. "But speak loudly. There stands a man who seems to be watching us."
"Come," cried Simon, loudly. "I want you to accompany me to a store where they sell playthings, and afterward you must help carry back what I buy, for it will be too large and too heavy for me alone."
Toulan followed him without replying, and the two went quietly and with an air of indifference through the busy crowd of men. At the corner of a neighboring street the commissioner came in gentle contact with another, who was standing on the curbstone, and was looking earnestly down the street.
"Beg pardon, citizen," said Toulan, loudly, and then added, softly, "to-morrow morning, at ten o'clock. The washerwomen will take charge of the dirty linen at the door. At exactly ten the wagons and the boys must start. The hobby-horse will be filled."
"Yes, it shall be filled," and, with an indifferent air, he passed by the two, and walked down the Helder street. The farther he went the more rapid became his steps, and when he at last entered a narrow, solitary alley, where he might hope to be less observed, his quick walk became a run, which he continued till he reached the Rue Vivienne. He then moderated his pace, and went quietly into a toy- shop, whose attractive windows and open door were directed to the street. The clerk, who stood behind the counter, asked, with a quiet air, what he desired.
"First, allow me to sit down, citizen," answered the commissioner, as he sank upon the rush-chair which stood before the counter. "There, and now, if you want to do me a service, just give me a glass of water."
"Halloo, John," cried the clerk to the errand-boy, who was standing in the hack part of the store. "Bring a glass of water from the well! Hasten!"
The boy took a glass and sprang out of the door into the street.
"In a quarter of an hour they will be here," said the commissioner, quickly. "Inform the marquis, if you please."
"The cabinet-maker, Lamber, you mean," whispered the clerk. "He is not as far away as you; he lives directly opposite, and he has been standing all day at the house-door waiting for the sign."
"Then give it to him, dear baron," said the commissioner; and as the boy came in just then with the water, he hastily seized the glass, and took a swallow so immense as to perfectly satisfy the boy, who was looking at him.
The clerk had, in the mean time, gone to the shop-door, and looking across at the opposite house, he drew a blue handkerchief, with a red border, from his pocket, and slowly raised it to his face.
The man in the blouse, standing at the door of the low house across the street, nodded slightly, and stepped back out of sight.
"Well," cried the commissioner, "now that I have taken breath, and have had a good drink, I will tell you why I have run so. I have directed a citizen to you who wants to buy some playthings, and something very fine, I suppose, as he brings a commissioner along with him to carry the things home. Now I want to know what per cent, of the profit you get from him you are willing to give me, for you cannot expect, citizen, that I should give my recommendation gratis."
"I am not the owner of the store," replied the clerk, with a shrug. "I have been here only a week, and manage the business merely while the owner is absent for a short time on a necessary journey. So I can give no fees. But ask the boy whether in such cases Mr. Duval has paid money. He has been here longer than I." "Mr. Duval has paid every commissioner, who has brought him such news, two centums on the franc," said the boy, with an important air.
"Well, then, I will give you two centums on the franc, provided that the citizen buys more than a franc's worth."
"Aha! there comes the man," cried the commissioner, pointing at Simon, who just then entered the store with Toulan. "Well, citizen, now make a very handsome purchase, for the more you buy, the better I shall like it."
"Yes, I believe you," replied Simon, laughing; "that is the way in all stores. I want something nice; I want to buy a hobby-horse. But mind you, citizen, show me one of your best ones, a real blood- horse, for I tell you that he who is to ride it is of real blood himself."
"We happen unfortunately to have a limited supply of the article," said the clerk, with a shrug. "They do not come exactly in our line. But there has been so much demand for hobby-horses of late that we have ordered some, and if you will wait a few days, citizen--" "A few days!" interrupted Simon, angrily. "Not a few hours, not a few minutes will I wait. If you have no hobby-horses, tell me, and I will go elsewhere to make my purchases."
He turned to go, but the clerk held him back. "Wait only a minute," he said. "I should not like to lose your custom, and I think it possible that I can procure you a fine horse. The cabinet-maker, who makes our horses, lives just opposite, and he has promised to deliver them tomorrow. The boy shall go over and see if they are not ready."
"We would rather go over with him, citizen. If we find what is wanted, we shall need to go no farther."
"It is true, that will be the best course," said Simon. "Come, commissioner."
"I will go along to have the business all rightly done," said the clerk. "Here, John, take my place behind the counter while I am gone."
Simon had already crossed the street by the side of Toulan. The clerk followed with the second commissioner.
"Why have you not got rid of the boy, Count St. Prix?" asked the latter.
"It was impossible, Count Frotte" answered the former in a whisper. "Duval is a very nervous man, and he supposed that it would excite suspicion if the boy, who is well known in the neighborhood, should disappear at just the time when he should be away. He is right, perhaps, and at any rate the thing is unavoidable. The sly chore-boy has noticed nothing, I hope, and we shall reach our goal without any hindrance. You are going to London tomorrow morning?"
"Yes, count. And you? what is your direction?"
"To Coblentz, to the royal princes," replied Count St. Prix. "Only I suspect that we shall not both of us reach the end of our journeys."
"At any rate not with the children that we shall take with us," whispered the other, as they entered the house of the cabinet-maker.
They found Simon and Toulan in the large workshop busily engaged in bargaining with the cabinet-maker, who had shown them six tolerably large hobby-horses, and was descanting on their beauties.
"It seems tome they all look very much alike," said Simon. "Tell me, commissioner, which of these race-horses pleases you best."
"This with the red flanks," said Toulan, laying his hand upon the largest one.
"It is an immense creature," said Simon, with a laugh. "Still, the red flanks are pretty, and if we can agree about the price I will buy the animal."
They did agree, and after Simon had gravely paid the twenty francs, he and Toulan took the horse on their shoulders and marched down the street.
"Do all those people know about our secret?" asked Simon, as they strode forward.
"No, only the cabinet-maker knows about it, and he will leave Paris to-morrow and carry the prince to a place of safety."
"For God's sake, do not speak so loudly!" whispered Simon, casting an anxious look around. "But why do you yourself not go away with the boy and leave Paris, where you are constantly in danger?"
"I cannot," answered Toulan, solemnly.
"Cannot! what forbids you?"
"The vow that I gave to Marie Antoinette, to rescue her children from the Temple or to die."
"Well, but to-morrow you hope to fulfil your vow, and then you can go."
"I shall fulfil to-morrow but the half of my vow. I shall, if you help me, and my plan succeeds, release the son of the queen, but the daughter will remain behind in prison. You see, therefore, that I cannot leave Paris, for the daughter and sister-in-law of the queen are still prisoners, and I must release them."
"But I should rather that you would go away with the boy, and never come back to Paris," said Simon, thoughtfully.
"How so? Do you not trust me?"
"I trust no one," replied Simon, gloomily. "You might some day, when it might suit your humor, or in order to save yourself, betray me, and report me to the Committee of Safety."
"What, I! And ought I not to fear too? Could not you betray me as well?"
"You know very well that I shall take care not to disclose a word of this whole history, for to disclose it would be to write my own death-warrant. But hush, now; hush! there is the Temple, and it seems to me as if the very walls looked at me maliciously, as if they wanted to say, 'There comes a traitor!' Ah, Toulan, it is a bad thing to have an accusing conscience!"
"Help me faithfully to save the prince, Simon, and you will have a good conscience all the rest of your life, for you will have done a grand and noble deed."
"In your eyes," whispered Simon, "but not in those of the Convention, and when they learn about it--but here we are, and our talk and reconsideration are too late."
He struck three times with his fist against the closed gate of the outer court. The porter opened, and let the two men in, only saying that the guard had given his special consent to the bringing in of the hobhy-horse.
"But about the commissioner whom you bring with you," said the porter, reflectively, "he did not make any mention, and I can only allow him to take your plaything into the second court. He must not go into the Temple."
"It is no particular wish of mine to go into a prison," answered the commissioner, carelessly. "It is a good deal easier to get in than to get out again. Well, take hold, Citizen Simon; forward!"
They walked on to the second court. "Now, then," whispered Toulan, "for caution and thoughtfulness! Tomorrow at ten o'clock I will be standing before the door, and you will call me in to help you in your moving."
"I wish it were all over," groaned Simon. "It seems to me as if my head were shaking on my shoulders, and my heart beats as if I were a young girl."
"Courage, Simon, only courage! Remember that tomorrow you are to be a free and a rich man. Then, as soon as you give your basket to the washerwoman at the Macon gate, I will pay you the promised twenty thousand francs. And--" "Halt!" cried the sentinel at the entrance to the Temple. "No one can go in here without a pass."
"You do not want a pass for my rocking-horse, brother citizen, do you?" asked Simon, with a laugh.
"Nonsense! I am speaking about the commissioner."
"He is going of himself, and does not want to go in. But look him square in the face, for he will come to-morrow morning again. I have secured him in advance, to help me in moving out. Bring a wagon along, commissioner, for the things will be too heavy to carry without one. And now help put the horse on my shoulders. So! Well, then, to-morrow morning at ten, commissioner."
"To-morrow morning at ten," replied Toulan, nodding to Simon, and slowly sauntering through the court. He stopped at the outer gate, told the porter that he was going to assist Simon in his moving on the morrow, and then asked in an indifferent tone whether Simon's successor at the Temple was appointed.
"Why, would you like the place?" asked the porter, gruffly.
"No, indeed, not I! I have no taste for such work. It must be an awful air in the prison."
"It is that," replied the porter. "And so after Simon has moved out, they are going to cleanse the place a little, and give it an airing, and the successor will move in about noon."
"Well, I don't envy the man who moves in," said Toulan, with a laugh. "Good-by, citizen, we shall see each other to-morrow."
He went out into the street, and slowly sauntered along. At the end of it he stopped and gave a trifle to a beggar who, supported by a crutch, was leaning against a house.
"Is it all right thus far?"
"Yes, marquis, thank God, thus far every thing has gone on well. The horse is in the Temple, and nothing is discovered."
"May the grace of God stand by us to-morrow!" whispered the beggar. "You are sure that all the arrangements are carefully attended to?"
"Entirely sure, M. de Jarjayes. While you are leaving Paris in the garb of a washerwoman, our two allies will both be driving out of two other gates, with the boy, in stylish carriages."
"And it will be you, Toulan, who will have saved the King of France," whispered the beggar. "Oh! be sure that all France will thank you for it some day, and give you the title of savior of your country!"
"Baron," said Toulan, shaking his head, "for me there is but one title of honor, that which the Queen of France gave me. I am called Fidele, and I want no other name. But this one I will maintain so long as I live. Good-by till we meet to-morrow at the Porte Macon!"
Little Prince Louis Charles received the hobby-horse, which Simon carried into the chamber, with a little more interest than in the case of the other playthings. He even raised himself up a little on his mattress, and directed a long, searching gaze at the tall, handsome wooden creature.
"Well," asked the official, who had gone with Simon into the dungeon, and had watched the effect of the toy, "well, how does your horse please you, little Capet?"
The boy nodded slowly, but made no reply; he only reached out his long, thin, right hand, and made a motion as if he wanted to rise.
"To-morrow, little Capet," cried Jeanne Marie, holding him back. "To-day you must keep entirely still, so the doctor said, and I will cut your hair off directly, as the doctor ordered. But I should like to have you here, citizen, and oversee the operation. The boy will look much changed, when his long, yellow hair is cut off, and afterward it might be supposed--" "Yes, certainly," interrupted Simon, with a laugh, "afterward it might be supposed that it is not the stupid youngster who has troubled us so long, that out of pure tenderness and love we had taken him along with us."
"No one would consider the republican Simon capable of such a thing," replied the official, "and besides, the boy will stay here, and no substitute for him can fall out of the clouds. Be free from care, Simon. I myself shall recognize the boy to-morrow, and if he should look changed in appearance, I shall know how it comes."
"Yes, he will know how it comes," said Simon, with a grin, as he watched the retreating form of the official, now leaving the prison.
"Lock the door, Simon," whispered Jeanne Marie. "We must let the boy out of this if he is not to be stifled!"
"No, no," said Simon, motioning his wife to retreat from the hobby- horse which she was approaching. "He will not be stifled, for beneath the saddle-cloth there are nothing but air-holes, and he can endure it a good while. We must above all things be cautious and prepared for every thing. It would be a fine thing, would it not, if the officials who are on guard in the Temple should conceive the idea of making the rounds a second time for the purpose of inspection. He cannot be carried out before it strikes ten from Notre Dame. We will, however, give him a little more air."
He removed the saddle with care, which was let into the back of the wooden horse, and listened at the opening.
"He breathes very peacefully and evenly," he then said, softly. "He seems to be asleep. Jeanne Marie, hold the saddle in your hand, and at the least approach fit it again in its place. I will now take hold and pack our things."
When the night came, and the last rounds had been made past the closed doors of Simon's rooms, and the officials had withdrawn into the great hall, where they stayed during the night-watch, there was an unusual stir within Simon's apartments. Jeanne Marie, who had thrown herself in her clothes upon the bed, slipped out from beneath the coverlet. Simon, who was standing near the door listening, advanced to the little prince, and bade him in a whisper to get up.
The child, which now seemed to have recovered from its indifference and stupidity, rose at once, and at Simon's further command made an effort to remove his clothes, and to put on in their place the coarse woollen suit and the linen trousers which Simon drew out of his bed and handed to him.
The toilet was soon completed, and the little prince looked with a timid, inquiring glance at Simon, who was regarding him with a searching eye.
"And the stockings, master?" he asked. "Do not I have any stockings?"
"No," growled Simon--"no, the son of a washerwoman wants no stockings. There are some wooden shoes which will be laid for you in the basket, and you put them on afterward, if we are fortunate in getting away. But you must cut his hair, Jeanne Marie. With long hair he will not look like a boy from the people."
Jeanne Marie shuddered. "I cannot," she whispered; "it would seem to me as if I were cutting off his head, and the woman in white would stand behind, and pierce me through with her great eyes."
"Come, come, that old story again!" growled Simon. "Give me the scissors, then; I will take care of it, for the boy must part with his hair before he goes into the basket. Come, come, do not shrink and curl up so; I was not speaking of the guillotine-basket, but of your dirty-clothes basket. Come, Capet, I want to cut your hair."
He took the great shears from the work-basket, and sat down on a stool by the side of the table, on which burned a dim tallow candle, throwing an uncertain light through the apartment. "Come, Capet!"
The boy stole up with an insecure step, and shrank together when Simon seized him and drew him between his knees.
"Do not hurt him, Simon. Be careful of him," whispered Jeanne Marie, sinking on the floor and folding her hands. "Remember, husband, that she is here, and that she is looking at you, and that she bores into my head with her eyes when you do any harm to the child."
Simon looked around with a shy and anxious glance. "It is high time that we were away from here," he growled--"high time, if I am not to be crazy as well as you. Stoop down, Capet, so that I can cut your hair off." The child let his head fall; but a faint, carefully suppressed sob came from his breast, while Simon's shears went clashing through his locks, severing them from his head.
"What are you crying for, Capet?" asked Simon, zealously going forward with his work.
"I am so sorry, master, to have my locks cut off."
"You probably suppose, you vain monkey, that your locks are particularly beautiful?"
"Oh, no, master! It is only," sighed the boy with his eyes full of tears--" it is only because her hand has rested on them, and because she kissed them when I saw her the last time."
"Who is she?" asked Simon, roughly.
"My mamma queen," replied Louis with such a tone of tenderness as to bring tears into the eyes of Jeanne Marie, and even to move the cobbler himself.
"Hush!" he said, softly. "Hush! you must never call your mother by such a name. After to-morrow morning you are to be the son of a washerwoman. Remember that, and now be still! There, your hair is done now. Pick up the locks from the floor and lay them on the table, Jeanne Marie. We must leave them here, that the officer may find them in the morning, and not wonder if he does not recognize the urchin. Now we will bring the wash-basket, and see whether young Capet will go into it. "
He brought out of the chamber a high, covered basket, grasped the boy, thrust him in, and ordered him to lie down on the bottom of the basket.
"He exactly fits!" said Simon to his wife. "We will now throw some dirty clothes over him, and he can spend the night in the basket. We must be ready for any thing; for there are many distrustful officials, and it would not be the first time that they have made examinations in the night. Little Capet must remain in the basket, and now we will take his substitute out of the horse."
He went to the hobby-horse, took out some screws which ran along the edges of the upholstery, and then carefully removed the upper part of the animal from the lower. In the hollow thus brought to light, lay a pale, sick boy, with closed eyes--the nephew of the Marquis de Jarjayes, the last descendant of the Baroness de Tarclif, now, as all his ancestors had done, to give his life for his king.
Jeanne Marie rose from her knees, took a light from the table, and approached the child, which was lying in its confined space as in a coffin.
The little prince had raised himself up in his basket, and his pale face was visible as he looked, out of his large blue eyes, with curiosity and amazement at the sick child.
"He does not look like the king's son," whispered Jeanne Marie, after a long, searching study of the pale, bloated face of the idiot.
"We will put his clothes on at once, then he will look all right, for clothes make the man. Stand up, little one, you need to get up. You are not to stay any longer in your curious prison."
"He does not understand you," said Jeanne Marie. "Do not you remember that Toulan told us that the boy is perfectly deaf and dumb?"
"True; I had forgotten it, and yet it is fortunate for us, for a deaf and dumb person cannot disclose any dangerous secrets. Come, Jeanne Marie, give me the clothes; we will dress up the little mute like a prince."
They put upon him the velvet jacket, the short trowsers of black cloth, the shoes and stockings of the prince, who still was looking out of his basket at the pale, softly-moaning child, which was now placed by Simon and his wife on the mattress.
"There," said Simon, throwing the coverlet over the boy, "there, the royal prince is ready, and we can say, as they used to do at St. Denis, when they brought a new occupant into the royal vault, 'Le roi est mort, vive le roi! ' Lie quietly in your basket, Capet, for you see you are deposed, and your successor has your throne."
"Master," whispered Louis, anxiously and timidly, "master, may I ask you a question?"
"Well, yes, you may, you little nameless toad. What is it?"
"Master, will the sick child have to die, if I am saved?"
"What do you mean, youngster? What are you at?"
"I only mean, master--I only wanted to say that if the poor boy must die, if he takes my place, why--I should rather stay here. For--" "Well, go on, stupid! what do you mean by your 'for?' You would rather remain here?"
"Yes, master, if another is to die and be beaten and tortured, for blows hurt so much, and I should not like to have another boy receive them instead of me. That would be wicked in me, and--" "And you are a stupid fellow, and do not know any thing you are talking about," said Simon, shaking his fist at him. " Just put on airs, and speak another such a foolish word, and I will not only beat you to death, but I will beat this miserable, whining youngster to death too, and then you will certainly be to blame for it. Down with you into the basket, and if you venture to put your head up again, and if to-morrow you are not obedient and do just what we bid you, I will beat you and him, both of you, to pieces, and pack you into the clothes-basket, and carry you away. Down into the basket!"
The boy sank down out of sight; and when, after a little while, Jeanne Marie cautiously looked to see whether he had fallen asleep, she saw that Louis Charles was kneeling on the bottom of the basket, and raising his folded hands up to heaven.
"Simon," she whispered--" Simon, do not laugh at me and scold me. You say, I know, that there is no God, and the republic has done away with Deity, and the Church, and the priests. But let me once kneel down and pray to Him with whom little Louis Charles is talking now, and to whom the Austrian spoke on the scaffold."
Without waiting for Simon's answer, Jeanne Marie sank upon her knees. Folding her hands, she leaned her forehead on the rim of the basket, and softly whispered, "Louis Charles, do you hear me?"
"Yes," lisped the child, "I hear you."
"I ask your forgiveness," whispered Jeanne Marie. "I have sinned dreadfully against you, but remorse has taken hold of my heart, and tears it in pieces and gives me no rest day or night. Oh, forgive me, son of the queen, and when you pray, implore your mother to forgive me the evil that I have done her."
"I will pray to my dear mamma queen for you, and I know she will forgive you, for she was so very good, and she always said to me that we must forgive our enemies; and I had to swear to my dear papa that I would forget and forgive all the wrong that men should do to me. And so I forgive you, and I will forget all the bad things that Master Simon has done to me, for my papa and my mamma wished me to."
Jeanne Marie let her head sink lower, and pressed her hands firmly against her lips to repress the outcries which her remorseful conscience prompted. Simon seemed to understand nothing of this soft whispering; he was busily engaged in packing up his things, and no one saw him hastily draw his hand over his eyes, as if he wanted to wipe away the dust which suddenly prevented his seeing.
Gradually it grew still in the gloomy room. The whispering in the basket ceased. Jeanne Marie had retired to her bed, and had wept herself to sleep. Upon the mattress lay the sick, sobbing child, the substitute of King Louis XVII., who was in the basket.
Simon was the only one who was awake, and there must have been dismal thoughts that busied him. He sat upon the stool near the candle, which was nearly burned out, his forehead was corrugated and clouded, his lips were closely pressed together, and the little, flashing eyes looked out into the empty space full of anger and threatenings.
"It must be," he muttered at last, "it must be. I should otherwise not have a moment's peace, and always feel the knife at my throat. One of us must be away from here, in order that he may disclose the other. I will not be that one, it must be Toulan."
He stood up with the air of one who had made a fixed, unchangeable resolve, and stretched his bony, crooked limbs. Then he threw one last look at the stranger-child, that lay moaning and groaning on his mattress, fell upon his bed, and soon his long-drawn, sonorous breathing disclosed the fact that Master Simon was asleep.
On the next morning there reigned in the lower stories of the Temple a busy, stirring life. Master Simon was preparing to move, and all his household goods were set out in the court, in order to be transferred to the wagon that Commissioner Toulan had ordered. Close to the wagon stood one of the officials of the Public Safety, and examined every article of furniture that was put into it, opening even the bandboxes and pillows to look into them. Not, as he said, the Welfare Committee doubted the honesty of the faithful and zealous servant of the republic, but only to satisfy the forms, and to comply with the laws, which demanded that the authorities should have a watchful eye on every thing that was at all connected with the family of the tyrants.
"And you will do me a great pleasure if you will examine every thing with the utmost care. In the republic we are all alike, and I do not see why I should not be served to-day as another would be on the morrow. You know, probably, that I have been appointed collector at Porte Macon, and after to-morrow I shall have to inspect the goods of other people. It is all fair that I should have my turn to-day. Besides, you will not have much more to examine, we are almost through; I believe there is only a basket with the soiled clothes yet to come. That is the sacred possession of my wife, and she was going to bring it out herself, with the commissioner's help. Yes, there they come."
At that moment, Jeanne Marie appeared in the court, followed by Toulan. They brought along, by two ropes which served as handles, a large and longish basket, whose half-opened cover brought to view all kinds of women's clothes.
"Room there," cried Simon, with a laugh, "room for the Citoyenne Simon and her costly dowry!"
"Come, no joking, Simon," said his wife, threatening him with her fist and laughing. "If my dowry is not costly enough, I will only ask you to provide me with better things."
"Your dowry is magnificent," said Simon, "and there is not a single article lacking to make it complete. Come, I will help the commissioner put the basket in the wagon, for it is too heavy for you, my fairest one!"
He took hold of the basket with his strong arm, and helped the commissioner swing it into the wagon.
"But let me look first into the basket, as my duty demands," said the official. "You are too quick! You know, citizen, that I must examine all your goods. The law compels me to."
"Then I beg you to climb up into the wagon and open the basket," said Simon, calmly. "You cannot want us to take the heavy thing down again for you to examine it."
"I do not ask that, citizen, but I must examine the basket."
The official sprang into the wagon, but Jeanne Marie was quicker than he, and stood close by the basket, whose cover was partly opened.
"Look in, citizen," she said, with dignity. "Convince yourself that only the clothing of a woman is in it, and then tell the republic that you found it necessary to examine the basket of the famous knitter of the guillotine, as if Jeanne Marie was a disguised duchess, who wanted to fly from the hand of justice."
"I beg your pardon," said the official, "every one knows and honors the knitter of the guillotine, but--" "But you are curious, and want to see some of my clothes. Well, look at them!" She raised those which lay at the top, and held them up to the official with a laugh.
"And down below? What is farther down in the basket?"
"Farther down," replied Jeanne Marie, with an expression of the greatest indignation and the most outraged modesty, "farther down are my dirty clothes, and I hope the republic will not consider it necessary to examine these too. I would at least oppose it, and call every female friend I have to my help." [Footnote: Madame Simon's own words, reported from her own account, which she gave in the year 1810 to the Sisters of Mercy who cared for her in her last sickness. The sisterhood of the female hospital in the rue Sevres publicly repeated, in the year 1851, this statement of Jeanne Marie Simon, who died there in 1819. It was in the civil process brought against the Duke de Normandy, who was accused of giving himself out falsely as King Louis XVII., and who could not be proved not to be he.]
"Oh! you will not have to do that," replied the official, with a friendly nod of the head. "It would be presumptuous to go farther with the examination of your goods, and the republic regards with respect the mysteries of an honorable wife."
He jumped down from the wagon, while Jeanne Marie, still wearing an angry look, laid the clothes back into the basket, and shut the cover down.
"Can we go now?" she asked, taking her seat on a low stool which happened to be near the great basket.
"Yes, if the official has nothing against it, we can go," answered Simon. "Our goods are all loaded."
"Then go on, I have nothing against it, and I wish you and your wife much happiness and joy in your new career."
The official waved them a last gracious adieu with the hand, and the wagon started. Alongside of the great, hard-mouthed and long-haired horse that drew the cart, walked the commissioner, in order, once in a while, when they had to turn a corner, to seize the bridle and give it a powerful jerk. At the side of the wagon strode Simon, keeping a watchful eye upon his possessions, and carefully setting every thing aright which was in danger of being shaken off upon the pavement. Above in the carriage near the great basket sat Jeanne Marie, the former knitter of the guillotine. Her naked brown arm rested upon the basket, on whose bottom, covered with dirty linen and Mistress Simon's clothes, was the son of Marie Antoinette, King Louis XVII., making his entrance into the world which should have for him only sufferings and illusions, shattered hopes and dethroned ideals.
This happened on the 19th of January, 1794, and on the very day in which the unhappy King Louis XVII. was leaving the Temple, his sister Theresa, who was still living with her Aunt Elizabeth in the upper rooms, wrote in her diary (known subsequently by the title "Recit des evenements arrives au Temple, par Madame Royale") the following words: "On the 19th of January my aunt and I heard beneath us, in the room of my brother, a great noise which made us suspect that my brother was leaving the Temple.
We were convinced of it when, looking through the keyhole of the door, we saw goods carried away. On the following day we heard the door of the room, in which my brother had been, opened, and recognized the steps of men walking around, which confirmed us in the belief that he had been carried away."
The pitiful wagon, which gave its hospitality to the knitter of the revolution, as well as to a king, drove slowly and carefully through the streets, unnoticed by the people who hastily passed by. Now and then they encountered a commissioner who came up to Toulan, greeted him as an acquaintance, and asked after his welfare. Toulan nodded to them confidentially and answered them loudly that he was very well, and that he was helping Simon move out of the Temple and going with him to Porte Macon.
The commissioners then wished him a pleasant journey, and went their way; but the farther they were from the wagon, the quicker were their steps, and here and there they met other commissioners, to whom they repeated Toulan's words, and who then went from there and again told them over to their friends in the streets, in quiet, hidden chambers, and in brilliant palaces. In one such palace the tidings caused a singular commotion. Count Frotte, who lived there, and whom the public permitted to live in Paris, ordered his travelling carriage to be brought out at once. The postilion, with four swift horses, had already stood in the court below half an hour, waiting for this order. The horses were quickly harnessed to the carriage, which was well filled with trunks; and scarcely had it reached the front door, when the count hurried down the grand staircase, thickly wrapped in his riding-furs. At his right sat a little boy of scarcely ten years, a velvet cap, trimmed with fur, upon his short, fair hair; the slender, graceful form concealed with a long velvet cloak, that fell down as far as the shoes with golden, jewelled buckles.
Count Frotte seemed to bestow special care and attention upon this boy, for he not only had him sit on his right, but remained standing near the door, to give precedence to the boy, and then hastened to follow him. He pressed the servants back who stood near the open door, bowed respectfully, and gave his hand to the lad to assist him in ascending. The youth received these tokens of respect quietly, and seemed to take it as a matter of course that Count Frotte should carefully put furs around his feet and body, in order to protect him from every draft. As soon as this was done, the count entered the carriage, and took his place at the left of the boy. The servant closed the carriage-door with a loud slam, and the steward advanced with respectful mien, and asked whither the count would order to go.
"The road to Puy," said the count, with a loud voice, and the steward repeated to the postilion just as loudly and clearly, "The road to Puy."
The carriage drove thunderingly out of the court-door, and the servant looked after it till it disappeared, and then followed the house-steward, who motioned him to come into the cabinet.
"I have something to tell you, citizen," said the steward, with a weighty air, "but first I must beg you to make me a solemn promise that you will continue a faithful and obedient servant of the count, and prove in no way false to your oath and your duty."
The servant pledged himself solemnly, and the steward continued: "The count has undertaken a journey which is not to be spoken of, and is to remain, if possible, a secret. I demand of you, therefore, that if any one asks where the count has gone, you answer that you do not know. But above all things, you are not to say that the count is not travelling alone, but in company with the young-gentleman, whose name and rank I know just as little about as you. Will you promise to faithfully heed my words?"
The servant asserted it with solemn oaths and an expression of deep reverence. The steward beckoned to him to go, and then looked at him for a long time, and with a singular expression as he withdrew.
"He is a spy of the Safety Committee," he whispered to himself. "I am convinced that he is so, and he will certainly go at once and report to the authorities, and they will break their heads thinking what the count has to do in Puy, and who the boy is who accompanies my lord. Well, that is exactly what we want: to put the bloodhounds and murderers on a false scent. That is just the object of the count, and for that purpose M. Morin de Gueriviere has lent his only son, for all that we have and are, our lives, our children, and every thing else, belong to our king and lord. I hope, therefore, that the count's plan will succeed, and the Safety Committee be put on a false scent."
Meanwhile the pitiful carriage containing Simon's goods had slowly taken its way through the streets and halted at its goal, the custom-house near Porte Macon. Before the building stood a woman in the neat and tasteful costume of the washerwomen from the village of Vannes, which then, as now, was the abode of the washerwomen of Paris.
"Well," cried the woman, with a loud laugh, helping Mistress Simon dismount from the wagon--" well, you have come at last. For two hours I have been waiting for you, for you ordered me to be here at eleven, and now it is one. What will my husband and my little boy say about my coming home so late?"
"I beg your pardon," said Jeanne Marie, with a kindly voice. "Our ride was a good deal slower than I thought, for the things were packed only loosely, and if we had ridden faster they would easily have been injured. But, I will not detain you longer, and you shall have my wash at once. There are a great many clothes this time, and I have therefore thrown them all at once into the basket; so you can put the basket right upon your wagon and bring the things back in it. Halloa, Simon, and you, commissioner, take hold and lift the basket down, and carry it out to the washerwoman's wagon that is standing near the gate."
The two men immediately lifted the great basket out, and carried it to the open cart which stood there, in which lay arranged in regular order great bundles of dirty linen. Near the gate stood the sub- collector, whose superior Simon now was, and it therefore did not occur to him to examine the basket which his new chief was putting in the washerwoman's wagon. Some busybodies who stood around turned their whole attention to the wagon which contained the furniture and goods of the new collector, who was, of course, a very important person in this remote quarter, and Jeanne Marie endeavored with her loud words and choleric gesticulations to fasten the attention of the idlers upon herself. Nobody regarded the two men, who had just put the basket into the washerwoman's cart, and no one heard the words that they softly spoke together.
The washerwoman had raised the cover, and was rolling around the clothes, as if she wanted to examine the contents of the basket.
"Sire," she whispered, softly, as she did so--"sire, do you hear me?"
A weak, faint voice replied, "I hear you."
"And shall you be able to bear it, if you stay a little longer in your hiding-place?"
"Oh yes, I shall be able to bear it; but I am anxious, and I should like to be away from here."
The washerwoman closed the cover of the basket, and sprang down from the wagon. "Every thing is in order," she said, "and it is high time that I should be off. I have a long way to go, and my husband and child are expecting me."
"Then go, with God's blessing," said the commissioner, shaking hands with the washerwoman as if she were an old acquaintance." Go, with God's blessing, and may He protect you from all calamity, and bless you with happiness and joy!"
He spoke loudly, as if this was intended for the ear of some person besides the washerwoman. And another had heard the words of Toulan, and a soft and tremulous voice called: "Farewell, Fidele; I thank you, dear Toulan."
The wagon was at once in motion, and drove quickly down the street through the rows of small houses in the suburbs. The two men stood and looked after it till the washerwoman's carriage disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Toulan raised his eyes slowly to heaven, and a pious expression illumined his good, energetic countenance.
"Thou lookest down upon me, my queen and mistress," he said, softly and inaudibly." I feel the glance of thy heavenly eyes, and it rests like a hallowed blessing upon my thankful heart. I know, my queen, that thou art satisfied with me this hour, and it seems to me as if thy loved voice were whispering above me in the air the word Fidele. Give me now thy blessing, that I may end my work, and rescue the daughter and the sister as I have rescued the son. My life is devoted to thy service, and I shall save all thy dear ones or die!"
"Well, Toulan," said Simon, softly, "I have kept my word, and little Capet is released. Are you going to keep yours?"
"Certainly I shall," said Toulan, whose glance slowly fell from heaven, and whose face still glowed like one in a trance. "Yes, Simon, I shall keep my word to you as you have yours to me. Come into your house, that I may pay you."
He withdrew quickly from the gate and entered the house which thereafter was to be the house of the collector Simon. All was going on busily there, for Jeanne Marie had impressed into her service not only the sub-collector but some of the curious spectators, and she scolded her husband, who was just coming in with Toulan, for talking too long with the washerwoman instead of helping her.
"Do you two take the heavy mattresses and carry them into the next room."
The two men quickly obeyed, and bore the mattresses into the chamber. Then they locked themselves in.
Toulan took several rolls from the great waistcoat which he wore under his blue blouse, broke them asunder, and let the gold-pieces fall out upon the mattress.
"Count them, Simon," he said, "to see that there are exactly two hundred and fifty double gold-pieces, all bearing the exalted symbols of 'he one, great, and indivisible republic.' May they bring you joy, and be a reward for the great good fortune which you have brought to me, and to all who love the king and his house."
"But will no one reveal me?" asked Simon, anxiously, while busily engaged in collecting the gold-pieces, and hiding them between the mattresses. "Say, Toulan, will no one divulge and report me to the authorities?"
"Be quiet, Simon, and fear nothing. To betray you, would be at the same time to betray the great cause which we serve, and to surrender the young king to the persecution of his enemies. But no one knows, excepting me, that of your own free will you have helped save the king. With express reference to your safety, I have made all the other allies believe that I have deceived you, and that you know nothing of the concealment of the child. So be entirely without concern. Only Toulan knows your secret, and Toulan is silent as the grave. But let us go out now and help your wife bring the things into the house, and afterward you can let me go without any further leave-taking. Farewell, citizen; may you be entirely successful in your new field of labor."
He nodded with a friendly air to Simon, and as Jeanne Marie just then called the commissioner with a loud voice, Toulan hastily opened the door and hurried to her.
Simon followed him with a long, dark look. Then he slowly shook his head, and his eye kindled.
"It must be," he said to himself, softly. "I should otherwise have no rest day or night, and it would be worse than in the Temple. He said so himself: only Toulan knows my secret. So if Toulan dies, my secret dies with Toulan, and is buried with him, and I cart then enjoy my life, and shall not need to live in anxiety, and in perpetual fear of being betrayed. But," he continued, after a brief pause, "what is done, must be done quickly, otherwise I may fall into the very pit I have digged for Toulan! If the little Capet is fairly carried to a place of safety, and escapes out of the republic, Toulan can avenge himself by reporting the whole story and bringing me to misfortune. I must, therefore, while I am secure, take away from the fellow the means of betraying me. Yes, yes, it must be so; Toulan must die, that Simon may live. Look out for your own self first, and then your neighbors."
With a decided step, Simon left the room, and entered the chamber, where Toulan was busy with Jeanne Marie in arranging the furniture.
"I am glad to find you here still," said Simon, nodding to him; "for I had entirely forgotten to tell you that I have a present for you, which will certainly please you, and which I have saved and laid away expressly for you."
"What is it, Simon? What kind of a present have you for me?"
"A very precious one, at least such as you and your like will consider so, I think. I have the long, yellow locks which Jeanne Marie cut yesterday from little Capet's head."
"And will you give them to me?" asked Toulan, eagerly.
"Yes, that will I, and it is for that purpose that I have brought them along. They are lying, with all the letters, in my work-box. But I cannot get at them to-day in all the confusion, for they are at the very bottom of the box. But come to-morrow morning, and you shall receive your costly treasure. If you like, you can come about nine o'clock; and if I should happen to have any thing to do, and not be here, I will give the hair to Jeanne Marie, and she will hand it to you."
"Be sure that I shall come," said Toulan, earnestly. "Give me your hand, and let me thank you for your delicate act of kindness. I certainly did you a wrong, for I did not hold you capable of such a deed. I thank you, Simon, I thank you from my heart; and to-morrow morning, punctually at nine, I shall be here to receive my precious possession. Farewell till then, Simon! I have no quiet now, but must run around and see whether every thing seems as usual in the Temple, and our secret undiscovered." He hastened away, and disappeared around the corner.
The whole day Simon was busy with his own thoughts, and engaged in arranging the furniture, with his mind clearly not on his work. In the afternoon he declared that he must go to the Temple again, because in the upper corridor he had left a chest with some utensils in it which were his.
"It seems to me, husband, you are homesick for the Temple," said Jeanne Marie jestingly, "and you are sad because you are no longer in the old, black walls."
"Yes, I am homesick for the Temple," replied Simon, "and that is why I go there."
But he did not take the way to the Temple, but to the city hall, and rang the bell so violently that the porter dashed to the door to open it.
"It is you, citizen," he ejaculated. "I thought something must have happened."
"Something has happened, and I have come to inform the Committee of Safety," answered Simon, impetuously.
"Has it met?"
"Yes, it is in the little council-chamber. You will find an officer at the door, and can let him announce you."
Simon strode forward and found the sentinel before the door, who asked him what his business there was.
"Go in, citizen, and announce that Simon is here, and brings important news, of great peril to the state."
A minute later, Simon was ushered into the hall in which the Safety Committee were assembled. All those stern-faced men of the republic knew Simon as a faithful and zealous republican, upon whose devotion they could reckon, and whose fidelity was immovable.
"I am come," said Simon, slowly, "I am come to bring an accusation against a certain person as a conspirator against the republic, and a traitor to our liberties."
"Who is it, and what has he done?" asked the chairman, with a cold smile.
"What has he done? He means to do something, and I mean to prevent him. He means to release the wolf's whelp from the Temple. Who knows but he may have done so already, for when I left the Temple this morning, my successor had not come, and little Capet was alone. Who is it that is able to release the boy and the two ladies? It is Toulan, the traitor, the royalist Toulan!"
"Toulan!" replied Petion, with a shrug. "We know very well that Toulan is a traitor, and that the republic can expect only the worst from him that he can do. He was accused once, but escaped merited punishment by flight, and he has unquestionably gone to Coblentz to join the tyrant's brothers there. Our police are watchful, and have discovered not a trace of him."
"Then allow me to put the police on his track," said Simon, laughing. "Be so good as to send a couple of officers to me tomorrow, and I will deliver Toulan, the traitor, into their hands."
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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28
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TOULAN'S DEATH.
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The next morning, at the stroke of nine, Toulan, in the garb of a commissioner, entered the house of the new collector at the Macon gate. Simon received him at the door, and conducted him into the sitting-room.
"You see," said Toulan, "that I am punctual, and I must tell you that I have been almost too impatient to wait. I hope you do not regret your promise, and that you mean to give me the noble present that you promised me."
"Unfortunately I can not," answered Simon, with a shrug. "My wife insisted on giving you the hair with her own hands, and she has just gone out. You will have to wait for her, if you really are anxious to possess the hair of little Capet."
"Yes, I am anxious to own it," replied Toulan. "The hair of my dear young king will be my most cherished possession, and--" "Come, come," interrupted Simon, "there you exaggerate. The gold salt's-bottle, which the Austrian gave you, is a great deal dearer to you, is it not? You still have that, have you not?"
"Still have it?" cried Toulan. "I would sooner part with my life than with this remembrancer of Marie Antoinette!"
"Well, then, see which you would rather keep, your life, or the bottle the Austrian gave you," said Simon, with a laugh, as he sprang toward the door and opened it Two officials of the Safety Committee, followed by armed men, entered.
"Have you heard every thing?" asked Simon, triumphantly.
"Yes, we have heard every thing, and we arrest you, Toulan, as a traitor. Take him to the Conciergerie. The authorities will decide what shall be done with him further."
"Well," said Toulan, calmly, "the authorities will, perhaps, do me the honor of letting me go the same way that my king--and my queen have taken, and I shall follow the example of the noble sufferers, and die for the hallowed cause of royalty. Let us go, that I may not longer breathe the air which the blasphemer and traitor Simon has poisoned. Woe upon you, Simon! In your dying hour think of me, and of what I say to you now: You are sending me to death, that you may live in peace. But you will find no peace on earth, and if no man accuses you, your conscience will. On your dying bed you will see me before you, and on the day of judgment you will hear my voice, accusing you before the throne of God as a betrayer and murderer. May my blood come on your head, Simon!"
Simon lived to enjoy his freedom and his money only a short time. At the expiration of a year he fell into lunacy, which soon made him attempt his own life. He died in the Asylum of Bicetre. His wife lived till 1821, in a hospital at Paris, and in her dying hour asserted that little Capet was released in the way above related.
On the next day, there was a great excitement within the Temple, and the Safety Committee repaired thither in a body. The lamplighter, who made his rounds on the evening of the day on which Simon left the Temple, had asserted that the child that lay upon the mattress was not the little Capet. "He must know this," he said, "for he had seen the child daily when he lighted the lamp in the boy's room."
The new keeper, Augustus Lasne, was very much excited at the communication of the lamplighter, and at dawn of the next day repaired to the city hall to report the statement. The Safety Committee resolved on an immediate investigation of the Temple, after pledging one another to the deepest secrecy, and enjoining the same on all the servants at the Temple.
The officials found on the mattress a moaning, feverish boy, in the garments of the dauphin. These they recognized as the ones which the republic had had made a month before for little Capet, but no one could say whether this child, with a body covered with sores, a swollen face, and sunken, lustreless eyes, was really little Capet or not; no one knew whether sickness had so changed his looks that this stupid, idiotic boy was the one whom they had all known when he was well, as they saw him joyously flitting around. First of all they summoned Doctor Naudin, the director of Hotel Dieu, to examine the boy. He appeared without delay, and declared solemnly and decidedly that this was the same boy whom he had seen there some days before when he visited Simon's wife, only the English sickness which afflicted the child had distorted his limbs, while the cutting off of his hair gave him a changed look, and it was no wonder that the lamplighter failed to recognize him.
Simon, who was summoned to give evidence, asserted the same thing, and affirmed that he recognized little Capet in the sick boy, and that his wife had cut off his hair only the day before. He brought the hair as a complete proof of the identity, and it was seen to agree perfectly with that of the sick child.
Yet some of the officials still doubted, and their doubts were increased when on the same day the servant of Count Frotte reported to the Safety Committee that his master had made a sudden and secret journey, accompanied by a boy, whom the count had treated with great deference.
This boy might be the dauphin, whom Count Frotte, in conjunction with Toulan, might have spirited out of the Temple in some secret way, and who must be followed at all hazards. At the same time the government were informed that the Count de St. Prix had left Paris in company with a boy, and had taken the road to Germany.
Chazel, a member of the Convention, was sent secretly to Puy to arrest Frotte and the boy there; and Chauvaine, another member, was ordered to follow the road to Germany, and, if possible, to bring back Count St. Prix.
After a while both of them returned, with nothing accomplished. Chazel had, indeed, arrested Count Frotte and the boy in Puy, but the count had given such undeniable proofs that the boy was not the dauphin--he had summoned so many unimpeachable witnesses from Paris, who recognized the boy as the son of M. de Gueriviere, who was in Coblentz with the princes, that nothing more remained but to release the count and his comrade.
Chauvaine had not been able to arrest the Count de St. Prix, and had only learned that in company with a boy he had crossed the Rhine and entered Germany.
It was of no use, therefore, to undertake farther investigations, and the conclusion must be firmly held to that the boy in the Temple, whose sickness increased from day to day, was the real Capet, the son of Louis XVI. The suspicion which had been aroused must be kept a deep secret, that the royalists should not take renewed courage from the possibility that the King of France had been rescued. [Footnote: Later investigations in the archives of Paris have brought to light, among other important papers relative to the flight of the prince, a decree of the National Convention, dated Prairial 26 (June 14), 1704, which gave all the authorities orders "to follow the young Capet in all directions." The boy who remained a prisoner in the Temple, died there June 8, 1798, a complete idiot.]
But the secret investigations, and the efforts to draw something from Toulan, caused the authorities to postpone his fate from week to week, from month to month. On the 20th of January he was arrested and taken to the Conciergerie, and not till the month of May did the Convention sentence him to death. The charge was this: that he had accepted presents from the Widow Capet, in particular the gold salt's-bottle, and had made frequent plans to release the Capet family from prison.
On the same day Madame Elizabeth, the sister of Louis XVI., was sentenced to death, on the charge of conducting a correspondence with her brothers, through the agency of Toulan, having for its end the release of the royal family.
When the sentence was read to Madame Elizabeth, she smiled. "I thank my judges that they allow me to go to those I love, and whom I shall find in the presence of God."
Toulan received his sentence with perfect composure. "The one, indivisible, and exalted republic is just as magnanimous, is it not, as the monarchy was in old times, and it will grant a last favor to one who has been condemned to death, will it not?"
"Yes, it will do that, provided it is nothing impossible. It will gladly grant you a last request."
"Well," said Toulan, "then I ask that I may be executed the same day and the same hour as Madame Elizabeth, the sister of the king, and that I may be allowed to remain by her side at her execution."
"Then you have only till to-morrow to live, Citizen Toulan," replied the presiding officer of the court, "for Elizabeth Capet will be executed to-morrow."
Early the next morning three cars drove away from the Conciergerie. In each of these cars sat eight persons, men and women of the highest aristocracy. They had put on their most brilliant court attire for that day, and arranged themselves as for a holiday. Over the great crinoline the ladies wore the richest silks, adorned with silver and gold lace; they had had their hair dressed and decorated with flowers and ribbons, and carried elegant fans in their hands. The gentlemen wore velvet coats, brilliant with gold and silver, while cuffs of the finest lace encompassed their white hands. Their heads were uncovered, and they carried the little three-cornered hat under the arm, as they had done at court in presence of the royal family.
All the aristocrats imprisoned in cells at the Conciergerie had begged for the high honor of being executed on that day, and every one whose request had been granted, had expressed his thanks for it as for a favor.
"What we celebrate to-day is the last court festival," said the prisoners, as they ascended the cars to be carried to the guillotine. "We have the great good fortune of being present at the last great levee, and we will show ourselves worthy of the honor." All faces were smiling, all eyes beaming, and when the twenty-four condemned persons dismounted from their cars at the foot of the scaffold, one would believe that he saw twenty-four happy people preparing to go to a wedding. No one would have suspected that it was death to whom they were to be united.
There were only two persons in this brilliant and select society who were less elegantly adorned than the others. One was the young girl, with the pale angel face, who sat between the sister of Malesherbes and the wife of the former minister, Montmorin, in a neat white robe, with a simple muslin veil, that surrounded her like a white cloud on which she was floating to heaven. The other was the man who sat behind her, whose firm, defiant countenance gave no token that an hour before he had wept hot, bitter tears as he took leave of his wife and only child. But this was all past, and on that lofty, thoughtful brow not the slightest trace remained of earthly sorrow. The pains of each had been surmounted, and, even in death, Toulan would do honor to the name which that woman had given him--whom he had loved most sacredly on earth-and he would die as Fidele.
The ladies and gentlemen of this unwontedly solemn company, who were collected here in view of the scaffold, had dismounted from the cars. Above stood the glistening instrument of death, and near it the executioners. They were all left free to decide in what order they would ascend and place the head beneath the axe. The Convention had made the simple order that Madame Elizabeth should be the last but one, and that Toulan should follow her.
Joyous and bright was the countenance of the princess; joyous and bright was the aspect of the improvised court, whose master of ceremonies was Death.
The gentlemen had begged the favor of preceding the ladies upon the scaffold. One after another they ascended the staircase, and in passing by they greeted the princess with the same deep bow that would have been given at court. And Madame Elizabeth thanked them with a smile that was not of this world.
When the heads of the twelve gentlemen had fallen, the bodies laid on one side, and the scaffold cleansed a little from blood, the ladies' turn came. Every one of them asked the favor of embracing Princess Elizabeth, and, with the kiss which she pressed upon their lips, a heavenly joy seemed to spring up in their hearts. With smiles they ascended the scaffold, with smiles they placed their heads beneath the axe.
The last of the ladies, the Marchioness de Crussol d'Amboise, had received the parting kiss and ascended the steps of the guillotine. Only Elizabeth and Toulan now remained at the foot. "Fidele," whispered Elizabeth in gentle tones, "I shall soon be with my brother and my sister. Give me your hand, my brother. You shall conduct me to death, and I will give you my hand above, at the opening of the new life, and conduct you to Marie Antoinette. 'Sister,' I will say to her, 'this is the one true and good heart which beat on earth for you, and I bring it to you that you may rejoice in it in heaven.' Toulan, there is only one title of honor for all men, and that is Fidele. It is sanctioned even by the word of God: 'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.'"
Just at that moment the axe rattled, there was a muffled sound, and the head of the Marchioness Crussol d'Amboise fell into the basket.
"Elizabeth Capet, it is your turn--come up!"
"I come."
She ascended the scaffold. Arrayed, as she was, in this white robe, her transparent face was like that of an angel. It seemed to Toulan as if her foot no longer rested on the earth. He followed her to the scaffold; and as she was about to ascend the steps, he laid his hand upon her arm.
"Princess, I have a secret to impart to you. I have promised with a solemn oath that my lips should disclose it to no mortal; but you, Elizabeth, belong already to the immortals, the peace of God illumines your brow, and I want you to have one last joy before you ascend into heaven. This is my secret: The boy who is confined in the Temple is not the dauphin. I have fulfilled the promise which I gave the queen. I have saved the dauphin, and he is now in Vendee, under the safe care of Prince de Conde."
"Elizabeth Capet, come up, or we must bring you by force."
"I am coming. Farewell, Fidele! you have spoken the truth; you have given me a last joy! I thank you; now kiss my lips; give your sister a parting kiss, Fidele. Farewell, my brother!"
He touched the lips that were illumined with a sad smile--"Farewell, my sister!"
She ascended the steps, and, reaching the scaffold, she calmly laid aside the veil, and prepared her toilet for death.
At the foot of the scaffold Toulan remained upon his knees; his great eyes, which had been directed to Elizabeth, beamed with rapture, and in his heart there were words written with a finger of diamond--words hallowed and comforting, that Toulan read in meditation and prayer: "Love vanquishes death; love is victorious even over life; love, which is the highest friendship, and friendship, which is the highest love, rise so far above every thing earthly, that thou must surrender every thing for them, every thing which thou hast valued upon earth, every thing which has stood to thee in the most tender relations. In this love thou hast lived, and in this love thou shalt die and ascend into heaven."
"Toulan, come up! Do you not hear us calling you? Do you not see that Elizabeth Capet has made place for you?"
He had not seen when the noble head of the princess fell into the basket, he had not heard the executioner call him; he had only read in his heart the revelation of love.
He ascended the steps, and his countenance beamed with the same light of rapture which had surrounded Elizabeth's brow.
A piercing scream came from the crowd, as a young wife fell senseless into the arms of her neighbors, while the boy who stood near her extended his hands to the scaffold, and called, loudly, "Father, dear father!"
Toulan did not turn to them. No earthly sorrow had place in this soul, which had overcome pain, and received eternal joy into itself.
Calmly he laid his head beneath the axe. "God is love," he said, aloud. "He that abideth in love, abideth in God, and God--" The axe descended, and left Toulan's last words unspoken.
BOOK VI.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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29
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WITHOUT NAME AND RANK.
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The Prince de Conde was walking with quick steps up and down his apartment. His brow was cloudy, his eyes wore a sad look, and at times he raised his hand, as if he would remove a veil that darkened his sight.
"It must he," he said, decisively, after a while. "Yes, it must be; I see no other means of saving him from the snares of his enemies and friends. He must leave, and that at once."
He walked hastily to the table, pulled the bell violently, and ordered the servant who came in to bring the boy who came yesterday to him.
A few minutes later, the door opened, and a boy of ten. or twelve years, with great blue eyes, fair hair, graceful form, and delicate complexion, came into the room. At his appearance the Prince de Conde seemed deeply moved. He hastened with open arms to meet the boy, pressed him closely to his heart, and kissed his fair hair and eyes.
"Welcome, a thousand times welcome!" he said, with trembling voice. "How long have I desired to see this moment, and how happy I am that it has come at last! You are saved, yon are restored to freedom, to life, and there is in store for you, I hope, a great and brilliant future!"
"Then I shall have to thank you for it, my cousin," said the boy, with his sweet, resonant voice. "You have released me from the dreadful prison, and I thank you for life. I am glad, too, that I see you at last, for I wanted so much to express my thanks, and every evening I have prayed to God to grant me the happiness of greeting my dear cousin, the Prince de Conde."
The joyous light had long since faded from the face of the prince, and a cloud was gathering on his brow, as, with a timid, searching look, he glanced around, as if he feared that some one besides himself might hear the words of the boy.
"Do not call me your cousin," he said, softly; and even his voice was changed, and became cold and husky.
The boy fixed his great blue eyes with an expression of astonishment on the gloomy countenance of the Prince de Conde.
"You are no longer glad to see me here? Is it disagreeable to you for me to call you my cousin?"
The prince made no answer at once, but walked up and down with great strides, and then stood still before the boy, who had calmly observed his impatient motions.
"Let us sit down," said the Prince de Conde--" let us sit down and talk."
He gave his hand to the boy, led him to the divan, and took his own place upon an easy-chair, directly opposite to the child.
"Let us talk," he repeated. "I should like to know, in the first place, whether you have a good memory, for I have been told that your head has suffered, and that you have no recollection of the past."
A gentle, sad smile played around the lips of the boy.
"I have been silent about the past, as I have been commanded to," he said, "but I have not forgotten it."
"Do you remember your mother?" asked the prince.
The boy trembled convulsively, a glowing red passed over his cheeks, and a deep paleness followed.
"Monsieur," he asked, with a tremulous voice, "would it be possible for me to forget my dear mamma queen? --my mamma queen who loved her little Louis Charles so much? Ah, sir, you would not have asked that if you had known how much pain you give me."
"I beg your pardon," said the prince, embarrassed. "I see you remember. But let me try you once more. Will you tell me what happened to you after being taken away from your cruel foster- parents? What were those people's names, and what were they?"
"My foster-parents, or my tormentors rather, were called Mr. and Mistress Simon. The man had been a cobbler, but afterward he was superintendent and turnkey in the Temple, and when I was taken away from my mamma, sister, and aunt, I had to live with these dreadful people."
"Did you fare badly there?"
"Very badly, sir; I was scolded and ill-treated, and the worst of all was that they wanted to compel me to sing ribald songs about my mamma queen."
"But you did not sing these songs?" asked the Prince de Conde.
The eyes of the boy flamed. "No," he said, proudly, "I did not sing them. They might have beaten me to death. I would rather have died than have done it," The prince nodded approvingly. "And how did you escape from these people?" he asked.
"You know, Prince de Conde," answered the boy, smiling. "It is you who helped me escape."
"Tell me about this matter a little," said the prince, "and how you have fared since then. I contributed, as you suppose, to your release, but I was not present In person. How did you escape from the Temple?"
"I was put into a basket with soiled clothes, which Mistress Simon was taking away with her from the Temple. This basket she gave to a washerwoman who was waiting for us at the Macon gate. She had a little donkey-cart in readiness there, the basket was put into it, and went on to a village, the name of which I do not know. There we stopped; I was taken out of the basket and carried into a house, where we remained a few hours to rest and change our clothes."
"We? Whom do you mean by we?"
"Me and the supposed washerwoman," replied the boy. "This woman was, however, no other than M. de Jarjayes, whom I knew long ago, and who, with Fidele--I should say, with Toulan--had thought out and executed the plan of my escape. M. de Jarjayes changed his clothes, as did I also, and after remaining concealed in the house all day, in the evening we took a carriage and rode all night. On the next day we remained concealed in some house, and in the night we continued our journey."
"Did he tell you where you were going?"
"Jarjayes told me that the Prince de Conde was my protector and deliverer, that the magnanimous prince had furnished the necessary money, and that I should remain concealed in one of his palaces till the time should arrive to acknowledge me publicly. Till then, said M. de Jarjayes to me, I was never to speak of the past, nor disclose--single word about any thing that concerned myself or my family. He told me that if I did not follow his instructions literally, I should not only be brought back to Simon, but I should have to bear the blame of causing the death of my sister Therese and my aunt Elizabeth. You can understand, my prince, that after that I was dumb."
"Yes. I understand. Where did M. de Jarjayes carry you?"
"To one of the palaces of the Prince de Conde in loyal and beautiful Vendee. Ah, it was very delightful there, and there were very pleasant people about me. The story was that I was a nephew of the prince, and that on account of impaired health, I was obliged to go into the country and must be tended with great care. I had a preceptor there who gave me instruction, and sometimes the brave General Charette came to the palace on a visit. He was always very polite to me, and showed me all kinds of attention. One day he asked me to walk with him in the park. I did so, of course, and just as we entered a dark allee he fell upon his knees, called me majesty, said he knew very well that I was the King of France, and that the noble and loyal Prince de Conde had rescued me from prison."
"The devil!" muttered the prince to himself, "our dear friends are always our worst enemies."
The boy paid no attention to the words of Conde, and went on: "The general conjured me to confess to him that I was the son of King Louis, and I should follow him, remain with his little army, which would acknowledge me at once, and proclaim me King of France."
"And what did you answer?" asked Conde, eagerly.
"My lord," replied the boy, with proud, grave mien, "I told you that, I gave my word to M. de Jarjayes to divulge nothing till you should tell me that the right time had arrived. I could therefore confess nothing to Charette, and told him that he had fallen into a great error, and that I have and can lay claim to no other honor than of being the nephew of the Prince de Conde."
"You said that?" asked Conde, in amazement.
The boy raised his head with a quick movement, and something of the proud and fiery nature of Louis XIV. flashed in his eyes.
"I did not know then," he replied, "that my relationship to the Prince de Conde was not agreeable to him."
The prince looked troubled and perplexed, and dropped his eyes before the piercing gaze of the boy. "Go on, if I may venture to ask you," he said, softly. "What did General Charette do when you repelled him?"
"First he implored, and wept, and conjured me to trust him, and to lay aside my incognito before him, the truest and best of royalists. But as I continued steadfast, and disclosed nothing, he became angry at length, pushed me away from him, threatened me with his fist, swore he would have his revenge on those who had deceived him, and declared that I was no Bourbon, for the son of my fathers would not be so weak and cowardly as to conceal his name and lineage."
"And you kept silent, in spite of this demand?"
"Yes, my lord, I kept silent; and, notwithstanding his pain and grief, I left him in the belief that he had deceived himself, or rather, that he had been deceived."
"Oh!" cried Conde, "it is plain that you have been steeled in the school of suffering, and that the years of misfortune like yours must each be reckoned double, for, in spite of your twelve years, you have acted like a man!"
"My lord," replied the boy, proudly, "the Bourbons attain their majority at fifteen, and at that age they may, according to the law of France, become independent sovereigns. They ought, therefore, to begin to learn young. That was the opinion of Queen Marie Antoinette, who taught me to read in my fifth year. You, my lord, have, in your magnanimity, done every thing to make me able to conform to the laws of my house, if it shall please God that the son of my dear unfortunate father should one day ascend the vacant throne of the Bourbons. Daring these two years which I have spent in concealment in your palace in Vendee, you have laid a strong and firm foundation, on which the superstructure of my life may rest. I have, thanks to the excellent teachers you have given me, had an opportunity to learn much, and to recall much which I had forgotten during the years before my release from imprisonment."
"Your teachers inform me that your industry was unceasing, and that you learned more in months than some do in years. You are familiar with several languages, and, besides, have been instructed, as I desired, in the art of war and in mathematics."
"In the studies of kings and soldiers," replied the boy, with a proud smile.
"I fear that you will prove not to have prosecuted those studies with a view to their use among soldiers," said Conde, with a sigh. "Your prospects are very dark--yes, darker even than when you left the Temple. These two years have made your condition more perilous. It was fortunate that you could spend them in solitude and secrecy, and be able to finish your education, and it would be a great blessing to you to be able to go on with your quiet studies for some years longer. But your enemies had sought you without rest; they were on your track, and had I left you there any longer, you would have been found some day stabbed or shot in the park. The steward informed me that all kinds of suspicious people had gathered in the neighborhood of the palace and the garden, and I conjecture that they were the emissaries of your enemies. On this I took you away from that place, and have brought you here for your greater safety. Now allow me one question. Do you know who your enemies are?"
"I think I know them," replied Louis Charles, with a sad smile. "My enemies are the self-same men who brought my father and my mother to the scaffold, destroyed the throne, and in its place gave Prance a red cap. My enemies are the republicans, who now rule in this land, and whose great object must, of course, be to put me out of the way, for my life is their death! France will one day be tired of the red cap, and will restore the throne to him to whom it belongs, so soon as it is certain that he who is entitled to the crown, is living to wear it."
"And who do you suppose is justified in wearing the crown of France?"
"You ask as if you did not know that I am the only son and heir of the murdered King of France."
"The only son, but not the only heir. Your inheritance will be contested; and even if France should transform herself from a republic to a monarchy, every attempt possible will be made to drive you, the son of Louis XVI., from the throne, and put the crown on the head of another."
"Sir, if monarchy is uppermost again, the crown belongs to me. Who, in that case, would venture to contend with me for it?"
"Your enemies! Not those whom you have just named, but the other half of your enemies, of whose existence you have no suspicion, it seems-your enemies, the royalists."
"How so?" cried Louis Charles, in amazement. "Do you call the royalists my enemies?"
"Yes, and they are so, your powerful, defiant, and untiring enemies. Do you not see that even here in this room I do not dare to give you the title that is your due, for fear that the walls may have ears and increase the danger which threatens you? I will now name to you the greatest of your enemies--the Count de Provence."
"How! my uncle, the brother of my father, he my enemy?"
"He is your enemy, as he was the enemy of your mother. Believe me, young man, it is not the people who have made the revolution in France; it is the princes who have done it. The Count de Provence, the Count d'Artois, and the Duke d'Orleans--they are the chief revolutionists; they it is who have put fire to the throne; they it is who have sown the libels and lampoons broadcast over France, and made the name of Marie Antoinette odious. They did it out of hate, out of revenge, and out of ambition. Queen Marie Antoinette had won her husband over to the policy of Austria, and in this way had set herself in opposition to the Count de Provence, and the whole royal family. The count never forgave her for this, and he will never forgive you for being the son of your mother. The Count de Provence, as he now styles himself, is your sworn enemy, and will do all he can to bring you to ruin; he is ambitious, and his goal is, to be the King of France!"
"King of France? The Count de Provence, the brother of the king, wants to be his successor, when I, the son of the king, am alive and demand my inheritance ?"
"Your demand will not be acknowledged: they will declare that you are an impostor and a deceiver. Ah, the Count de Provence is a selfish and a hard character. He means to make his own way, and if you put hinderances in it, he will put you out of his path, without compassion and without remorse; trust me for knowing this, who for three years have been in the immediate neighborhood of the prince. I was afraid to impart the plan of your escape to the princes, and, after you were released, I was silent, for a secret is only safe when a very few are conscious of it. But after the news came last year from Paris, that the boy who had been placed as your substitute in the Temple had died, after a long sickness, I ventured to inform the Count de Lille about the real facts. I told him that I believed that information I had received might be relied upon, that King Louis XVII. had been released from the Temple by true and devoted servants, and was then in a place of safety. Would you like to know what reply the count made?"
"I pray you, tell me," responded Louis Charles, with a sigh.
"He answered me, 'I advise you, cousin, not to put any confidence in such idle stories, and not to be duped by any sly rogues. My unfortunate little nephew died in the Temple--that is a fact acknowledged by the republic, universally believed, and denied by no one. After long sufferings the son has fallen as a new victim to the bloodthirsty republicans, and we are still wearing mourning for our deceased nephew, King Louis XVII. And should any wise-head happen on the thought of making the dead boy come to life again, I will be the first to disown him and hold him as an impostor.' Those were the words of the count, and you will now confess that I am right in calling him your enemy, and in not daring to communicate to him the secret of your release?"
"I grant you," replied the prince, sadly, "I would rather bury the secret forever."
"Now, hear me further. A few weeks ago the prince summoned me, and I saw on his sinister face and in his flashing eyes that he must have received some unwelcome tidings. He did not make me wait long for the confirmation of my conjectures. With a sharp, cutting voice he asked me what kind of a nephew of mine that was whom I was educating at my palace in Vendee. General de Charette had given him information through one of his emissaries sending him word that the report was current in Vendee that this alleged nephew of mine was the rescued King Louis XVII., whom I had helped release from the Temple. He, General Charette, had believed it at first. He had therefore (so the prince went on to say) visited my palace recently, for the purpose of discovering the supposed young king. There he convinced himself that the boy bore no resemblance to the little Louis Charles--whom he had once seen at the Tuileries--and that he certainly was not the son of Louis XVI."
"He told me only too truly that he would have his revenge," whispered the young prince.
"He has kept his oath, for he has loudly and publicly declared his belief that Louis XVII. died in the Temple, and he has therefore administered to his army an oath in favor of King Louis XVIII. --that is, the Count de Provence. The count himself informed me of this, and then added, threateningly, 'I advise, you, cousin, either to acknowledge your young nephew, and treat him openly, or else put him out of the way. I advise you further, not to let yourself be imposed upon by adventurers and impostors. It is known that you were among the most active adherents of Queen Marie Antoinette, and there may be people who would work on your credulity and make you believe that the poor little Louis Charles was really released from the Temple. Do not deny that you parted with much money at that time, and believed that it was wanted for the purpose of setting the young King of France free. It was a trap, set in view of your loyalty and devotion, and you fell into it. But you gave your money to no effect, the poor, pitiable king could not be saved, and died in the Temple as a prisoner of the republic. Take care how you trust any idle stories, for, I tell you, you would never bring me to put confidence in them. I am now the rightful King of France--I am Louis XVIII. --and I am resolved not only to declare every pretender who claims to be Louis XVII. an impostor, but to bring him to punishment as a traitor. Mark this well, and therefore warn this mysterious nephew of yours not to venture on playing out his comedy, for it will assuredly change into tragedy, and end with his death.' These were the words of the Count de Lille, and now you understand why I have brought you so suddenly, and so secretly, away from my solitary palace and have you here."
"I understand every thing," said Louis Charles, with a sigh; "I understand, that it would have been better if you had never released me, and I had died like my father and mother."
"We must postpone the accomplishment of our hopes," said Conde, sadly, "for I confess to you, there is little to expect from the present, and there is no place where you are safe from the persecutions and the daggers of your enemies. The republicans desire your death as much as the royalists. In France, two parties threaten you, and would I now risk every thing, carry you to some European court and acquaint the sovereign of your arrival, and ask for his assistance, I should have no credence, for, not the French republic alone, but the Count de Lille would protest against it, and disavow you before all Europe. It is, therefore, absolutely necessary, in order to secure you against your enemies, that you should disappear for a season, and that we patiently await the time which shall permit us to bring you back upon the scenes."
"Do you believe that time will ever come?" asked the little prince, with a shake of the head.
"I believe it, and, above every thing, I hope it," replied Conde, quickly. "The greatest difficulty is to find a place for you to remain where you may not be suspected, and where yon may be safe from assault. To my great regret I cannot entertain you here, for my family are too well known for me to suddenly acknowledge a legitimate nephew of your age, and the Count de Lille would be the last to believe it. I confess that it has cost me a great deal of disquiet and anxious thought to find a secure asylum for you."
"And do you think you have found one at last?" asked Louis Charles, indifferently.
"Yes, I believe so, or rather, I know that I have found one. You must be taken to a place which no one can suspect as that where you would be likely to be."
"And what place is this?"
"It is called Mayence."
The boy, who had sat with downcast eyes, perhaps in order not to let some tears be seen, looked quickly up, and the greatest astonishment was depicted in his expressive features.
"Mayence?" he asked. "Is not that a fortress on the Rhine which the troops of the French republic have taken possession of?"
"Yes; and the commandant of Mayence, the head of the troops, is General Kleber, one of the bravest and noblest soldiers of the French republic."
"And you, you want to send me to this General Kleber? Ah, my prince, that would be thrusting me, for the purpose of rescuing me from persecution, into the very crater of the volcano."
"It is not so bad as you suppose, my young friend. General Kleber is at heart a good and true royalist, and although he serves the republic, he does so because he is first of all a soldier, a soldier of his country, and because his country now has pressing need of soldiers to defend the honor and glory of France. I have sent a trustworthy man to General Kleber to impart this secret to him, and to ask him for protection, and a place of refuge for you. General Kleber is ready to grant both, and he has sent his adjutant to Coblentz to escort his nephew to Mayence. You are that nephew, and if you give your consent, you will set out at once and go to Mayence."
"And if I do not give my consent?" asked Louis Charles, with a proud, flashing look.
"I confess," said Conde, with a shrug--"I confess that I am not prepared for that contingency, and cannot on the instant grasp all the unfortunate results which would ensue on your refusal."
"Be calmed, Conde, I do not refuse. I have only this one thing to care for, to cause no danger, and bring nothing disagreeable to you, for I see that they are in store for you if I do not disappear again from view. The son of the king vanished from sight, to appear as the nephew of Conde; and now the nephew of Conde is to vanish, to emerge as the nephew of General Kleber. Ah,--who knows but I may yet be the nephew of Simon the cobbler, preparatory to my last appearance on the guillotine?"
"I hope, on the contrary, that on the day when France shall rise again, you will rise too, the acknowledged son of Louis XVI., and the heir of the throne of France. At present the republic has sway, and there is no hope of an immediate change. But that will not last always; and in the decisive hour, when the monarchy and the republic come to their last great battle for existence--at that hour you must appear upon the field, must lift the lilies high in the air, and summon the royalists to your side in the name of God, and of the king your father."
"And what if my uncle, the Count de Provence, then declares me to be an impostor?"
"Then you must publicly and solemnly appeal to France, lay the proofs of your lineage before the nation, summon unimpeachable witnesses, and demand your throne of the French nation. And believe me, if the heart of France is compelled to choose between you and the Count de Provence, it will not choose him, for the count has never possessed the heart of the people, and God is just."
"God is just," replied Louis Charles, sadly--"God is just, and yet the King and Queen of France have perished on the guillotine, and their brother calls himself King of France, while the son of Louis XVI. must find shelter with a general of that French republic which was the enemy of my parents."
"It is true," said Conde, with a sigh, "it is very difficult at times to see the justice of God, but we must always hope to see it, and at length it will reveal itself in all its glory. And the hour of judgment will come for you. Await it steadfastly and with patience, and when it is come, call on me, and I will not neglect your summons, but will support you, and will give you my recognition. I have all the documents which relate to your flight, all the testimony given by those who were engaged in assisting you, and besides this, a detailed account of your flight, subscribed with my name, and stamped with my seal. I have further the testimony of the teachers who gave yon instruction at my palace of Chambord, and the keeper of the palace recorded the day on which you arrived. I am ready to give you these papers, if you will swear to me that you will not misuse them, but give them to General Kleber, that he may preserve them for you."
"I swear to you that I will do so," said the prince, solemnly.
Conde handed to him a small and closely-rolled package of papers. "This contains your future," he said, "and out of these papers I hope a crown will grow for you. Till then let the republic preserve them for you. General Kleber is expecting you, and his adjutant is waiting for you in the next room. Permit me to give you one more piece of advice: remain steadfast, resist all tempters who would beguile you with pleasant words to acknowledge yourself King of France. For be persuaded these tempters are the emissaries of your enemies, and if you should acknowledge to them that you are King Louis XVII., you would be writing your own death-warrant. The balls which I trust will spare the nephew of General Kleber would certainly pierce the heart of the nephew of Count de Lille. Continue to deny it as you denied it to General Charette. Swear to me that you will faithfully keep the secret of your lineage till I release you from the oath by which I now close your lips, and tell you that the hour of action and of disclosures is come; swear it to me, in view of the fidelity which I have shown to you, and which I shall always be ready to show."
"You have saved my life," said Louis Charles, solemnly. "My life, therefore, belongs to you, and I give it into your hands in swearing, by the memory of my dear parents, and especially my noble and proud-spirited mother, Queen Marie Antoinette, that I will faithfully and truly keep the secret of my parentage, and not feel myself justified in revealing it to the world, till you, the Prince de Conde, shall have given me permission, and empowered me to do so."
"I thank you," said Conde, "for I am now unconcerned about your immediate future. General Kleber and the French republic will protect you, for the present, from the dangerous pretender, Count Lille, and, in God's providence, I trust there will come a day when France will be prepared to raise the son of its kings to the throne which belongs to him. Let us hope for this day, and be persuaded that I shall neglect nothing which will help bring it about. And now, as we part, I bow my knee to you, my young king; I now acknowledge you solemnly as the son of my well-beloved cousin, King Louis XVI., and the rightful heir of the throne of the lilies. May the spirits of the murdered royal couple, may God and the ear of my king take note of the oath which I now pronounce. I swear that I will never acknowledge any other prince as King of France, so long as you, King Louis XVII., are among the living. I swear that if I ever break this vow, and acknowledge another King of France, you, Louis XVII., may accuse me of high-treason, and condemn me to the death which a traitor deserves. I swear that I will subject myself to this death-penalty without opposition and complaint. And this I swear by Almighty God, and by the memory of your royal parents, whose spirits are with us at this hour."
"And I, Prince de Conde, I accept your oath," said Louis Charles, gravely. "I go away now into exile, but I carry your oath with me as my hope for the future, and may God grant that I shall never be compelled to remind you of it, but that you will faithfully and truly keep it. Fare you well! My crown rests in your heart."
"And in these papers, sire. Deliver them to the brave General Kleber, and he will preserve them as his most sacred and cherished possession."
He kissed the hand of the prince, which was reached out for the papers, and then hastened to summon the officer, who was waiting in the adjoining room for the nephew of General Kleber, having no suspicion what an important mission was intrusted to him.
But General Kleber knew the secret better, and although not a word and not an action disclosed it, yet the gentle friendliness, the mild look, the subdued smile with which the general received his young nephew in Mayence, testified that he was familiar with the secret, and knew how to guard it.
In Mayence, under the care of General Kleber, his nephew, Louis, as he called him, remained during the subsequent time, and very soon gained the heart of his uncle, and was his inseparable friend by day and by night. They slept in one room, they ate at one table. The nephew accompanied his uncle at all parades and military exercises; and, in order to make his favorite a skilful soldier, the general undertook the duties of teacher, gave him instruction in the art of war, and taught him the more familiar duties of a soldier's life. The nephew comprehended readily, and pursued zealously the studies which his uncle assigned him. The pains and sorrows of the past were forgotten, and only the recollections of his happy child-hood rested silently at the bottom of his heart like pearls at the bottom of the sea.
"When shall I arise from this estate? When will the crown of the future be linked with these pleasant recollections of the past?" These were the questions which the growing boy repeated to himself every morning and every evening. But his lips never uttered them; he never gave the slightest indication that he was any thing else than the nephew of General Kleber. The French garrison of Mayence considered him to be so and no one thought of asking whether he bore any other name. It sufficed that he was the nephew of the noble, valiant, and heroic General Kleber. That was the name and rank of the little prince.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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30
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THE BARON DE EICHEMONT.
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Thus passed weeks, months, and even years, and on the gloomy horizon of France arose a new constellation, and from the blood-spotted, corpse-strewn soil of the French republic sprang an armed warrior--a solitary one! --but one to whom millions were soon to bow, and who, like the divinity of battles, was to control the destinies of nations and of princes. This one solitary man was General Bonaparte, the same young man who in the first bloody days of the French Revolution beheld the storm at the Tuileries, and expressed his regret to his companion--the actor Talma--that the king did not command his soldiers to mow down the canaille with grape-shot. The young lieutenant of that day, who had been the friend of the actor, dividing his loaf and his dinner with him, had now become General Bonaparte. And this general was serving the same people which as a lieutenant he had wanted to mow down with grape-shot. At the siege of Toulon, in the close contests with the allies against the republic and in the Italian campaign of 1794, Bonaparte has so distinguished himself that the eyes of the French government were already directed to him, and no one could be surprised at the action of General Beauharnais' widow, the fair Josephine, in giving her hand to the young and extraordinary man. This marriage had not only brought happiness to Bonaparte, but it satisfied his ambition. Josephine was the friend of Barras and Tallien, the chief magistrates of the republic at that time, and through her influence the young Bonaparte was sent to Italy to assume the chief command of the French army there. A general of twenty-six years to have the direction of an army, whose four corps were commanded by Generals Massena, Augereau, Serrurier, and La Harpe! The father of Junot, the late Duke de Abrantes, wrote at that time to his son, who was with the French army in Italy: "Who is this General Bonaparte? Where has he served? Does anybody know any thing about him?" And Junot, who was then the faithful friend and the admirer of Bonaparte, replied to his father: "You ask me who General Bonaparte is. I might answer, in order to know who he is, you must be he. I can only say to you that, so far as I am able to judge him, he is one of those men with whom Nature groans, and only brings forth in a century."
Had Junot not replied to his father, the deeds of the young general would soon have done so. Presently, in all France, in all Italy, yes, in all Europe, there was not a man who could ask, "Who is General Bonaparte?" His name was in every mouth, and the soldiers adored the man who had stood victoriously at their head at Lodi and Milan, and borne the banner forward amid the murderous shower of balls at the bridge of Arcoli. Diplomatists and statesmen wondered at him who had taken Venice, and compelled proud and hated Austria to make peace with the French republic, which had brought Marie Antoinette to the scaffold. The republicans and the Directory of the republic feared Bonaparte, because they recognized an enemy of the republic in him, and dreaded his growing power and increasing renown.
On this account General Bonaparte was recalled from the Italian army after peace had been made with Austria, and he returned to Paris. Still he was so feared that the Directory of the republic, in order to remove him, and at the same time to give occupation to his active spirit and his splendid abilities, proposed to Bonaparte to go with an army to Egypt, and extend the glory of France to the distant East.
Bonaparte entered with all his fiery nature into this idea which Barras and Talleyrand had sought to inveigle him into, and all his time, his thoughts, and his energies were directed to the one purpose, to fit himself out with every thing that should be needful to bring to a victorious end a long and stubborn war in a foreign land. A strong fleet was collected, and Bonaparte, as the commander of the many thousands who were to go to Egypt under him, called to his aid the most skilful, valiant, and renowned generals of the French army.
It could not fail that one of the first and most eminent of these was General Kleber, and, of course, his young adjutant and nephew Louis accompanied him.
On the 19th of April, 1798, the French fleet left the harbor of Toulon, and sailed toward the East, for, as Bonaparte said, "Only in the Orient are great realms and great deeds--in the Orient, where six hundred millions of men live."
But these six hundred millions have no army such as the French is, no commander like Bonaparte, no generals like Murat, Junot, Desaix, and, above all, Kleber.
Kleber was the second in command. He shared his perils, he shared his victories, and with him was united his nephew Louis, a youth of fourteen years, who, from his tall, slim figure, his gravity, and his ready understanding, would have passed at least for a youth of eighteen, and who, trained in the school of misfortune, belonged to those early-matured natures which destiny has steeled, that they may courageously contend with and gain the victory over destruction.
It was on the morning of the 3d of July. The French army had disembarked, and stood not far from Alexandria, on the ancient sacred soil of Egypt. Whatever was done must be done quickly, for Nelson was approaching with a fleet, prepared to contend with the French for the possession of Alexandria. Should the city not be taken before the arrival of the English fleet, the victory would be doubtful. Bonaparte knew this well. "Fortune gives us three days' time at the most," cried he, "and if we do not use them we are lost!"
But he did use them! With fearful rapidity the disembarkation of the troops was effected; with fearful rapidity the French army arranged itself on Egyptian soil in three divisions, under Morand, Bon, and Kleber. Above them all was he whose head had conceived the gigantic undertaking, he whose heroic spirit comprehended the whole. This was Bonaparte.
After inspecting all the army and issuing his orders, he rode up the hill in company with his staff to the pillar of Pompey, in order to observe from that point the course of events. The army was advancing impetuously, and soon the city built by Alexander the Great must open its gates to his successor, Bonaparte the Great.
After a short respite, the army advanced farther into the land of the pyramids. "Remember," cried Bonaparte to his soldiers, pointing to those monuments--"remember that forty centuries look down upon you."
And the pyramids of the great plain of Cairo beheld the glorious deeds and victories of the French army, beheld the overthrow of the Egyptian host. The Nile murmured with its blood-red waves the death- song of the brave Mamelukes, and the "forty centuries" which looked down from the pyramids were obliterated by the glorious victories that Bonaparte gained at the foot of those sacred monuments. A new epoch was to begin. The old epoch was buried for Egypt, and out of the ruins of past centuries a new Egypt was to be born, an Egypt which was to serve France and be tributary to it as a vassal.
This was Bonaparte's plan, and he did every thing to bring it to completion. He passed from battle to battle, from victory to victory, and after conquering Egypt and taking up his residence in Cairo, he at once began to organize the newly-won country, and to introduce to the idle and listless East the culture of the earnest and progressive West. But Egypt would not accept the treasures of culture at the hand of its conqueror. It rose again and again in rebellion against the power that held it down, and hurled its flaming torches of revenge against the hated enemy. A token of this may be seen in the dreadful revolt at Cairo, which began in the night of the 20th of October, and, after days of violence, ended with the cruel cutting down of six thousand Mamelukes. A proof of it may be seen in the constantly renewed attacks of swarms of Bedouins and Mamelukes on the French army. These hordes advanced even to the gates of Cairo, and terrified the population, which had at last taken refuge beneath the foot of the conqueror. But Bonaparte succeeded in subjugating the hostile Bedouin tribes, as he had already subjugated the population of the cities. He sent one of his adjutants, General Croisier, with a corps of brave soldiers, into the desert to meet the emir of the hostile tribes, and Croisier won respect for the commands of his general. He succeeded in taking captive the whole body. A fearful sentence was inflicted on them. Before the eyes of their wives, their children, and their mothers, all the men of the tribe, more than five hundred in number, were killed and their heads put into sacks. The howling and weeping women and children were driven to Cairo. Many perished of hunger on the road, or died beneath the sabre-blows of their enemies; but more than a thousand succeeded in reaching Cairo. They were obliged to encamp upon the great square El Bekir, in the heart of Cairo, till the donkeys arrived which bore the dreadful spoils of victory in blood-dripping bags upon their backs. The whole population of Cairo was summoned to this gigantic square, and was obliged to look on while the sacks were opened and the bloody heads rolled out upon the sacred soil of Egypt.
After this time quiet reigned for a season. Horror had brought the conquered into subjection, and Bonaparte could continue his victorious course. He withdrew to Syria, taking with him Kleber and Kleber's young adjutant, the little Louis. He saw the horrors of war; he was there, the son of the Kings of France, when the army of the republic conquered the cities El Arish and Gaza; he took part by the side of Kleber in the storming of Jaffa. He was there when the captured Jaffa had to open its gates to the victors. He was there when, in the great caravansary, four thousand Turkish soldiers grounded their arms and surrendered themselves as prisoners, after receiving the promise that their lives should be spared. He was there, too, the son of Marie Antoinette, when the unfortunates were driven down to the sea-coast and shot, in order that their enemies might be rid of them. He was there, the son of Louis XVI., when Bonaparte visited the pest-house in Jaffa; he walked through the sick-rooms at the side of his uncle Kleber, who noticed how the face of the young man, which had so often been calm in meeting death on the battle-field or in the storm of assault, now quivered, and the paleness of death swept over his cheeks.
"What was the matter, my son?" asked Kleber, as he returned home from this celebrated visit to the pest-house. "Why did you turn pale all at once, Louis?"
"General," responded Louis, perplexed, "I know not how to answer."
"You ought not to have gone with me to the hospital," said Kleber, shaking his head. "You know I did not want you to go at first; but you insisted on it, and begged and implored so long that at last I had to yield and let you accompany us. But, I confess it myself, it was a dreadful sight, these sick people with their swollen bodies covered with blood and running sores. I understand now why you trembled and turned pale--you were afraid of this dreadful sickness?"
"No, general," answered Louis, softly--"no, I have no fear. Did you not notice that I sprang forward and assisted General Bonaparte, when he lifted up the poor sick man who lay on the floor before the door, and that I helped carry him into the room?"
"I saw it, Louis, and I was much pleased with your courage, and was therefore surprised afterward when you turned pale and trembled, and I saw tears in your eyes. What agitated you all at once so much?"
The young man slowly raised his head and looked at Kleber with his great blue eyes. "General," he said, softly, "I myself do not know what agitated me so much. We were both standing before the bed of a sick man, to whom I handed a pitcher of water which he begged for earnestly. He fixed his great eyes upon me, and his quivering lips murmured: 'God bless you! all saints and angels protect you!' As he spoke these words, there resounded in my heart the echo of a time long since past. It seemed to me as if suddenly a dark curtain parted, and I looked as in a dream at a wondrous, brilliant spectacle. I saw a beautiful and dignified woman of princely figure, of noble, majestic nature. With her I saw two children, a girl and a boy, whom she led by the hand, and with whom she walked through a long hall which was filled with rows of beds. And as she walked there, it seemed as if the sun lightened up the dismal hall, and illumined the pale faces of the sick ones. They raised themselves up in their beds and extended their thin, emaciated hands to the tall lady, and thanked her with earnest blessings for her visit and her comforting words. There was only one of the patients who did not rise, but lay stiff upon his bed and moaned and sighed and whispered unintelligible words, which no one heeded, because the attention of all was fixed upon the great visitor. But the boy who was walking by the side of the tall lady had understood the sobs of the sick one. He left his mother, took the jug which stood upon a table between two beds, filled a glass with water from it, and held it to the dry, quivering lips of the sick one. He drank greedily, and then fixed his eyes upon the boy and lisped the words: 'God bless you! all saints and angels protect you!' And all the people repeated aloud: 'God bless you, all saints and angels protect you!' The dignified lady stooped with a heavenly smile to her son, pressed a tender kiss upon his golden locks, and repeated the same words aloud. This, general, was the fantasy which suddenly appeared before my eyes when the patient spoke those words to-day. It seemed to me as if I perceived all at once a long-silent song of home. I heard the wonderful voice of the exalted lady who spoke those words. It seemed to me as if I felt the kiss which she then imprinted on the head of the five-year-old boy, felt it to my inmost heart, and it glowed there with the fire of an undying love, and shook my whole being, and filled my eyes with tears. You will not chide me for that, general, for those were the lips of my mother who pressed that kiss of blessing on her unhappy son."
He ceased, tears choked his utterance, and, as if ashamed of his deep emotion, he hid his face in his hands.
General Kleber turned away too, and put his hand over his eyes, as though a film had come over them. Then, after a long pause he gently laid his hand upon the shoulder of the young man, who was still sitting with covered face.
"Such memories are holy," he said, "and I honor them, my dear, faithful son. May the blessing which then fell from the lips of a woman whom I too knew and honored, but whose name may never be spoken between us, may it be fulfilled to you! May angels and saints protect you when men shall no longer have the power, and when fate shall separate you from those who have devoted their love and fidelity to you!"
The youth let his hands fall from his face, and looked at the general with a startled, searching glance.
"What do you mean, uncle? You do not mean to say that--" "That we must part? Yes, my dear nephew, that is what I must say," interrupted Kleber, sadly. "This word has long been burning in my soul, and it is necessary that I speak it. Yes, we must part, Louis."
"Why, oh why?" asked Louis, bitterly. "Why will you too drive me away? You, the only one who loves me a little!"
"Exactly because I love you--exactly for that reason must I separate myself from you. Since we came to Egypt you have been sickly, your cheeks have become pale. The fulness of your limbs has gone, and the dry and hard cough that troubles you every morning has long made me anxious, as you know. On that account, after all the appliances of my physician failed, I applied, as you know, to the physician of the commanding general, to Corvisart, and he has subjected you to a thorough examination."
"It is true," said Louis, thoughtfully, "he has investigated me with the carefulness of a merchant who is about to buy a slave and means to test him. He made a hearing-trumpet of his ear and laid it on my breast, and listened while I had to breathe as if I were a volcano. He put his ear to my heart, he told me that his father had been physician at the French court, and that the murdered queen had a great deal of confidence in him, and then he wondered that my heart beat so violently while he told me this."
"And the result of all these investigations is, that you must return to Europe, Louis," said Kleber, sadly. "Corvisart had declared it an unavoidable necessity for your constitution, and the command of the physician must be obeyed as if it were the command of God. You cannot endure the climate of Egypt, so says Corvisart, and if your life is not to be shortened and you to be made a perpetual invalid, you must return to Europe as quickly as possible, for only there will you recover and grow strong. You see therefore, Louis, that I must separate from you, although it is a sore thing for me to do, for I love you as my own son, and I have no one in the world who is nearly related to me."
"And I, whom else have I in the world?" asked Louis, bitterly. "Who has interest in me excepting you? Ah, general, do not drive me from you. Believe me, it is better for me if for a few short and happy years I live at your side, and then breathe my last sigh in your faithful and tender arms, than if I have to wander solitary and friendless through the strange, cold world, where no one loves me, and where I shall always be surrounded by enemies, or by those who are indifferent. It may be that my body will gain health and strength in the air of Europe, but my heart will always be sick there, for it will lose its home when it shall have lost you, my fatherly friend."
General Kleber slowly shook his head. "In youth one sorrows and forgets it quickly."
"General, do you say that to me, after seeing me weep in the hospital because the word of a dying man called back the recollection of my earliest childhood? Oh, believe me, my heart forgets its sorrows never, and if I must return to France, to Paris, it will seem to me as if I had always to be climbing the hill of Calvary with bloody feet to reach the top where I might perish on the cross. For, believe me, general, my whole life will be nothing but such a wandering through scenes of pain if you drive me from the refuge that your love has offered me. Leave me here, let me live in secrecy and silence beneath the pinions of your love, and do not believe what the physicians tell you. Man's life lies in the hands of God, and if He will sustain it, it is as safe in the deserts of Egypt as in Paris, the capital of the world."
"Because God will sustain your life, Louis, for that very reason, He instructs me, through the voice of the physician, what my duty is, bids me conquer my own grief, and send the son of my heart to his distant home. No, Louis, it is a decided thing, we must part; you must return to France."
"And if it is true," asked Louis, bitterly, "if I am then really to return to France, why must we part? Why must I return without you? Why, if you really love me, do you not accompany me? I heard you say yesterday that several ships, with a part of our troops, were to return to France. Why, then, can you not go back with me?"
"Why?" asked Kleber, sadly. "I will tell you, Louis: because Bonaparte will not allow it. Listen, my son, I will communicate a secret to you: there has news come within the last few days, the first that we have received for ten months. The newspapers which have arrived bring very unwelcome intelligence; they inform us that all the advantages gained in Italy by the French army have been lost--that France is arrayed against Austria, Spain, and all the European powers--that the French Government is threatened by internal factions, which threaten to bring back the reign of terror. I watched Bonaparte's face as he read these papers, and I saw there what he was resolved to do. He will, as soon as he shall gain one more great victory, leave Egypt and return to France."
"He will not return without you, the faithfulest and boldest of his generals. You know well that you are called the right-hand man of Bonaparte."
"Bonaparte means to show the world that he is not only the head, but the right arm too, the heart, the foot, the soul of the French army! And because he means to show this, he will return alone to France; only a few of his faithful subordinates will accompany him; the men who might even oppose him, and put hinderances in the path of his growing ambition, will remain here. Now do you believe that Bonaparte will select me to accompany him?"
The young man let his head fall slowly on his breast. "No," he said, softly, "no, I do not believe he will."
"And I know he will not," replied Kleber. "I shall remain here in Egypt, and die here! Hush! Do not contradict me; there are presentiments which do not mislead us, and which God sends to us, that we may shape our course by them, and set our house in order. My house is set in order--my will is made; I have given it to Bonaparte, and he has solemnly sworn to carry it into execution in all respects. Only one care is left me--to provide for your immediate future, and to arrange that yon may reach France."
"You adhere to this?" asked Louis, sadly.
"Yes, I abide by this; you must not run away from your own future, and this will, I trust, be a brilliant one. All tokens indicate that France is wearied with the republic, and that it is perhaps nearly ready to restore the throne of the Lilies. Young man, shall this reestablished throne fall into the hands of that man who contributed so much to its downfall--who was the calumniator, the secret enemy of Queen Marie Antoinette? Would you consent that the Count de Provence should be King of France?"
"No, never!" cried Louis, with blazing eyes and naming face. "That never can be; for, before the brother of Louis XVI. can ascend the throne as Louis XVIII., his rightful predecessor, Louis XVII., must have died."
"He has died, and the French government has placed in its archives the certificate of the death of Louis Charles Capet, signed by the physicians and the servants of the Temple. My son, in order to prevent the Count de Provence acknowledging this certificate as genuine, you must be prepared to place before him and the world other testimonials that Louis XVII. is not dead. This is a sacred offering which you must make to the manes of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, even if the stake were not a throne and a crown!"
"You are right," cried Louis, with enthusiasm, "my whole life shall be devoted to this sacred trust; it shall have no other aim than this: to avenge Marie Antoinette of the most cruel of her enemies, the Count de Provence, and to place the son, whom, after the death of her husband, she acknowledged as King of France, on the throne which really belongs to him, and not to the Count de Provence! You are right, general, I must return to Europe; I must carry to Prance the papers which show that Louis XVII. did not die in the Temple, but was released. I am ready to go, and to endure the pain of parting from you."
"May God grant that we may both be compensated for this pain!" replied Kleber, embracing the young man tenderly. "There remain to us a few weeks to be together. Let us use them so that they shall afford us many cheerful recollections. Bonaparte will not leave Egypt before adding one more glory to his reputation. He does not mean to return to France as the conquered, but as the conqueror!"
General Kleber was right. He knew Bonaparte sufficiently well to be able to read his countenance; he understood the dumb speech of the Caesar of the age.
Bonaparte wanted to gain one great battle, in order to return to Europe with glory. He gained it at Aboukir, winning the day in a contest with the united Turks and English--one of the most signal victories that he had ever won. Eight thousand prisoners were taken on that 21st of July, 1799. Four thousand lay dead upon the battle- field, and as many were sunk in the captured and destroyed ships of the English. On the day after the battle the foam of the waves was tipped with blood along the shore.
Bonaparte himself conducted the whole battle, and personally gained the victory. At the moment when the contest seemed doubtful, he assumed command of a cavalry regiment, advanced upon the Turkish pacha, and by his heroic courage kindled all the army afresh. Even General Kleber could not disguise his admiration of the hero of Aboukir; and when, at the close of the battle, he met Bonaparte on the field, he embraced him with passionate tenderness. "General," he cried, with enthusiasm, "you are as great as the world; but the world is not great enough for you!" [Footnote: Denon, Mtooires, vol. i., p. 349.]
The victory that Bonaparte desired was thus won, and he could return with honor to Prance. He made secret preparations for his journey thither, fitting up two ships, which were to carry him and his companions. The army was to hear of his departure only after he had gone; but, much as he desired to keep the thing secret, there were some who had to know of it, and among them, happily, was General Kleber. Bonaparte had chosen him as his successor, and therefore he must be informed respecting the condition of affairs before the head of the army should withdraw. On the same day when this communication took place, Kleber repaired to General Desaix, who was his intimate friend, and from whom he learned that he was to be one of Bonaparte's companions on the return. The two generals had a prolonged secret interview, and at the close of it they both went to Kleber's house, and entered the room of his adjutant Louis. General Desaix bowed with great deference to the young man, who, blushing at the honor which so distinguished a general paid him, extended his hand to him. Desaix pressed a kiss upon it, and from his eyes, unused to tears, there fell a drop upon the young man's hand.
"General," cried Louis, in amazement, "what are you doing?"
"I am paying my homage to misfortune and to the past," said Desaix, solemnly, "and the tear which I drop on your hand is the seal of my fidelity and silence in the future. Young man, I swear to you that I will cherish your secret in my heart as a hallowed treasure, and will defend with my life's blood the papers which your uncle, General Kleber, has intrusted to my care this day. I am a soldier of the republic, I have pledged my fidelity to her, and must and shall keep it. I cannot become a partisan; but I shall always be the protector of misfortune, and a helper in time of need. Trust me in this, and accept me as your friend."
"I do accept you, general," said Louis, gently, "and if I do not promise to love you just as tenderly as I love my uncle, General Kleber, who has been to me father, brother, and protector, and to whom I owe every thing, yet, I can assure you, that, after him, there is no one whom I will love as I shall you, and there is no one in Europe who can contend with you for my love. I am very poor in friends, and yet I feel that my heart is rich in love that no one desires now."
"Preserve that possession well, my son," said Kleber, as he took leave of his son, and laid his hand on the head of the young man. "Preserve your heart tender and loving, for if Fate is just, it may one day be for the advantage of a whole nation that you are so, and the heart of the man be the mediator between the people and its king! Farewell, my son; we see each other to-day for the last time, for in this very hour you will go to your ship with Desaix. It may be that the ships will sail this very night, and if so, well! A quick and unlooked-for separation mitigates the pains of parting. You will soon have overcome them, and when you reach Paris, the past will sink behind you into the sea."
"Never, oh, never!" cried Louis, with emotion. "I shall never forget my benefactor, my second father!"
"My son, one easily forgets in Paris, and especially when he goes thither for the purpose of creating a new future out of the ruins of the past! But I shall never forget you; and if my presentiment should not deceive me, and I should soon die, you will learn after my death that I have loved you as a son. Now go, and I say to you, as another loved voice once said to you, and as the sick and the dying once repeated it to you, 'God bless you! All saints and angels protect you!'"
They remained locked in their tender embrace, and then parted--never to meet again!
That very night, before the morning began to dawn, General Desaix started, accompanied by his adjutant Louis, and a few servants. Their first goal was Alexandria, whither the command of General Bonaparte summoned them and a few others.
The proposed journey of the commanding general was still a carefully concealed secret, and the divan in Cairo had merely been informed that Bonaparte was planning to undertake a short journey in the Delta.
On the 22d of August, 1799, an hour after midnight, two French frigates left the harbor of Alexandria. On board of one of them was Bonaparte, the emperor of the future;--on the other was Louis Charles, the king of the past. Nameless and unknown, the descendant of the monarchs of France, with his sixteen years, returned to France --to France, that seemed no longer to remember its past, its kings, and to have no thoughts, no love, no admiration for aught excepting that new, brilliant constellation which had arisen over France-Bonaparte.
He had returned from Egypt to regain Italy, but he found other work awaiting him in Paris. This he brought to completion with the energy and boldness which characterized all his dealings. By a prompt stroke he put an end to the constitution which had prevailed till then, abrogated the Convention and the Council of Five Hundred, and gave the French republic a new constitution, putting at the head of the government three consuls, Sieyes, Roger Ducos, and himself. But these three consuls were intended to be a mere transition, a mere step forward in the victorious march of Bonaparte. After a few weeks they were superseded, and Bonaparte became the First Consul and the head of France.
On the 25th of December, 1799, France hailed General Bonaparte as the First Consul of the French republic. A new century was dawning, and with the beginning of this new century the gates of the Tuileries, the deserted palace of kings, opened to a new possessor. Bonaparte, the First Consul, took up his residence there; and in the first spring of the new century the consul, accompanied by Josephine, removed to St. Cloud for summer quarters. The park of Queen Marie Antoinette was given by the French nation to the First Consul; and in the apartments where the queen with her son Louis Charles and her daughter Theresa once dwelt, Josephine, with her son Eugene and her daughter Hortense, now abode.
"I would I had remained in Egypt," sighed the dauphin often, when in the silence and solitude of his apartment he surrendered himself to his recollections and dreams. "It had been better to die young in a foreign land, while all the stars of hope were beaming above me, than to protract a miserable, obscure life here, and see all the stars fade out one by one!"
Yes, the stars of hope were paling one by one for the son of King Louis. No one thought of him, no one believed in him. He had died in the Temple, that was all that any one wanted to know. The dead was lamented by all, the living would have been unwelcome to any. He had died and been buried, little King Louis XVII., and no one spoke of him more.
The only subject of men's talk was the glory and greatness of the First Consul. The beauty and grace of Josephine were celebrated in the same halls which had once resounded with the praises of fair Queen Marie Antoinette. The half million lovers who had once bowed to Marie were now devoted to Josephine, and paid their homage to her with the same enthusiasm with which they had before worshipped the queen. The son of the general who once had given the oath of fidelity to King Louis XVI., the son of General Beauharnais, is now the adopted son of the ruler of France; while the son of the king must secrete himself and remain without name, rank, and title. It is his good fortune that Desaix is there to pity the forsaken one, and to give him a place in his home and his heart. No one else knows him; he is the adjutant of General Desaix, that is his only rank and title.
But he still remained the nephew of General Kleber, who had been left in Egypt, and who, at the end of the century, gained a decisive victory at Heliopolis over the Turks and Mamelukes. He remained the nephew of General Kleber, and at the end of the year 1800 the frigate l'Aigle, on its return from Egypt, brought a great packet for General Desaix. It contained many papers of value, many rolls of gold-pieces, besides gems and pearls. But; it also contained a sealed black document directed to the adjutant of General Desaix. This document contained the will of Kleber, commander-in-chief of the French army in Egypt. He had given it to General Menou, together with his papers and valuables, with the intimation that directly after his death they should all be sent to General Desaix in France. General Menou followed this instruction, for Kleber was dead. The murderous bullet of a Mameluke killed him on the 14th of June, 1800. His will was the last evidence of his love for his nephew Louis, whom he designated as his only heir, and Kleber was rich through inherited wealth as well as the spoils of war.
But Louis Charles took no satisfaction, and it made no impression on him, when Desaix informed him that he was the possessor of a million. "A million! What shall I do with it?" answered Louis, sadly. "Were it a million soldiers, and I might put myself at their head and with them storm the Tuileries and make my entrance into St. Cloud, I should consider myself fortunate. But what advantage to me are a million of francs? I can begin nothing with them; I should have to establish a store and perhaps have the custom of the First Consul of the republic!"
"Hush! young man, hush!" replied Desaix, "you are bitter and sad, and I understand it, for the horizon is dark for you, and offers you no cheerful prospect; but a million francs is a good thing notwithstanding, and one day you will know how to prize it. This million of francs makes you a rich man, and a rich man is a free and independent man. If you do not wish to live longer as a soldier, you have the power to give up your commission and live without care, and that is something. My next business will be to assure you your fortune against all the uncertainties of the future, which are the more to be guarded against, as we are soon to advance into Italy again for the next campaign. I can, therefore, not put your property and your papers into your hands, for they constitute your future, and we must deposit them with some one with whom they shall be safe, and that must be with a man of peace. Do you know who this man is?"
"I know no one, general, excepting yourself," replied Louis, with a shrug, "whom I should dare to trust."
"But, fortunately, I know an entirely reliable man; shall I tell you who he is?"
"Do so, I beg you, general."
"His name is Fouche."
Louis started, and a deathly paleness covered his cheeks.
"Fouche, the chief of police! Fouche, the traitor, who gave his voice in the Convention for the death of King Louis--to him, the red republican, a man of blood and treachery, do you want to convey my papers and my property?"
"Yes, Louis, for with him alone are they secure. Fouche will protect you, and will stand by you with just as much zeal as he once displayed in the persecution of the royal family. I know him well, and I vouch for him. Men must not always be judged by their external appearance. He who shows himself our enemy to-day, lends us to- morrow, it may be, a helpful arm, and becomes our friend, sometimes because his heart has been changed, and sometimes because his character is feeble. I cannot with certainty say which of these reasons has determined Fouche, but I am firmly convinced that he will be a protector and a friend to you, and that in no hands will your property and your papers be safer than in his." [Footnote: Desaix's own words--See "Memoires du Due de Nonuandie," p. 61.]
Louis made no reply; he dropped his head with a sigh, and submitted.
On, in the new century, rolled the victorious car of Bonaparte, down the Alps, into the fertile plains of Italy. The conqueror of Lodi and Arcole meant to take revenge on the enemies who had snatched back the booty--revenge on Austria, who had broken the peace of Campo Formio. And he did take this revenge at Marengo, where, on the 14th of June, he gained a brilliant victory over Austria, and won all Italy as the prize of the battle.
But the day was purchased at a sacrifice. General Desaix paid with his death for his impetuous onset. In the very thick of the fight, mortally wounded by a ball, he fell into the arms of his adjutant Louis, and only with extreme peril could the latter, himself wounded, bear the general away from the melee, and not. be trampled to death by the horses of his own soldiers.
Poor Louis Charles! He now stood entirely alone--the last friend had left him. Death had taken away every thing, parents, crown, home, name, friends. He was alone, all alone in the world--no man to take any interest in him, no one to know who he was.
Sunk in sadness, he remained in Alessandria after the battle of Marengo, and allowed his external wound to heal, while the internal one continued to bleed. He cursed death, because it had not taken him, while removing his last friend.
And when the wound was healed, what should he do? --under what name and title should he be enrolled in the army? His only protector was dead, and the adjutant was reported to have died with him. He put off the uniform which he had worn as the soldier of the republic which had destroyed his throne and his inheritance, and, in simple, unpretending garments, he returned to Paris, an unknown young man.
Desaix was right; it was, indeed, something to possess a million of francs. Poor as he was in love and happiness, this million of francs made him at least a free and independent man, and therefore he would demand his inheritance of him whom he formerly shunned because he was one of the murderers of his father.
Fouche received the young man exactly as Desaix had expected. He showed himself in the light of a sympathizing protector; he was touched with the view of this youth, whose countenance was the evidence of his lineage, the living picture of the unfortunate Louis XVI., whom Fouche had brought to the scaffold. Perhaps this man of blood and the guillotine had compunctions of conscience; perhaps he wanted to atone to the son for his injuries to the parents; perhaps he was planning to make of the son of the Bourbons a check to the ambitious consul of the republic; perhaps to humiliate the grasping Count de Lille, who was intriguing at all the European courts for the purpose of raising armies against the French republic. The son of Louis XVI. could be employed as a useful foil to all these political manoeuvres, and subsequently he could either be publicly acknowledged, or denounced as an impostor, as circumstances might determine.
At present it suited the plans of the crafty Fouche to acknowledge him, and to assume the attitude of a protector. He put on a very respectful and sympathetic air to the poor solitary youth; with gentle, tremulous voice he called him your Majesty; he begged his pardon for the past; he spoke with such deep emotion and so solemn a tone of the good, great, and gentle Louis XVI., that the heart of the son was powerfully touched. And when Fouche, with flaming words of enthusiasm, began to speak of the noble, unhappy Queen Marie Antoinette, when with glowing eloquence he celebrated her beauty and her gentleness in time of good-fortune, her greatness and steadfastness in ill-fortune, all the anger of the young man melted in the tears of love which he poured out as he remembered his mother.
"I forgive you, Fouche; yes, I forgive you," he cried, extending both his hands. "I see plainly the power of political faction hurried you away; but your heart cannot be bad, for you love my noble mother. I forgive you, and I trust you."
Fouche, deeply moved, sank upon his knee before the dauphin, and called himself one of his loyal subjects, and promised to take all means to restore the young king to the throne of his fathers. He conjured Louis to trust him, and to enter upon no plan without asking his counsel.
Louis promised this. He told Fouche that he was the only man who had talked with him about the past without using ambiguous language; that he was surprised at this, and compelled to recognize as true what formerly had been fettered on his tongue. He told him that he had promised his rescuer, with a solemn oath, never to acknowledge himself as the son of Louis XVI., and King of France, till this rescuer and benefactor empowered him to do so, and released him from his vow of silence. He made it, therefore, the first condition of his confidence that Fouche should disclose his secret to no one, but carry it faithfully in his own breast.
Fouche promised all, and took a sacred oath that he would never reveal the secret confided to him by the King of France. But he confessed at the same time that the First Consul knew very well that the son of the king had been released from the Temple, and that among the posthumous papers of Kleber there was a letter directed to Bonaparte, stating that he, Kleber, knew very well that the little Capet was still living, and imploring Bonaparte to restore the orphan to the throne of the Lilies. The consul had, therefore, quietly, made investigations, and learned that Louis had taken part as the adjutant of General Desaix in the battle of Marengo, that he had been wounded there, and remained in the hospital of Alessandria till his recovery. Since then all trace of the young man had been lost, and he had commissioned Fouche to discover the adjutant of Kleber and Desaix and bring him to him.
"You will not do that?" cried Louis, eagerly; "you will not disclose me?"
"Are you afraid of him?" asked Fouche, with a suspicious smile.
The young man blushed, and a cloud passed over his clear forehead.
"Fear!" he replied with a shrug. "The sons of my ancestors have no fear; and I have shown on the battle-fields of Aboukir and Marongo, and in the pest-houses of Jaffa, that I know not the word. But when one meets a blood-thirsty lion in his path he turns out of the way, and when a tiger extends its talons at one he flies; that is the duty of self-preservation, and not the flight of a coward."
"Do you believe, then, that this lion thirsts for royal blood?"
"I believe that he thirsts for royal rank, and that he will neglect no means to vanquish all hinderances that might intervene between himself and the throne. Do you believe, sir, that the man who, after the battle of Aboukir, sentenced five thousand prisoners to death, would hesitate a moment to take the life of a poor, defenceless young man such as I am? He would beat me into the dust as the lion does the flea which dares to play with his mane."
"It appears you know this aon very well," said Fouche with a smile, "and I really believe you judge him rightly. But be without concern. He shall not know from me that I am aware of you and your abiding- place. In order that Bonaparte shall not take me to be a bad detective, I shall show him in all other things that I am on the alert. In case of necessity, it may be that I shall have to resort to deception, and, in order to save your life, inform the consul that you are dead. There were a great many young officers who fell at Marengo, or afterward died as the result of their wounds. Why should not the adjutant of General Desaix have met this fate? Yes, I believe this will be the best. I will give you out as dead, in order to save your life. I will cause a paper to be prepared which shall testify that the adjutant of General Desaix, who lay there in the hospital, died there of his wounds and was buried."
"And so I shall disappear from life a second time?" asked Louis, sadly.
"Yes, sire, in order to enter anew upon it with greater splendor," replied Fouche, eagerly.
"Who knows whether this shall ever be?" sighed Louis. "How shall I be able to establish my identity if I die and am buried twice? Who will be my pledge that I shall be able to convince men that I am not a deceiver, and that my whole existence is not an idle tale? There are only a few who know and believe that little Capet escaped from the Temple, and went to Egypt as Kleber's adjutant. If, now, these few learn that the adjutant fell in battle, if the paper that testifies to his death is laid before them, how shall I subsequently be believed if I announce that I am alive, and that I am the one for whom I give myself out? The seal of royalty is impressed on no man's brow, and we know from history that there have been false pretenders."
"You shall show with your papers that you are none such," said Fouche, eagerly, "and God will grant that I, too, shall be living when the time shall be in which you may come forward with raised voice and demand your inheritance and your throne. Hope for that time, and meanwhile preserve your papers well. Carry them always with you, part with them neither day nor night, for in these papers rest your future and your c rown. No other man besides yourself can take care of them These papers are worth more to you than a million of fras, although oven that should not be scorned. Here are the documents that give you possession of your wealth. I have deposited your funds in the Bank of France, and you can draw out money at any time by presenting these checks that I give you, simply writing your name upon them."
"By simply writing my name upon them!" cried Louis, bitterly. "But, sir, what is my name? How shall I be called? I was formerly designated as the nephew of Kleber, Colonel Louis, the adjutant of Desaix. But Colonel Louis can no longer acknowledge that he is alive, and you propose to convince the First Consul that the nephew of Kleber is dead. Who, then, am I? What name shall I subscribe to those papers? By what name shall the nameless, the dead and buried, the resurrected, the again dead and buried one--by what name shall he draw money from the bank?"
"Very true," said Fouche. "A name, or rather the mask of a citizen's or nobleman's name, must be your disguise, and it is imperatively necessary that we give you such, and provide you with papers that cannot be forged, which shall prove your existence, and secure you against every assault."
"Very good; then tell me how I shall be called," said Louis, sadly. "Be the godfather of the solitary and nameless."
"Well, I will," cried Fouche. "In the glamour of political passions I have raised my voice against the life of your father; full of regret I will raise my voice for the life of the son, and assist him to enter afresh upon life and into the society of men. Young man, I will give you a name and rank, till the French nation restore to you your true name and rank. You shall henceforth be called the Baron de Richemont. Will you accept it?"
"Yes, I will accept it," said Louis, gently. "To be the Baron de Richemont is better than to be a dead and buried person without any name."
"Very good, my lord baron," cried Fouche, "I will have the necessary certificates and papers made out, and enter your property in the Bank of France under the name of the Baron de Richemont. If you please, come to-morrow to me, and I will deliver to you the papers of Monsieur de Richemont."
"I shall come, be sure of that," said Louis, giving him his hand; "it seems to me my fate to go incognito through life, and God alone knows whether I shall ever abandon this incognito."
He saluted Fouche with a sad smile, and went out. The minister listened to the resounding footstep, and then broke out into loud, mocking laughter.
"Foolish boy!" he said, raising his hand threateningly, "foolish boy! You suppose that only God knows whether you will ever come out of your incognito. You mistake--besides God, Fouche knows it. Yes, Fouche knows that this incognito extends over you like a net, from which you never will escape. No, the Baron de Richemont shall never be transformed into King Louis XVII. But he shall be an instrument with which I will hold in check this ambitious Consul Bonaparte, who is striving; for the throne, and this grasping Count de Lille, who in his exile calls himself King Louis XVIII. --the instrument with which I threaten when I am threatened. Only, my little Baron de Richemont, I do not know what I can make out of you, but I know that you shall make out of me a rich, dangerous, and dreaded man. Poor, credulous fool! How easily you fall into the piti The Baron de Richemont shall never escape from it. I vouch for it--I, Fouche!"
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{
"id": "3451"
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31
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FOUCHE.
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The First Consul was walking with hasty steps up and down his cabinet. His eyes flashed, and his face, which elsewhere was impenetrable, like that of the brazen statues of the Roman emperors, disclosed the fiery impatience and stormy passions which raged within him. His lips, which were pressed closely together, opened now and then to mutter a word of threatening or of anger, and that word he hurled like a poisoned arrow directly at the man who, in a respectful attitude and with pallid cheeks, stood not far from the door, near the table covered with papers. --This man was Fouche, formerly the chief of police in Paris, and now a mere member of the senate of the republic. He had gone to the Tuileries in order to request a secret audience of Bonaparte, who had now forgotten the little prefix of "First" to his consular title, and now reigned supreme and alone over France.
Bonaparte suddenly paused in his rapid walk, coming to a halt directly in front of Fouche, and looked at him with flaming eyes, as if they were two daggers with which he meant to pierce deep into his heart. But Fouche did not see this, for he stood with downcast eyes, and appeared not to be aware that Bonaparte was so near him.
"Fouche," cried the consul, violently, "I know you, and I am not to be deceived by your indifferent, affected air! You shall know that I do not fear you--you and all the ghosts that you can conjure up. You think that you frighten me; you wish that I should pay you dearly for your secret. But you shall know that I am not at all of a timorous nature, and that I shall pay no money for the solution of a riddle which I may perhaps be able to solve without your help. I warn you, sir, you secret-vender, be well on your guard! You have your spies, but I have my police, and they inform me about every thing out of the usual course. It is known, sir, that you are carrying on a correspondence with people out of the country-- understand me, with people out of the country!"
"Consul," replied Fouche, calmly, "I have certainly not known that the republic forbids its faithful servants to send letters abroad."
"The republic will never allow one of its servants to correspond with its enemies," cried Bonaparte, in thundering tones. "Be silent, sir! no evasions, no circumlocutions! Let us speak plainly, and to the point. You are in correspondence with the Count de Lille."
"You know that, consul, for I have had the honor to give you a letter myself, which the pretender directed to you, and sent to me to be delivered."
"A ridiculous, nonsensical letter," replied Bonaparte, with a shrug; "a letter in which this fool demands of me to bring him back to France, and to indicate the place which I wish to occupy in his government. By my word, an idiot could not write a more crazy document! I am to indicate the place which I wish to occupy in his government! Well, I shall do that; but there will be no place left near me for the Bourbons, whom France has spewed out, as one spews out mortal poison. These hated and weak Bourbons shall never attain to power and prestige again. Prance has turned away from them. France abhors this degenerate race of kings; it will erect a new edifice of power and glory, but there will be no room in it for the Bourbons! Mark that, intriguer, and build no air-castles on it. I demand of you an open confession, for I shall accuse yon as a traitor and a royalist."
"Consul, I shall not avoid this charge," replied Fouche, calmly, "and I am persuaded that Prance will follow with interest the course of a trial which will unveil an important secret--which will inform it that the rightful King of France, according to the opinion of Consul Bonaparte, did not die in the Temple under the tender care of Simon the cobbler, but is still alive, and is, therefore, the true heir of the crown. That would occasion some joy to the royalists, surely!"
The consul stamped on the floor with rage, his eyes shot flames, and when he spoke again, his voice rang like peals of thunder, so angrily and so powerfully did it pour forth.
"I will change the paecans and the joy of these royalists to lamentations and wailings," he cried. "All the enemies of France shall know that I hold the sword in my hands, and mean to use it, not only against foes without, but foes within. France has given me this sword, and I shall not lay it down, even if all the kings of Europe, and all the Bourbons who lie in the vaults of St. Denis, leave their graves, to demand it from me! I am the living sword of France, and never shall this sword bow before the sceptre of a Bourbon. Fresh shoots might sooner spring from the dead stick which the wanderer carries through the desert, than a Bourbon sceptre could grow from the sword of Bonaparte; and all the same, whether this Bourbon calls himself Louis XVII. or Louis XVIII. ! Mark that, Fouche, and mark also that when I once say 'I will,' I shall know how to make my will good, even if the whole world ventures to confront me."
"I know that, consul," said Fouche, with deference. "God gave you, for the weal of France, an iron will and a brain of fire, and destined you to wear not only laurels, but crowns."
A flame glared from the eyes of the consul and played over the face of Fouche, but the latter appeared not to notice it, for he cast down his eyes again, and his manner was easy and unconstrained.
"You now speak a word which is not becoming," said Bonaparte, calmly. "I am the first servant of the republic, and in a republic there are no crowns."
"Not citizens' crowns, general?" asked Fouche, with a faint smile. "I mean, that this noblest of crowns can everywhere be acceptable, and no head has merited such a crown more than the noble Consul Bonaparte, who has made the republic of France a worthy rival of its sister in North America."
Bonaparte threw his head proudly back. "I am not ambitious of the honor," he said, "of being Washington of France."
"Yet you are he, general," replied Fouche, with a smile. "Only the Washington of France does not live in the White House which a republic has built, but in the Tuileries, which he has received as the heir of the French kings. General, as the worthiest, the greatest, the most powerful, and the most signally called, you have come into the possession of the inheritance of the kings of France. For to this inheritance belongs also the crown of France. Why do you refuse this, while accepting all the rest?"
"And what if I show you that I do not want it?" asked Bonaparte. "And what if I should tell you that I do not feel myself worthy to assume the whole, undivided inheritance of the Bourbons? Would you be foolish and senseless enough to believe such an idle tale?"
"Consul, you have already done so many things that are wonderful, and have brought so many magic charms to reality, that I no longer hold any thing to be impossible, as soon as you have laid your hand upon it."
"And therefore you hold a concealed magician's wand, which you propose to draw forth at some decisive moment, and present to me, as the cross is presented to Beelzebub in the tale?"
"I do not understand you, consul," replied Fouche, with the most innocent air in the world.
"Well, then, I will make myself intelligible. The magician's wand, which you are keeping concealed, is called Louis XVII. Oh! do not shake your cunning head; do not deny with your smooth lips, which once uttered the death-sentence of Louis XVI., and which now are used to teach a fool and a pretender that he is the son of the murdered king. Truly, it is ridiculous. The regicide wants to atone for his offence by hatching a fable, and making a king out of a manikin."
"General, no fable, and no manikin," cried Fouche, with a threatening voice. "The son of the unfortunate king is alive, and--" "Ah!" interrupted Bonaparte, triumphantly, "so you confess at last, you reveal your great secret at length! I have driven the sly fox out of his hole and the hunt can now begin. It will be a hot chase, I promise you, and I shall not rest till I have drawn the skin over the ears of the fox, or--" "Until he says his pater peccavi?" asked Fouche, with a gentle smile.
"Until he delivers to me the changeling whom he wants to use as his Deus ex machina," replied Bonaparte. "My dear sir, it helps you not at all to begin again this system of lies. Your anger has betrayed you, and I have succeeded in outwitting the fox. The so-called 'son of the king is alive;' that has escaped you, and you cannot take it back."
"No, it cannot be taken back," replied Fouche, with a sigh. "I have disclosed myself, or rather I have been outwitted. You are in all things a hero and a master, in cunning as much as in bravery and discretion. I bow before you as before a genius whom God Himself has sent upon the earth, to bring the chaotic world into order again; I bow before you as before my lord and master; and instead of opposing you, I will henceforth be content with being your instrument, provided that you will accept me as such."
"That is, Fouche, provided that I will fulfil your conditions," cried Bonaparte, with a shrug. "Very well name your conditions! Without circumlocution! What do you demand?"
"Consul, in order that we may understand one another, we must both be open and unreserved. Will you permit me to be free with you?"
"Certainly," replied Bonaparte, with a condescending nod.
"Consul, you have thrust me aside, you have no longer confidence in me. You have taken from me the post of minister of police, and given it to my enemy Regnier. That has given me pain, it has injured me; for it has branded me before all the world as a useless man, whom Bonaparte suspects. Your enemies have believed that my alienation from you would conduce to their advantage, and that out of the dismissed police prefect they might gain an enemy to Bonaparte. Conspirators of all kinds have come to me--emissaries of Count de Lille, deputies from the royalists in Vendee, as well as from the red republicans, by whom you, Bonaparte, are as much hated as by the royalists, for they will never forgive you for putting yourself at the head of the republic, and making yourself their master. All of these parties have made propositions to me, all of them want me to join them. I have lent my ear to them all, I have been informed of all their plans, and am at this hour the sworn ally of both the republicans and the royalists. Oh! I beg you," continued Fouche, as Bonaparte started up, and opened his lips to speak--"I beg you, general, hear me to the end, and do not interrupt me till I have told you all. --Yes, I have allied myself to three separate conspiracies, and have become zealous in them all. There is, first, that of the republicans, who hate you as a tyrant of the republic; there is, in the second place, the conspiracy of the royalists, who want to put the Count de Lille on the throne; and third, there is that of the genuine Capetists, who want to make the 'orphan of the Temple' Louis XVII. These three conspiracies have it as their first object to remove and destroy Consul Bonaparte. Yes, to reach this end the three have united, and made a mutual compromise. Whichever party succeeds in murdering you, is to come into power, and the others are to relinquish the field to it: and so if Bonaparte is killed by a republican dagger, the republic is to remain at present the recognized form of government; and if the ball of a royalist removes you, the republicans strike their banner, and grant that France shall determine, by a general ballot, "whether it shall be a republic or a kingdom."
"Well," asked Bonaparte, calmly, as Fouche closed, and cast an inquiring glance at the consul's face, which was, notwithstanding, entirely cold and impenetrable--" well, why do you stop? I did not interrupt you with a question. Go on!"
"I will, consul. I have made myself a member of these three conspiracies; for, in order to contend with the heads of Cerberus, one must have them all joined; and in order to be the conqueror in a great affair, one must know who all his enemies are, and what are all their plans. I know all the plans of the allies, and because I know them, it is within my power to bring discontent and enmity among them, using for this end the third conspiracy--that of the dependants of Louis XVII., the orphan of the Temple. Through sympathy with him, I have divided the party of royalists; I have withdrawn from the Count de Lille many of his important dependants, and even some of the chief conspirators, who came to Paris to contend for Louis XVIII., have recently in secret bent the knee to Louis XVII., and sworn fidelity to him."
"That is not true," cried Bonaparte, vehemently. "You are telling me nurses' stories, with which children may be frightened, but men not. There are no secret meetings in Paris!"
"General, if your minister of police, Regnier, has told you so, he only shows that he is no man to be at the head of the police, and knows nothing of the detective service. I tell you, general, there are secret societies in Paris, and I ought to know, for I am a member of four separate ones."
"Ah! sir," sneered Bonaparte, "you are out of your head! Before, you spoke of three conspiracies, and now they have grown to be four."
"I am speaking now of secret societies, consul, for not every secret society can be called a conspiracy. Before, when I was giving account of conspiracies, I mentioned three; now, when we speak of secret societies, I have to mention a fourth. But this does not deserve the name of a conspiracy, for its object is not murder and revolution, nor does it arm itself with daggers and pistols."
"I should be curious to know the name of your fourth society," cried Bonaparte, impatiently.
"I will satisfy your curiosity, general. This fourth secret society bears the name 'the Bonapartists,' or--allow me to approach you closer, that the walls of the old palace may not hear the word--or 'the Imperialists.' "
Bonaparte shrank back, and a glow of red passed for a moment over his cheeks. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean by that, general, what I have already said: your brow is made not to wear laurels alone, but a crown, and there is only one way to destroy the other three conspiracies--the way proposed by the fourth secret society. In order to make the efforts of the republicans and royalists ineffective, and to tread them under your feet, France needs an emperor."
"And do you want to make your manikin, Louis XVII., Emperor of France?"
"No, general," answered Fouche, solemnly--"no; I want to make Consul Bonaparte Emperor of the French!"
The consul trembled, and his eyes flashed through the apartment, the former cabinet of Louis XVI., as if he wanted to convince himself that no one had heard this dangerous word of the future. Then he slowly bent forward without meeting Fouche's looks, which were intently fixed upon him.
A pause ensued--a long, anxious pause. Then Bonaparte slowly raised his eye again, and now it was filled as with sunlight.
"Is your fourth secret society numerous?" he asked, with that magical smile which won all hearts.
"It comprises artists, poets, scholars, and above every thing else, officers and generals," replied Fouche. "It grows more numerous every day, and as fortunately I have only been deposed from my place of minister of police, but still remain a member of the senate of the republic, it has been my effort to gain over in the senate influential members for my secret society of imperialists. If my hopes are crowned with success, the secret society will soon become an open one, and the senate will apply to you with a public request to put an end to all these conspiracies and intrigues, to place yourself at the head of France, and accept the imperial crown which the senate offers you. But--" "I comprehend your 'but,' Fouche," interrupted Bonaparte, eagerly. "You want to make your conditions. An imperial crown does not fall direct from heaven upon the head of a man; there must be hands there to take it, and it might happen that they would be crushed by the falling crown. They must be paid for their heroism, therefore. Let us suppose, then, that I give credence to all your stories, even that about the empire of the future--tell me, now, what you demand."
"General, if I show you and all France by facts that the country is rent by conspiracies, that the cancer of secret societies is eating into the very marrow of the land, and imperilling all its institutions, will you confess to me then that I am better adapted to be the head of the police than M. Regnier d'Angely, who insists and dares to say to you that there are no secret societies in France?"
"Prove to me by facts the existence of your conspiracies, and I will commission you to help me destroy this hydra's head. Give me the proofs, and you shall be head of police again."
Fouche bowed. "You shall have the proofs, general, to-day--at once, provided that we thoroughly understand each other. I am ambitious, general, and I have no wish to be driven back for a single day into nothingness, as I should be, if my enemies withdraw their confidence in me. Now I am, at least, a member of the senate; but if the senate is dissolved, and I should subsequently be deposed again from the head of the police, I should be nothing but Fouche--Fouche fallen out of favor. Voila tout!"
"No, not so," said Bonaparte, with a smile. "You will always be known as the murderer of the king; that is a fine title for a republican, is it not?"
"Ah, general, I see that you understand me," cried Fouche. "We are now talking about a name, a position, a title for me. Provided that here in the Tuileries a throne is reestablished, we must have a court again, men with orders, titles, and dignities."
"It is true," said Bonaparte, thoughtfully. "The world continues to revolve in the same circles of folly and vanity, and after making an effort to withdraw from them, it falls back again into the old ruts. Men are nothing but actors, and every one wants to adorn himself with glistening rags, in order to take the first part, and have his name go upon the poster of history. Well, how would you be called, Fouche, if the drama of an empire should really be brought forward upon the great stage of the world? "
"I should like the title of a prince or duke, sire." Bonaparte could scarcely suppress the smile of satisfaction that played over his face. It was the first time that he had ever been addressed as king or emperor, and this "sire" which Fouche dropped into the ear of Bonaparte like a sweet poison, flattered his senses and soothed him like delightful music. But the strength of his genius soon resumed its sway, and he broke out into a loud, merry laugh.
"Confess, Fouche," he cried, "that it is comical to hear the consul talking with a senator of the republic about an empire and ducal titles. Truly, if the strict republicans of your conspiracy number one should hear this, they would be justified in accusing us as traitors and conspirators."
"We must get the start of them--we must accuse them."
"If we possess secure means to do so."
"I possess them, and I will give them to you, Consul Bonaparte, as soon as the emperor of the future assures me of a princely title, in addition to the chieftaincy of police."
"Very well," said Bonaparte, laughing, "the emperor of the future promises you that as soon as he is able to bake a batch of these delicacies, he will put his chief of police in the oven and draw him out as a prince or a duke. The emperor of the future gives you his word of honor that he will do it. Are you satisfied now, my lord republican?"
"Sire, completely satisfied," said Fouche, bowing low.
"And now let us talk together seriously," said Bonaparte. "You have spoken of conspiracies; you assert that they exist, but do not forget that you have promised me tangible proofs--understand me well, tangible proofs; that is, it is not enough for me to see the papers and the lists of conspirators who have escaped into foreign lands--I want persons, men of flesh and blood--traitors whom I may hang, not in effigy, but in reality, and who may serve as a warning example to the whole herd of conspirators, and put an end forever to this nonsense. I am wearied of being perpetually threatened by traitors, poisoned daggers, air-guns, plots, and intrigues, of all kinds. It is time to hunt down the chief men of these bravoes who have been sent here from England, Germany, Russia, and Italy, and I have had enough of illustrating the old proverb, 'Hang the little thief and let the great one run.' I mean to have the great thief and to hang him, for that is the only way of intimidating these fellows and inspiring them with respect."
"Sire, you shall have your great thieves," said Fouche, with a smile.
"Give them into my hands, and I promise you they shall never escape," cried Bonaparte, eagerly. "It is high time to make an example, and show these people at last that I claim the right of paying back. The Count de Lille and the Duke d'Enghien are always egging their conspirators upon me; they appear to have no other aim than to get rid of me, and are unwearied with their daggers, infernal machines, and counter-plots. But their own persons, and those of their highest helpers, always remain beyond reach. They arrange their plans always at a safe distance, and risk nothing by this; for, if we take some of their subordinate tools and punish them, they make an outcry about barbarity and cruelty, and appeal to their sacred right of using all means to regain their inheritance, and reestablish the throne in France. They do not deny that they would have no conscientious scruples about shedding my blood. Now, why should I have any about shedding theirs? Blood for blood, that is the natural and unavoidable law of retaliation, and woe to him who lays claim to it! These Bourbons do so. I have never injured one of them personally; a great nation has placed me at its head; my blood is worth as much as theirs, and it is time at last that I make it al pari with theirs. I will no longer serve as a target for all murderers, and then afterward only find the dagger, instead of seizing the hands that ply it. Let me once have hold of the hands, and all the daggers will disappear forever!"
"I will give these hands into your power, or, at least, some fingers of them."
"I want them all," cried Bonaparte, eagerly,--"all the fingers, all the hands. You have spoken of three different conspiracies. I want the leaders of them, and then all others may run. If the hydra loses its three heads, it must at last die. So give me the three heads, that of the republicans and of the two royalist parties. The head of conspiracy number two I know; it is the Count de Lille. He is the sly spider who always withdraws behind his nets, but I know the hand, too, that is set in motion by this head; it is the Duke d'Enghien. He is an untiring conspirator, wholly occupied with infernal machines and daggers for me. Ah! let him take care of himself, the little Duke d'Enghien. If I take him, I will exercise the right of retaliation upon him, for I am determined to have peace. "We now come to your conspiracy number three, to your Deus ex machina, the so-called Louis XVII. This Deus really exists?"
"Yes, general, he exists."
Bonaparte laughed aloud, but his laughter sounded like a threat. "I have heard of this story," he said. "The good-natured Kleber believed it, and, after his death, a paper was given to me, written by him, and directed to me, which stated that his so-called nephew Louis was the heir of the King of France, and implored me earnestly to take the orphan of the Temple under my protection. I instituted inquiries for him at once; it was after the battle of Marengo, and this Monsieur Louis was, till then, adjutant of General Desaix."
"Yes, general, adjutant of Desaix, down to the battle of Marengo-- that is, to the death of Desaix."
"If I mistake not, his adjutant was wounded in the battle, and lay at the hospital in Alessandria."
"It is so, general. I wonder how closely you have been informed respecting the fortunes of this young man."
"From that time all trace of him has been lost, and all my inquiries have proved in vain. The adjutant of Desaix, who fought so bravely, and who bore my dying comrade in his arms, deserved advancement, and I wanted to give it to him, and therefore searched for him, but in vain. I believed him dead, and now you come and tell me about a conspiracy in favor of Louis XVII. This young pretender is still alive, then, and there are childlike souls who believe his story, are there?"
"General, he says little, for he is very silent and reticent, but he has testimonials which speak for him, and which show that his story is not an idle tale, but a fragment of history. His papers give clear and undeniable evidence cf his lineage and the course of his life."
"I should like to see these papers once," said the consul.
"He never lets them go out of his hands, for he knows very well that they are his security for a crown."
"Then bring me the man himself, and then I shall have him and his papers," said Bonaparte, with a growl like a lion's. "Is not he the head of the conspiracy?"
"Yes, general, the head of a conspiracy which I have conducted, because I meant to have all the threads in my hands, if I was to see clearly. In order to prove the royalists, I threw them this bait, and many of them have taken the hook and come over to the young king. In this way I have made a division in the ranks of the royalists, and the Count de Lille already sees the consequences. The so-called orphan of the Temple has at this hour no enemy who hates him more than the Count de Lille."
"But this enmity of the Count de Lille vanishes like a glow-worm in the darkness. I want tangible proofs by which I can arrest my enemies. Can you give them to me?"
"General, it will not be difficult to do this. We will speak of it hereafter. Allow me first a word about this dangerous adjutant of Desaix, Colonel Louis. You said, general, that you made futile efforts to gain information about this interesting and brave young man. Those efforts were made in the years when M. Regnier d'Angely was chief of police, in which my enemies succeeded in withdrawing the confidence of the First Consul from me. But had I been chief of police at that time, I should have been able to tell you that the young man whom you were seeking, and respecting whom you obtained no information, was living here in Paris."
"What!" cried Bonaparte, in amazement. "This so-called Louis XVII. in Paris, then?" "General, he is still here; he has been living in Paris for about four years--about as long as M. Regnier has been head of police."
"And Regnier has told me nothing about it! Has he not known that so dangerous a person was living in Paris?"
Fouche shrugged his shoulders. "Monsieur Regnier--who doubts the existence of secret societies in France, and tells you that the assassins who have so often of late imperilled your life have all been sent hither from foreign parts by the pretenders to the crown, and that there are no conspirators in France--Monsieur Regnier could not of course know the head of this secret society. He left them to follow their own pleasures unhindered here in Paris. But I know them, and I give you my word of honor, general, that the so-called nephew of Kleber is living here in Paris. Directly after his arrival he came to me, and I handed to him the papers and documents which Desaix intrusted to me, and which I had solemnly sworn to deliver to his adjutant Louis. The young man gave me his confidence, and when I spoke to him regretfully and with enthusiasm about his father and his mother, and addressed him as 'his majesty,' I won his love. He opened his heart to me, confessed that he was Louis XVII., and asked my counsel and help. I promised him both, and showed myself to him in a very compliant and devoted mood. My first counsel was, that he should live incognito under a borrowed name. In order that this might be possible, I gave him the name for his incognito, and had all the necessary documents prepared, the certificate of his birth, baptism, the marriage of his parents, and the will of his relatives."
"And all these documents were false and forged?" said Bonaparte, in amazement.
"There are everywhere pliable public officials in France," replied Fouche, with a smile. "I did not content myself with procuring for my protege the papers which insured him an honorable name, respectable family position, and a life without care; I did much more for him. I followed the efforts already related with others. I had a certificate of the death of M. Louis prepared, so as to give him a passport out of life. In order to protect himself from every injury, I told him that he, as the adjutant of Desaix, must pass as dead. He approved of it, and I took the pains to procure from the hospital at Alessandria a duly signed and sealed certificate that Colonel Louis, the adjutant of General Desaix, died of his wounds there."
"Good God!" cried Bonaparte, "is every thing in life to be bought and sold thus?"
"Yes, general, every thing--loyalty and love, life and death. I have caused the son of the King of France to die, and then rise again-- and all with gold. But, when the certificate arrived, a change had occurred in my relations. I had been removed from office, and Regnier was my successor. I kept the certificate in my possession; but, in order to secure my protege against what might befall me in case of my death, I wrote to him that I had received the papers, and that he would live without danger in Paris, under his assumed name. This letter I signed with my whole name, and set my seal to it, that in case of need it might be of service to him."
"Fouche, you are a sly fox," said Bonaparte, with a laugh. "It is easier to get out of the way of a cannonball than out of your snares. One might say to you, in the words of the King of Prussia, 'God defend mo from my friends, from my enemies I can defend myself!' According to this you have caused Colonel Louis to die for friendship's sake, and rise again under another name."
"Yes, general, that is it! Colonel Louis--that is, the rightful king, Louis XVII. --is a tool in my hands, which I hold as a check to all parties, and which I can hold up or withdraw according as it pleases me. At present my game is not merely to bring disunion and hatred into the ranks of the royalists, but to bring over many republicans who have a soft heart, to be zealous partisans of the young and unfortunate king."
"And afterward," said Bonaparte, with a sterner tone, "you might make use of this instrument to intimidate that fourth party of which you spoke before--the Bonapartists. But you have been mistaken, Fouche; this reckoning does not do--your cunning has overreached itself. You do not terrify me; and if it could really happen that the French nation should offer me an imperial crown, at the same time that I should accept it, I should put my foot on the neck of all rebels and pretenders. With a single tread I would crush them all. I want no parties, no political factions; I want to bring all these risings and agitations to silence. There shall be no secret societies in France; and against each and every conspirator, whatever his rank may be, I will bring from this time forth the whole weight of the law. Mark this, Fouche! I mean to make an end of all parties, and only when you shall give their chiefs into my hand- -not for my personal vengeance, for I cherish no vengeance against those cowardly worms of conspirators, but for the righteous punishment and retaliatory laws of France--only when you are able, by one grand coup, and one well-founded charge, to destroy all conspiracies, and bring all secret coalitions to the light, only then shall you become chief of police--only then will the future emperor give you the title of duke."
"General, I build on your word, and I am sure of becoming chief of police and duke. We will put an end to all conspiracies."
"And to the Monsieur Louis, too," cried Bonaparte, eagerly. "It is a disagreeable and troublesome figure. So long as he lives he would live in the ermine of the imperial cloak like a troublesome insect, which always stings and pricks. One must not allow such insects to find their way into his fur, and this Monsieur Louis must be put out of the way once for all. I hope he has entered deeply enough into the conspiracy, not to come out of it again with a whole skin!"
"General, I have told you already, that day before yesterday his dependants saluted him, in a secret gathering, as their king. It is true, indeed, that the poor little fellow strongly opposed it, and obstinately refused to accept all honors, but the fact remains unchanged."
"And on the ground of this fact shall he be apprehended," cried Bonaparte, with a threatening voice.
"There must be an example made, and this Louis is a suitable person for it. He must be the bete de souffrance for all the rest. He is the head of a conspiracy; we will crush this head, and the limbs will fall of themselves. Besides the sensitive souls who love nurses' stories and believe in every thing, there will be no one who will weep for him. No one will lament his death, but he will be a warning to all. Direct yourself to this, Fouche, and set all the infernal machines of your intrigues in operation that we may put an end to conspiracy."
"General, only one thing is wanting; it is that I be at the head of the police, and have the power in my hands to make my infernal machines effectual."
"But I have told you that I will appoint you as minister only when you give me incontrovertible proofs that your conspiracies are not the fabric of your own phantasy."
"Very well, general, now that we are at one, I am prepared to give you these proofs. I have told you that the royalists and republicans have united for the purpose of taking your life. They have chosen fifty men by ballot, in foreign parts, who are to come to Paris and accomplish here the great work of your destruction. These fifty assassins have arrived in Paris, and their chief men had an interview yesterday with the chiefs of the conspiracies here."
"Fouche!" cried Bonaparte, with a threatening voice, "think well what you are saying. You are playing for the stake of your own head! If these fifty assassins are creatures of your own imagination, it is you who will have to pay for it."
"These fifty men have been in Paris since the day before yesterday," rejoined Fouche, quietly. "They came hither by different roads, and appearing like simple travellers, and yesterday they had their first interview with the chief of the republican party."
"Who is this chief? Name him, or I will call you a liar and impostor!"
"This chief," said Fouche, slowly, and measuring every word, "this chief is General Moreau."
Bonaparte uttered a low cry, an ashy paleness suffused his cheeks; he pressed his lips together, and his eyes flamed out such darts of rage that even Fouche trembled and lowered his gaze.
"Moreau," muttered Bonaparte, after a long pause, "Moreau a conspirator, a traitor! Moreau in an alliance with assassins whom the royalists are sending out against me! I knew very well that he was my enemy, but I did not think that his enmity would lead him to be a murderer!"
He walked up and down with quick steps, his hands folded behind his back, then stopped short before Fouche and looked him full in the face.
"Fouche, do you abide by your assertion, that Moreau is a conspirator?"
"I abide by it, general."
"And those fifty assassins, whom the royalists have sent, are in Paris?"
"Yes, general, they are in Paris, and Georges and Pichegru are at their head."
"Fouche," cried Bonaparte, clinching his fist and raising it threateningly, "Fouche, so sure as God lives, I will have you hanged as a traitor if you have lied!"
"General, as surely as God lives, I have spoken the truth. I came here to show you what I am, and what Regnier is. I have waited here till the whole net of these conspiracies should be spread out and be fully complete. The time has come when I must speak; and now I say to you, general, take some steps, for there is danger on foot!"
Bonaparte, trembling with emotion, had thrown himself into an arm- chair, and took, as was his custom in moments of the greatest excitement, his penknife from the writing-desk, and began to whittle on the back of the chair.
Fouche stood leaning against the wall, and looked with complete calmness and an invisible smile at this singular occupation of the general, when the door of the cabinet was opened, and the Mameluke Roustan appeared at the entrance.
"Consul," he said, softly, "Councillor Real is again here, and pressingly desires an audience."
Bonaparte rose, and threw away the knife. "Real!" he cried in a loud tone.
The man who was summoned immediately appeared at the open door--a tall, grave personage, with a face so pale and distorted that Bonaparte noticed it, despite his great agitation.
"What is it, Real?" he asked, eagerly. "Have you spoken with the condemned man?"
"Yes, general, I have spoken with him," whispered Real, with pale lips.
"And it is as I said, is it not? This Doctor Querolle has only pretended to be able to make great disclosures, only to prolong his own life a few hours. He has poisoned his wife, in order to marry his mistress, and the poisoner is executed."
"General," cried Fouche, almost with an air of joy, "I knew Querolle, and I knew that his wife poisoned herself. Querolle is not a poisoner."
"What is he then, M. Omniscience?"
"General, he is a conspirator!"
"A conspirator!" repeated Bonaparte, and now his troubled face turned again to the councillor. "Real, what do you know? What did the condemned man say to you?"
"Consul, he swore that he was innocent of the death of his wife, but he acknowledged himself a member of a conspiracy, the object of which is to murder General Bonaparte. He asserts that the royalists and republicans have allied themselves; that fifty emissaries of the Count de Lille and the Duke d'Enghien, Pichegru and Georges at their head, have crept into Paris; that they had an interview yesterday with General Moreau, and with the so-called King Louis XVII., who is secreted in Paris, and that at this hour those fifty men are prowling around the streets of the city, and are watching the Tuileries, waiting for an opportunity to kill the First Consul."
The troubled eye of Bonaparte turned slowly from the pale face of Councillor Real to the calm, sagacious face of Fouche, which guarded itself well from expressing any token of triumph and satisfaction. The consul then walked slowly through the room, and with his foot pushed open the door leading into the great reception-room, in which, at this hour every day, all the dignitaries of the republic were assembled, to receive the orders of Bonaparte.
"Murat!" cried Bonaparte, loudly; and at once the person summoned, General Murat, at that time governor of Paris, appeared at the door of the cabinet.
"Murat," said Bonaparte, in the tones in which he issued his commands on the battle-field, "give orders at once that the gates of Paris be closed, and that no stranger be allowed to go out of the city till you have further orders. You will come to me in an hour, and receive a proclamation to your soldiers, which you will sign; have it printed and posted at the street-corners of Paris. Make all these preparations! Go!"
Murat withdrew from the room with a salutation of deference, and now the commanding voice of Bonaparte summoned his chief adjutant from the reception-room.
"Duroc," said the First Consul, with calm, almost solemn voice, "you will go with twelve soldiers in pursuit of General Moreau, and arrest him wherever you find him."
The noble, open face of Duroc grew pale, and put on an expression of horror and amazement. "General," he whispered, "I beg that-" But this time Bonaparte would not listen to the soothing words of his favorite.
"No replies!" he thundered. "You have only to obey! Nothing more!"
Duroc, pale and agitated, withdrew, and Bonaparte closed the door of the cabinet. "Real," he said, "return to the prison of the condemned man; take him his pardon, and bring him to me, that I may hear him myself. Hasten!"
Real withdrew, and Bonaparte and Fouche remained alone.
"You have given your proofs, Fouche, and now I believe you. When wolves are to be hunted down you are a good bloodhound, and we will begin the chase. I make you from this moment chief of the secret police; your first duty will be to bring this matter to an end, and help me to tear to pieces the whole murderous web, your reward being that I will nominate you again minister of police. [Footnote: The appointment of Fouche as the chief of police took place in June of the year 1804.] I will fulfil my promise so soon as you shall have made good yours, and put me in possession of the chief conspirators."
"You have just arrested Moreau, general," replied Fouche, deferentially. "I give you my word that in a few hours Pichegru and Georges will be apprehended."
"You forget the chief person," cried Bonaparte, over whose brazen forehead a thunder-cloud seemed to pass. "You forget the caricature of buried royalty, the so-called King Louis XVII. Hush! I tell you I will have this man. I will draw out the fangs of this royal adder, so that he cannot bite any more! Bring the man before me. The republic is an angry goddess, and demands a royal offering. Give this impostor into my hands, or something worse will happen! Go, and I advise you to bring me, before the sun goes down, the tidings that this fabled King Louis is arrested, or the sun of your good fortune is set forever! Now away! Go out through the little corridor, and then through the secret gate-you know the way. Go!"
Fouche did not dare to contradict the imperative order, but softly and hastily moved toward the curtain which led to the gloomy anteroom, and thence through a door, which only those initiated knew how to open, and which led to the little corridor.
But scarcely had Fouche entered this little dismal room, when a hand was laid upon his arm, and a woman's voice whispered to him: "I must speak to you--at once! Come! this way!"
The hand drew him forward to the wall, a door sprang open without sound, and the voice whispered: "Four stairs down. Be careful!"
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{
"id": "3451"
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32
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JOSEPHINE.
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Fouche did not hesitate; he followed his guide down the little staircase, along the dark corridor, and up another short staircase. He had recognized the voice, and knew that his leader was no other than Josephine, the wife of the First Consul.
Through the secret door at the end of the corridor they entered a small and gloomy antechamber, exactly like the one which adjoined the cabinet of the consul, and from it Josephine ushered Fouche into her cabinet.
"You will say nothing to Bonaparte about this secret way, Fouche," said Josephine, with a gentle, supplicatory tone. "He does not know of it. I have had it made without his knowledge while he was in Boulogne last year. Will you swear to me that you will not reveal it?"
"I do swear, madame."
"God knows that I have not had it made out of curiosity to overhear Bonaparte," continued Josephine. "But it is necessary sometimes for me to know what is going on, and that when the general is angry I should hasten to him to calm him and turn aside his wrath. I have warded off many a calamity since this private way was opened, and I have been able to overhear Bonaparte. But what have I been compelled to listen to to-day! Oh, Fouche, it was God Himself who impelled me to listen! I was with him when you were announced, and I suspected that your visit purported something unusual, something dreadful. I have heard all, Fouche--all, I tell you! I know that his life is threatened, that fifty daggers are directed toward him. 0 God! this perpetual fear and excitement will kill me! I have no peace of mind, no rest more! Since the unhappy day when we left our dear little house to live in the Tuileries, since that day there has been an end to all joy! Why did we do it? why did we not remain in our little Luxembourg? why have we been persuaded to live in the palace of the kings?"
"It is proper for the greatest man in France to live in the house where the departed race of kings once had their home," replied Fouche.
"Oh, yes," sighed Josephine. "I know these tricks of speech, with which you have turned the head of my poor Bonaparte. Oh! you, you, his flatterer, you who urged him on, will bear the blame if misfortune breaks in upon us! You have intoxicated him with the incense of adulation; you pour into his veins daily and hourly the sweet poison which is to destroy our happiness and our peace! He was so good, so cheerful, so happy, my Bonaparte! He was contented with the laurels which victory laid upon his brow, but you continued to whisper in his ear that a crown would add new grace to his laurels. You flattered his ambition; and what was quietly sleeping at the bottom of his heart, and what I hushed with my kisses and with my hand, that you took all efforts to bring out into the light: his vanity--his love of power! Oh, Fouche! you are wicked, cruel, and pitiless! I hate, I abhor you all, for you are the murderers of my Bonaparte!"
She spoke all this softly, with quick breath, while the tears were streaming over her beautiful face, and her whole frame trembled with emotion. She then sank, wholly overcome, upon a lounge, and pressed her small hands, sparkling with jewels, over her eyes.
"Madame, you are unjust," replied Fouche, softly. "If you have overheard my conversation with the First Consul, you are aware that the direct object of my coming was to save him from murderers, and to insure his precious life."
"And, moreover, to pour into his ear the poison of a future imperial crown!" said Josephine, indignantly. "Oh, I know it! With talk of conspiracies and of daggers you urged him on. You want him to be an emperor, that you may be a prince or duke! I see it all, and I cannot prevent it, for he no longer listens to me, he no longer heeds the voice of his Josephine, only that of his ambitious flatterers, and he will put on the imperial crown and complete our misfortune! Oh! I knew it! This imperial crown will ruin us. It was prophesied to me in my youth that I should be an empress, but it was added that it would be for no long time. And yet I should like to live, and I should like to be happy still!"
"You will be so, madame," said Fouche, with a smile. "It is always good fortune to wear an imperial crown, and your beautiful head is worthy to bear one."
"No, no," she cried, angrily. "Do not try me with your flatteries! I am contented with being a beloved and happy wife; I desire no crown. The crowned heads that have dwelt in the Tuileries have become the prey of destruction, and the pearls of their diadems have been changed to tears! But what advantage is it that I should say all this to you? It is all in vain, in vain! I did not bring you to talk of this. It was something entirely different. Listen, Fouche, I cannot prevent Bonaparte's becoming an emperor, but you shall not make him a regicide! I will not suffer it! By Heaven, and all the holy angels, I will not suffer it!"
"I do not understand you, madame. I do not know what you mean."
"Oh, you understand me very well, Fouche. You know that I am speaking of King Louis XVII."
"Ah, madame, you are speaking of the impostor, who gives himself out to be the 'orphan of the Temple.' "
"He is it, Fouche. I know it, I am acquainted with the history of his flight. I was a prisoner in the Conciergerie at the same time with Toulan, the queen's loyal servant. He knew my devotion to the unhappy Marie Antoinette; he intrusted to me his secret of the dauphin's escape. Later, when I was released, Tallien and Barras confirmed the story of his flight, and informed me that he was secreted by the Prince de Conde. I have known it all, and I tell you I knew who Kleber's adjutant was; I inquired for him after he disappeared at the battle of Marengo, and when my agents told me that the young king died there, I wore mourning and prayed for him.
And, now that I learn that the son of my beautiful queen is still alive, shall I suffer him to die like a traitor? No, never! Fouche, I tell you I will never suffer it; I will not have this unfortunate young man sacrificed! You must save him--I will have it so!"
"I!" cried Fouche, in amazement. "But you know that it is impossible, for you have heard my conversation with the consul. He himself said, 'The republic demands a royal victim. If it is not this so-called King Louis, let it be the Duke d'Enghien, for a victim must fall, in order to intimidate the royalists, and bring peace at last."
"But I will not have you bring human victims," cried Josephine; "the republic shall no longer be a cruel Moloch, as it was in the days of the guillotine. You shall, and you must, save the son of Queen Marie Antoinette. I desire to have peace in my conscience, that I may live without reproach, and be happier perhaps than now."
"But it is impossible," insisted Fouche. "You have heard yourself that if, before the sun goes down, Louis be not imprisoned, the sun of my good fortune will have set."
"And I told you, Fouche, that if you do this--if you become a regicide a second time--I will be your unappeasable enemy your whole life long; I will undertake to avenge on you the death of the queen and her son; I will follow your every step with my hate, and will not rest till I have overthrown you. And you know well that Bonaparte loves me, that I have influence with him, and that what I mean to do, I accomplish at last by prayers, tears, and frowns. So do not exasperate me, Fouche; do not make me your irreconcilable enemy. Save the son of the king whom you killed, conciliate the shades of his unhappy parents. Fouche, we are in the cabinet of the queen! Here she often tarried, here she often pressed her son to her heart, and asked God's blessing on him. Fouche, the spirit of Marie Antoinette is with us, and she will know it if you in pity spare the life of her son. Marie Antoinette will accuse you at the throne of God, and plead with God to show you no compassion, if you refuse to be merciful to her son. Fouche, in the name of the queen--on my knees--I implore you, save her son!"
And Josephine, her face bathed in tears, sank before him and raised her folded hands suppliantly to Fouche. The minister, deeply moved, pale with the recollections which Josephine awakened within him, stooped down to her, and bade her arise; and when she refused, and begged and threatened, and wept, his obstinacy was at last touched, or perhaps his prudence, which counselled him to make a friend, rather than an enemy, out of the all-powerful wife of the future emperor.
"Rise, madame," he said. "What mortal is able to resist your requests, since Bonaparte himself cannot? I will save your protege, whatever shall come to me afterward from it."
She sprang up, and in the wildness of her joy threw her beautiful arms around Fouche's neck, and kissed him.
"Fouche," she said, "I give you this kiss in the name of Queen Marie Antoinette. It is a kiss of forgiveness, and of blessing. You swear to me that you will save him?"
"I swear it, madame!"
"And I swear to you that as soon as he is saved, and Bonaparte's anger can no longer reach him, I will confess all to my husband, and put it in such a Light that Bonaparte shall thank and reward you. Now tell me, how you will save him."
"I shall only be able if you will help me, madame."
"I am ready for any thing--that you know well. Tell me what I shall do."
"You must yourself direct a few lines to the young man, conjuring him in the name of his mother to fly, to save himself from the anger of the First Consul--to leave Europe."
"Oh! Fouche, how sly you are!" said Josephine, sadly.
"You want my handwriting, in order to justify yourself to the First Consul in case of emergency, very good. I will write the billet."
She hastened to her table, dashed a few words upon paper, and then passed the note to Fouche. "Read it," she said; "it contains all that is necessary, does it not?"
"Yes, madame; and you have written in such beautiful and moving words, that the young man will be melted, and will obey you. Will you now have the goodness to put the note in an envelope and to address it?"
She folded it, and put it into an envelope. "To whom shall I address it?" she then asked.
"Address it to King Louis XVII."
She did so with a quick stroke of the pen and handed the letter to Fouche. "Take it," she said, "it is your justification. And in order that you may be entirely secure," she continued, with a slight smile, "retain this letter yourself. What I would say to this young man I would rather communicate by word of mouth."
"How," cried Fouche, " you want--" "To see and speak with the king," she said, sorrowfully, "to beg his forgiveness for myself and Bonaparte. Hush! do not oppose me, I am resolved upon it. I want to see the young man."
"But he cannot come here, madame--here, into the very den of the lion."
"No, not here, into the desecrated palace of the kings," she answered, bitterly. "No, he cannot come here--I shall go to him."
"You are jesting, madame, it is impossible. You, the wife of the First Consul, you will--" "I want to fulfil a duty of gratitude and of loyalty, Fouche. In my heart I still feel myself the subject of the queen. Let me follow the call of my heart! Listen! My carriage stands ready. I was intending to drive to my friend Madame Tallien. I will take a pleasure-drive instead. In the Bois de Boulogne I will cause the carriage to stop, send it away, and return on foot. You will await in there with a fiacre and take me to the king."
"It shall be so," said Fouche. "Your will shall be my law. I only ask that you hasten, for you know well that I have much to do to- day. I shall take advantage of the time to procure for the young man the necessary passports for travel. But, madame, you must help him leave the city. For you know that the gates are all closed."
"I will tell Bonaparte that I am troubled to be in the city, now that it is so shut in. I will drive out to St. Cloud. His carriage can follow mine, and if the gate-keeper puts hinderances in the way, I will command him to let Louis pass. Now let us hasten!"
An hour later Josephine, after dismissing her equipage with the servants, entered the fiacre which was waiting for her near the fountain. Fouche received her there, and was unwearied in his complaints of the poor carriage which the wife of the First Consul must use.
Josephine smiled, "My dear sir," she said, "there have been times when I should have been very proud and very happy to have had such a fiacre as this, and not to have been compelled to walk through the muddy streets of Paris. Let it be as it is! The present days of superfluity have not made me proud, and I have a vivid recollection of the past. But tell me, Fouche, whither are we driving, and where does the young king live?"
"We are driving, if you graciously approve of it, to my house, and I have brought the young man there, for in his own house he is no longer safe. I have had it surrounded by agents of the secret police, with orders to arrest him on his return. He will, of course, not return, and it will be easier to assume the appearance that he received an intimation of his peril and escaped in season. But here we are before my door, and if you will draw the thick veil which happily you have fastened to your bonnet, carefully before your face, I hope that no one will see that the most beautiful lady in Paris honors my house with her distinguished presence."
Josephine made no reply to this flattery, but drew the black lace veil closely over her face, and hastened to leave the fiacre, and entered the house.
"Fouche," she whispered, as she ascended the staircase, "my heart beats as violently as it did when I drove to the Tuileries to be presented to Marie Antoinette. It was the first time that I spoke with the Queen of France."
"And now, madame," said Fouche, with a smile, "you will speak with the last King of France."
"Does he know who I am?"
"No, madame; I have left it to you to inform him. Here we are at the saloon--he is within!"
"Wait only a moment, Fouche. I must collect myself. My heart beats dreadfully. Now, now you may open the door!"
They entered the little saloon. Josephine stood still near the door, and while she hastily removed her bonnet and the thick veil and handed them to Fouche, her large, brilliant, brown eyes were turned to the young man who stood in the window-niche, his hands calmly folded over his breast. In this attitude, with the calm look of his face, the gentle glance of his blue eyes, he bore so close a resemblance to the pictures which represented Louis XVI. in his youth, that Josephine could not repress a cry of surprise, and hastened forward to the young man, who now advanced out of the window recess. "Madame," he said, bowing low before this beautiful and dignified lady whom he did not know, but whose sympathizing face made his heart tremble--"madame, doubtless you are the lady whom M. Fouche said I might expect to meet here."
"Yes, I am she," replied Josephine, with a voice trembling with emotion, her eyes, flooded with tears, all the while being fixed on the grave, youthful face which brought back so many memories of the past. "I have come to see you and to bring you the greetings of a man whom you loved, who revered you, and who died blessing you."
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Louis, turning pale.
"Men called him Toulan," whispered Josephine. "Queen Marie Antoinette termed him Fidele."
"Fidele!" cried Louis, in a tone of anguish. "Fidele is dead! --my deliverer, he whose fidelity and bravery released me from my dreadful prison. Oh, madame, what sad thoughts do you bring back with his name!"
Josephine turned with a triumphant look to Fouche, who was still standing behind her in the neighborhood of the door. Her look said, "You see he is no traitor, he has stood the proof."
Fouche understood the language of this look perfectly, and a smile played over his features. Then Josephine turned again to the young man.
"You did not know that Toulan was dead?" she asked, softly.
"How could I know it?" he cried, bitterly. "I was taken at that time to a solitary castle, where I remained several years, and then I went to Germany, and from that time I have always lived in foreign parts. Since I have been in Paris I have made the effort to learn something about him, but no one could inform me, and so I solaced myself with the hope that he had really gone to America, for that was his object, as the other gentleman who assisted me in my release informed me at that time."
"This other gentleman," said Josephine, softly, "was the Baron de Jarjayes, and the child who was carried into the Temple was the--" "The son of the Count de Frotte," rejoined Louis.
"Fouche, it is he!" cried Josephine. "It is the son of my noble, unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette. --Oh, sire, let me testify my homage to you, as becomes a subject when she stands before her king. Sire, I bow my knee before you, and I would gladly pour out my whole life in tears, and with each of these tears beg your forgiveness for France, for us all."
And the beautiful, passionate creole sank upon her knee, and raised her tearful eyes to the young man who, perplexed and blushing, gazed at her, then hastily stooped to her and conjured her to rise.
"Not, sire," she cried, "until you tell me that you have forgiven me--that you have forgiven us all."
"I forgive you? What have I to forgive in you? Monsieur Fouche, who is this lady who knows me and my destinies, and who brings me greetings from Fidele? What have I to forgive in her? Who is she? Tell me her name?"
"Monsieur," said Fouche, slowly approaching, "this lady is--" "Hush! Fouche, I will tell him myself," interrupted Josephine. "Sire, when your beautiful, exalted mother was still living in Versailles, I had the honor to be presented to her, both at the grand receptions and at the minor ones. One day--it was already in the unhappy Reign of Terror--when the queen had left Versailles and Trianon, and was already living in the Tuileries, I went thither to pay my respects."
"That is to say, madame," cried Louis, "you were a brave and loyal woman, for only the brave and the loyal ventured then to go to the Tuileries. Oh, speak on! speak on! You wanted to pay your respects to the queen, you were saying; she received you, did she not? You were taken into the little saffron saloon?"
"No, sire, the queen was not there, she was in the little music- hall; and, because at that time etiquette was no longer rigidly enforced, I was allowed to accompany the Marchioness de Tourzel into the music-room. The queen did not notice our entrance, for she was singing. I remained standing at the door, and contemplated the wondrous picture that I saw there. The queen, in a simple white dress, her light brown, slightly powdered hair concealed by a black lace head-dress, sat at the spinet on which her white hands rested. Near her in the window-niche sat madame, engaged with her embroidery. Very near her sat, in a little arm-chair, a boy of five years, a lovely child, with long golden locks, with large blue eyes, and looking like an angel. The little hands, surrounded by lace wristbands, leaned on the support of the chair, while his looks rested incessantly upon the countenance of the queen, and his whole child's soul was absorbed in the gaze which he directed to his mother. The queen was singing, and the tones of her soulful voice resound still in my heart. The song was this: 'Dors, mon enfant, clos ta paupiere, Tes cris me dechirent le coeur: Dors, mon enfant, ta pauvre mere A bien assez de sa douleur.'
And while she sang she turned her head toward her son, who listened to her motionless and as if enchanted. 'See,' cried madame, the sister of the pretty boy, 'I believe Louis Charles has fallen asleep.' The child started up, and a glowing redness suffused his cheeks. 'Oh! Theresa,' he cried, 'how could any one go to sleep when my mamma queen was singing'?' His mother stooped down to him, pressed a long kiss upon his brow, and a tear fell from her eyes upon his golden hair. I saw it, and involuntarily my eyes filled; I could not hold back my tears, aud went softly out to compose myself. Sire, I see you still before me--this beautiful queen and her children--and it is with me to-day as then, I must weep."
"And I! --oh, my God! --and I!" whispered Louis, putting both his hands before his quivering face. Even Fouche seemed moved, his lips trembled and his cheeks grew pale.
A long pause ensued. Nothing was heard but the convulsive sobbing of the young man, who still held his hands before his face, and wept so violently that the tears poured down in heavy drops between his fingers.
"Sire," cried Josephine, with supplicatory voice--" sire, by the recollection of that hour, I conjure you, forgive me that I now live in those rooms which Marie Antoinette once inhabited. Ah! it has not been my wish, and I have done it only with pain and grief. Believe me, sire, and forgive me that I have been compelled to live in the palace of the kings."
He took his hands from his face, and gazed at her.
"You live in the Tuileries? Who are you? Madame, who are you?"
"Sire, I was formerly Viscountess Beauharnais; now I am--" "The wife of the First Consul!" exclaimed the prince, drawing back in terror--" the wife of him who is pursuing me, and who, as Fouche says, means to bring me to the scaffold."
"Oh, sire, forgive him!" implored Josephine; "he is not wicked, he is not cruel; but circumstances compel him to act as he does. God Himself, it would seem, has chosen him to restore, with his heroic sword and his heroic spirit, peace and prosperity to this unfortunate land, bleeding from a thousand wounds. He was the savior of France, and the grateful nation hailed him with paeans, and full of confidence laid the reins of government in his hands. Through his victories and his administration of affairs, France has again grown strong and great and happy; and yet he is daily threatened by assassins, yet there are continual conspiracies whose aim is to murder the man to whom France is indebted for its new birth. What wonder that he at last, to put an end to these conspiracies, and these attempts upon his life, will, by a deed of horror, inspire the conspirators with fear? He is firmly resolved on this. The lion has been aroused from his calmness by new conspiracies, and the shaking of his mane will this time annihilate all who venture to conspire against him. Sire, I do not accuse you; I do not say that you do wrongly to make every attempt to regain the inheritance of your fathers. May God judge between you and your enemies! But your enemies have the power in their hands, and you must yield to that power. Oh, my dear, unfortunate, pitiable lord, I conjure you, save yourself from the anger of the First Consul, and from the pursuers who have been sent out to seek you. If you are found, you are lost, and no one in the world will then be able to save you. Fly, therefore--fly, while there is still time!"
"Fly!" cried the young prince, bitterly, "evermore fly! My whole life is a perpetual flight, a continuous concealment. Like the Wandering Jew, I must journey from land to land--nowhere can I rest, nowhere find peace. Without a home, without parents, without a name, I wander around, and, like a hunted wild beast, I must continually start afresh, for the hounds are close behind me. Well, be it so, then; I am weary of defying my fate longer; I surrender myself to what is inevitable. The First Consul may send me as a conspirator to the scaffold. I am prepared to die. I shall find that peace in death at least that life so cruelly denies me. I will not fly--I will remain. The example of my parents will teach me how to die."
"Oh, speak not so!" exclaimed Josephine. "Have pity on me, have pity on yourself. You are still so young, life has so much for you yet, there remains so much to you yet to hope for. You must live, not to avenge the death of your illustrious parents, but to make its memory less poignant. Son of kings, you have received life from God, and from your parents, you may not lightly throw it away, but must defend it, for the blessing of your mother rests upon your head, which you must save from the scaffold."
"You must live," said Fouche, "for your death would bring joy to those who were the bitter enemies of Queen Marie Antoinette, and who would be your mocking heirs. Will you grant to the Count de Lille the uncontested right of calling himself Louis XVIII. ? --the Count de Lille, who caused Marie Antoinette to shed so many tears."
The prince flamed up at this, and his eyes flashed.
"No," he cried, "the Count de Lille shall not have this joy. He shall not rest his curse-laden head upon the pillow with the calm consciousness that he will be the king of the future. My vision shall disturb his sleep, and the possibility that I shall return and demand my own again, shall be the terror that shall keep peace far from him. You are right, madame, I must live. The spirit of Marie Antoinette hovers over me, and demands that I live, and by my life avenge her of her most bitter enemy. Let it be so, then. Tell me, Fouche, whither shall I go? Where shall the poor criminal hide himself, whose only offence lies in this, that he is alive, and that he is the son of his father? Where is there a cave in which the poor hunted game can hide himself from the hounds?"
"Sire, you must away, away into foreign lands. The arm of the First Consul is powerful, and his eagle eye scans all Europe, and would discover you at any point."
"You must for the present find a home beyond the sea," said Fouche, approaching nearer. "I have already taken measures which will allow you to do so. There are ships sailing southward from Marseilles every day, and in one of these you must go to America. America is the land of freedom, of adventures, and of great deeds. You will there find sufficient occupation for your spirit and for your love of work."
"It is true," said Louis, with a bitter smile; "I will go to America. I will find a refuge with the savages. Perhaps they will appoint me as their chieftain, and adorn my head with a crown of feathers instead of the crown of gold. Yes, I will go to America, In the primeval forests, with the children of nature, there will be a home for the exile, the homeless one. Madame, I thank you for your sympathy and your goodness, and my thanks shall consist in this, that I subject myself wholly to your will. You loved Queen Marie Antoinette. A blessing on you, and all who love you."
He extended both his hands to Josephine, and, as she was about to press them to her lips, he stooped toward her with a sad smile.
"Madame, bless my poor brow with the touch of those lips which once kissed the hand of my mother."
Josephine did as she was asked, and a tear fell from her eyes upon his fair hair.
"Go, sire," she said, "and may God bless and protect you! If you ever need my help, call upon me, and be sure that I will never neglect your voice."
An hour later the wife of the First Consul drove out to St. Cloud. At the corner of the Rue St. Honore a second carriage joined her own, and a young man who sat in it greeted Josephine deferentially as she leaned far out of the carriage to return his salute.
At the barriers the carriage stopped, for the gates of the city were still closed. But Josephine beckoned the officer of the guard to her carriage, and, fortunately, he knew the wife of the First Consul.
"It is not necessary," said Josephine, with a charming smile, "it is not necessary that I should procure a permit from the First Consul to allow myself and my escort to pass the gate? You do not suppose that I and my secretary, who sits in the next carriage, belong to the villains who threaten the life of my husband?"
The officer, enchanted with the grace of Josephine, bowed low, and commanded the guard instantly to open the gate and allow the two carriages to pass.
And so the son of the queen was saved. For the second time he left Paris, to go forth as an exile and an adventurer to meet his fate.
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{
"id": "3451"
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33
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AFTER LONG WANDERINGS.
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For the city of Paris the 16th of February, 1804, was a day of terror. The gates remained closed the whole day, military patrols passed through the streets, at whose corners the proclamations were posted, by which Murat, the governor of Paris, announced to the city that fifty assassins were within the walls, intent on taking the life of the First Consul.
The condemned surgeon, Querolle, had, meantime, made his confession, and named the heads of the conspiracy and their accomplices, and, only after all the persons mentioned by him were arrested, were the gates of the city opened.
A great trial then commenced of the men who had been sent by the Bourbons for this nefarious purpose. Among the accused were General Pichegru, the abettor of Georges, and General Moreau, the most prominent of all.
The history of this trial was enveloped in obscurity, and it was faintly whispered that Pichegru had taken his own life in prison, and more faintly yet was it rumored that he was secretly dispatched in prison. And then, on one of these days, there were to be seen through all Paris only pale, sad faces, and a murmur of horror ran through all the streets and all the houses.
The story was current that the Duke d'Enghien, the grandson of the Prince de Conde, had been arrested by French soldiers at Baden, beyond the frontier, and had been brought to Vincennes; that he was accused there that same night of being an accomplice in a plot to take the life of the First Consul, and to disturb the peace of the republic; that he was quickly condemned by a court-martial, and shot before morning within the fortress of Vincennes.
The report was only too true. Bonaparte had kept his word; he had sacrificed a royal victim to the threatened cause of the republic; he would, by one deed of horror, fill the conspirators with fear, and cause them to abandon their bloody plans.
The means employed were cruel, but the end was reached which Bonaparte hoped to attain, and thenceforth there were no more conspiracies against the life of the First Consul, who, on the 18th of May, that same year, declared himself emperor.
A few days after this, the public trial of the accused began, which Fouche attended as the reinstalled minister of police, and over which Regnier presided in his new capacity of chief judge.
Seventeen of those indicted were condemned to death, others to years of imprisonment, and among these was General Moreau. But the popular voice declared itself so loudly and energetically for the brave general of the republic, that it was considered expedient to heed it. Moreau was released from prison, and went to the Spanish frontier, whence he sailed to North America.
On the 25th of June, twelve of the conspirators, Georges at their head, were executed; the other five, who had been condemned to death, had their sentence commuted to banishment.
The gentle, kind-hearted Josephine viewed all these things with sadness, for her power over the heart of her husband was waning, and the sun of her glory had set. Her prayers and tears had no longer a prevailing influence over Bonaparte, and she had not been able to avert the death of the Duke d'Enghien.
"I have tried all means," she said, with tears, to Bourrienne, the chief secretary of the emperor; "I wanted at any cost to turn him aside from his dreadful intention. He had not apprised me of it, but you know in what way I learned it. At my request he confessed to me his purpose, but he was steeled against my prayers. I clang to him, I fell on my knees before him. 'Do not meddle with what is none of your business!' he cried, angrily, as he pushed me away from him. 'These are not women's affairs--leave me in peace.' And so I had to let the worst come, and could do nothing to hinder it. But afterward, when all was over, Bonaparte was deeply affected, and for several days he remained sad and silent, and scolded me no more when he found me in tears." [Footnote: Bourrienne, "Memoires du Consulat et de l'Empire."]
The days passed by, the days of splendor, and then followed for Josephine the days of misery and grief. Repelled by Napoleon, she mourned four years over her spurned love and her ruined fortunes; but then, when Napoleon's star went down, when he was robbed of his imperial crown and compelled to leave France, Josephine's heart broke, and she hid herself in her grave, in order not to witness Napoleon's humiliation.
And thus the empire was abolished, and the Count de Lille called back by foreign potentates, and not by the French nation, in order, as Louis XVIII., to reerect the throne of the Lilies.
And where, all this time, was the son of Queen Marie Antoinette? Where was Louis XVII. ?
He had kept his word which he gave to Josephine. He had gone to the primeval forests and to the savages, and they had given him a crown of feathers and made him their king. [Footnote: "Memoires du Due de Normandie," pp. 89-102.] For years he lived among them, honored as their king, loved as their hero. Then a longing for his country seized him, and going to Brazil in the service of his people, he made use of the opportunity to enter into a contract with Don Juan, and not return to his copper-colored tribe. The precious treasure which he possessed, his papers, he had been able to preserve during all the journeys and amid all the perils of his life, and these papers procured him a hospitable and honorable reception with Don Juan. From him the king without name or inheritance learned the changes that had meanwhile taken place in France, and, at the first opportunity which offered, he returned to Europe, arriving at Paris in the middle of the year 1816.
The Prince de Conde, now the Duke de Bourbon, received the wanderer with tenderness, but with deep regret, for now it was too late, and his hope for a restoration of the returning prince could rest on no basis. The Count de Provence was now King Louis XVIII., and never would he descend from his throne to give back to the son of Marie Antoinette that crown which he wore with so much satisfaction and pride.
Much more simple and easy was it to treat the pretender as a lunatic or as an adventurer, and to set his claims aside forever. Useless were all the letters which the Baron de Richemont, the name that Louis still bore, addressed to his uncle the king, to his sister the Duchess de Angouleme, imploring them for an interview. No answer was received. No audience was granted to this adventurer, whose claims could not be recognized without dethroning Louis XVIII., and destroying the prospects of the crown for the duchess's son, the Duke de Berri. Louis XVII. had died and he could not return to the living. He saw it, he knew it, and a deep sorrow took possession of him. But he rose above it--he would not die; he would live, a terror and an avenger to his cruel relatives.
But it was a restless life that the son of the queen must lead, in order to protect himself from the daggers of his powerful enemies. The Prince de Conde conjured him to secure himself against the attacks which were made more than once upon the Baron de Richemont, and Louis gave heed to his requests and tears. He travelled abroad; but after returning in two years from a journey in Asia and Africa, on landing on the Italian coast, he was arrested in 1818, at the instigation of the Austrian ambassador at Mantua, and confined in the prison of Milan.
Seven years the unhappy prince spent in the Austrian prison, without once being summoned before a judge--seven years of solitude, of darkness, and of want. But the son of Marie Antoinette had learned in his youth to bear these things, and his prison-life in Milan was not so cruel as that in the Temple under Simon. Here there were at least sympathizing souls who pitied him; even the turnkeys of the prison were courteous and kind when they entered the cell of the "King of France;" and one day, beyond the wall of his apartment, was heard a voice singing, in gentle, melodious tones, a romanza which Louis had composed, and written on the wall when he occupied the neighboring cell.
This voice, which sounded like a greeting from the world, was that of Silvio Pellico. The celebrated author of "Le Mie Prigioni," relates in touching words this salutation of his neighbor: "My bed was carried," he said, "into the new cell that was prepared for me, and as soon as the inspectors had left me alone, my first care was to examine the walls. There were to be seen there some words, recollections of the past, written with chalk, with pencil, or with a sharp tool. I found there also two pretty French lines, which I am sorry I did not copy. I began to sing them to my melody of 'The Poor Mugdalen,' when a voice near me responded with another air. When the singer ended, I called out, 'Bravo!' He replied with a polite salutation, and asked me if I was French. " 'No, I am Italian, and am called Silvio Pellico.' " 'The author of Francesca da Rimini?' " 'Yes, the same.'
"And now there followed a courtly compliment, with the usual regrets for my imprisonment. He asked in what part of Italy I was born, and when I told him in Saluzzo, in Piedmont, he awarded the Piedmontese some words of high praise, and spoko particularly of Bodoni (a celebrated printer, director of the national printing establishment at Parma). His compliments were brief and discriminating, and disclosed a finely cultivated mind. " 'And now, sir,' said I, 'allow me to ask you who you are.' " 'You were just singing a song that I wrote.' " 'These pretty verses here upon the wall, are they yours?' " 'Yes, they are.' " 'You are therefore--' "'The Duke de Normandie.'
"The watchman was just then walking past my window and so I was still. After some time we resumed our conversation. When I asked whether he was Louis XVII., he responded in the affirmative, and began to declaim hotly against Louis XVIII. his uncle, the usurper of his rights.
"I implored him to give me his history in brief outlines. He did so, and related to me all the details connected with the life of Louis XVII., which I knew only in part. He told me how he had been imprisoned with Simon the cobbler, been compelled to sign a calumniating charge against his mother, etc. He then related to me the story of his escape and his flight to America, of his return to reclaim the throne of his fathers, and his arrest in Mantua.
"He portrayed his history with extraordinary life. All the incidents of the French Revolution were present before him; he spoke with natural eloquence, and wove in piquant anecdotes very apropos. His manner of expression smacked once in a while of the soldier, but there was no lack of the elegance that disclosed his intercourse with good society. " 'Will you allow me,' I asked him, 'to treat you as a friend and leave off all titles?' " 'I want exactly that, 'he answered. 'Misfortune has taught me the good lesson to despise all the vanities of earth. Believe me, my pride does not lie in this, that I am a king, but that I am a man.'
"After this we had long conversations mornings and evenings, and I recognized in him a noble, beautiful soul, sensitive to all that is good. He knew how to win hearts, and even the turnkeys were kind to him. One of them said to me on coming from the cell of my neighbor: 'I have strong hopes that he will make me chief porter when he is king; I have had the boldness to ask him for the position, and he has promised it.'
"To the veneration of the turnkeys for the king of the future I owe it that one day when I was led to trial, and had to pass by his cell, they opened the doors that I might see my illustrious friend. He was of medium size, from forty to forty-five years of age, somewhat embonpoint, and had a thoroughly Bourbon physiognomy." [Footnote: Silvio Pellico, "Le Mie Prigioni," p. 51 et seq. An examination of Silvio Pellico's work will convince the reader that Silvio Pellico was by no means a believer in the genuineness of his companion's claims. Miss Muhlbach seems to have been scarcely just in leaving the impression conveyed in the text.-TB.]
After seven years of imprisonment, the gates opened at last for the Baron de Richemont; and he who had been placed there without the sentence of a judge, was released with as little show of authority. The son of the queen was free again; the death of King Louis XVIII. had restored him to the walks of men. But another King of France assumed his place at once; the Count d'Artois ascended the throne under the title of Charles X.
The poor Baron de Richemont bore his sorrows and his humiliation into the valleys of Switzerland. But when, in the year 1830, King Charles X. abdicated the throne, the son of Marie Antoinette again came forth from his solitude, issued a proclamation to the French people, and, in the presence of all Europe, demanded his inheritance.
Yet, amid the clash of weapons and the roar of revolutions, the voice of the unfortunate prince was overborne. He had no soldiers, no cannon, to enforce silence and make himself be heard. But the Duke d'Orleans, Louis Philippe, had soldiers and cannon; and the arms of his dependants, and the magic of his wealth, placed him upon the throne in July, 1830. [Footnote: It was the 9th of August. --Tr.]
The poor Baron de Richemont, the son of kings, the last of the Bourbons in France, had now a single friend, who, perhaps, would receive him. This friend was the Duke de Bourbon--Conde, now an old man of eighty years. One day, some weeks after the accession of Louis Philippe, the Duke de Bourbon received at his palace of St. Leu a gentleman whom nobody knew, who announced himself as the Baron de Richemont.
The duke went out into the anteroom, greeted his guest with the greatest deference, and led him into his cabinet. There the two gentlemen carried on a long and earnest conversation, and the secretary of the duke, who was at work in the library hard by, distinctly heard his master say, with trembling tones: "Sire, I implore you, forgive me. The circumstances were stronger than my will. Sire, go not into judgment with me--forgive me."
To this an angry voice replied: "No, I will not forgive you, for you have dealt perfidiously with the son, as you did once with the mother! You have not redeemed the oath that you once gave me. I leave you. May God be gracious to you, and pardon you. Take care that He does not punish you for the treachery that you have shown to me. You swore that you would acknowledge no other king but me, and yet you have taken your oath to the third king. Farewell! May the Almighty protect you! We shall see each other, perhaps, in a better world, and there you will have to give your account to a Judge whom nothing can mitigate. Be happy, and may the dead sleep in peace!" [Footnote: The very words of Richemont. --See "Memoires du Duc de Normandie," p. 243.]
The secretary then heard the forcible closing of a door, and all became still. After an hour he entered the duke's cabinet, because the silence troubled him. The old duke sat in his arm-chair, pale, and gazing with constant looks at the door through which the stranger had departed. He was reticent the whole day, and in the night following his valet heard him softly praying and weeping. On the next morning, August 27th, 1830, on entering the sleeping-room of his master, he found him dead and already rigid. The duke had hanged himself at the window of his own room.
The last dependant of the unhappy king, who still bore the name of the pretender, was dead, as were all his relations, including his sister, the Duchess d'Angouleme.
But from the dead there came a greeting. She had ordered a large sum to be paid yearly to the Baron de Richemont, and the report was that she had wished to recognize him on her death-bed as her brother. But her confessor had counselled her that such a recognition would introduce new contentions among the Bourbons, and give the pretender Henry V. equal claims with Louis XVII.
Yet the Duke de Normandie was not silent; he spoke so loudly of his rights that Louis Philippe at last held it advisable to arrest him and bring him to trial. The preliminary investigation continued fifteen months; then he was brought before the court, and accused of conspiracy against the safety of the state.
The Gazette des Tribunaux of the 3d, 4th, and 5th of November, 1834, gave the details of this trial. Spectators poured in from all sides, and also, in an unexpected manner, witnesses who declared themselves ready to prove the identity of the Baron de Richemont with the Duke de Normandie, son of Louis XVI. The accused appeared entirely calm and dignified before the bar, and when the counsel for the government accused him of appropriating a name that did not belong to him, he asked quietly, "Gentlemen, if I am not Louis XVII., will you tell me who I am?"
No one knew how to reply to this question; but many eminent legitimists had come to solemnly declare that the accused was in truth their king, and that he was the rescued orphan of the Temple.
Even the president of the court seemed to be convinced of this, and his closing words in addressing the jury were these: "Gentlemen, who is the accused who stands before you to-day? What is his name, his lineage, his family? What are his antecedents, his whole history? Is he an instrument of the enemies of France, or is he, much more, an unfortunate who has miraculously escaped the horrors of a bloody revolution, and, laid under bans by his birth, has now no name and no refuge for his head?"
The jury, however, were not called upon to answer this question; they had simply to reply to the question whether the accused was guilty of a conspiracy against the state. This they answered with a "Guilty," and condemned the accused to an imprisonment of twelve years.
The Duke de Normandie, or King Louis Charles, as we may choose to call him, was taken to St. Pelagic; but during the next year, through the assistance of powerful friends, which his trial had gained over to him, he was released from prison, and again spent some quiet years in Switzerland.
Then came the year 1848, the year of revolutions, whose storm-waves drove Louis Philippe to England, never to ascend again the throne of France.
Again Louis Charles issued from his solitude, and this time not alone. A swarm of rich and powerful legitimists thronged around him, a journal--L'Iflexible--was secured to the interests of the Duke do Normandie, and La Vendee, with a thousand loyal voices, summoned King Louis XVII. to herself. There, as he was on the point of hastening to his faithful ones, God laid his hand upon him and held him back; a stroke of paralysis crippled his limbs. After recovering from this attack, the strength of his mind was taken away, and the decided, fiery, indefatigable pretender became a gentle, pious monk, who fasted and prayed, and wandered to Rome to have an interview with Pope Pius IX., and received absolution from him for all his sins.
The pope met the Duke de Normandie at Gaeta on the 20th of February, 1849, and had a long and secret conversation with him; and, when Louis Charles withdrew, it was as a quiet, pious, smiling man, who never denied his high extraction, but who had no longer a wish to be restored to the inheritance of his fathers. More and more he withdrew from the world, and lived only in the circle of a few noble-born legitimists, who never addressed him excepting as "sire." He accepted the title as one that was his due, and never refused it even when approached by many adherents of the new Napoleonic dynasty. At that time he wrote to his friends: "You ask me what I wish, what the end of my struggle is, which has now lasted more than a half century? I will tell you. You do not suppose, I trust, that I am still determined to ascend the throne of France: to do this would be a great misfortune for me, but it would certainly be a greater one for France, and it would rightly be said of both of us that we merit our misfortune; still less do I hope to attain to wealth and high station by being recognized. You know that I need very little for my support, and that this little is amply provided for. What else should I strive for? To avenge myself? My friend, I am at an age when the blood flows slower through the veins, and when one finds an inexpressible charm in forgiving. What, then, do I wish? What could I have? Why do I incessantly strive? This is the reason, my friend: I should like, before my death, to convince all who have disinterestedly believed in me, that it is not a political adventurer, but the royal 'orphan of the Temple,' who owes them his friendship, and gives them his gratitude."
And this last goal of his life was within his reach. The friends and legitimists who surrounded him believed in him, and when he died his dependants and servants mourned for him as for a departed king. They bore him with solemn pomp to his grave, at the dead of night.
Some fifty persons followed his coffin, and a priest went before it. He was buried in the churchyard of Villefranche, and his tombstone bears the following inscription: Here rests Louis Charles of France Born at Versailles, March 27, 1785. Died in the Chateau of Vaux-Renaud, August 10, 1858.
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{
"id": "3451"
}
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1
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CHOOSING A CONFESSOR.
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It was in the year 1543. King Henry the Eighth of England that day once more pronounced himself the happiest and most enviable man in his kingdom, for to-day he was once more a bridegroom, and Catharine Parr, the youthful widow of Baron Latimer, had the perilous happiness of being selected as the king’s sixth consort.
Merrily chimed the bells of all the steeples of London, announcing to the people the commencement of that holy ceremony which sacredly bound Catharine Parr to the king as his sixth wife. The people, ever fond of novelty and show, crowded through the streets toward the royal palace to catch a sight of Catharine, when she appeared at her husband’s side upon the balcony, to show herself to the English people as their queen, and to receive their homage in return.
Surely it was a proud and lofty success for the widow of a petty baron to become the lawful wife of the King of England, and to wear upon her brow a royal crown! But yet Catharine Parr’s heart was moved with a strange fear, her cheeks were pale and cold, and before the altar her closely compressed lips scarcely had the power to part, and pronounce the binding “I will.”
At last the sacred ceremony was completed. The two spiritual dignitaries, Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, and Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, then, in accordance with court etiquette, led the young bride into her apartments, in order to bless them, and once more to pray with her, before the worldly festivities should begin.
Catharine, however, pale and agitated, had yet sustained her part in the various ceremonies of the day with a true queenly bearing and dignity; and, as now with head proudly erect and firm step, she walked with a bishop at either side through the splendid apartments, no one suspected how heavy a burden weighed upon her heart, and what baleful voices were whispering in her breast.
Followed by her new court, she had traversed with her companions the state apartments, and now reached the inner rooms. Here, according to the etiquette of the time, she must dismiss her court, and only the two bishops and her ladies of honor were permitted to accompany the queen into the drawing-room. But farther than this chamber even the bishops themselves might not follow her. The king himself had written down the order for the day, and he who swerved from this order in the most insignificant point would have been proclaimed guilty of high treason, and perhaps have been led out to death.
Catharine, therefore, turned with a languid smile to the two high ecclesiastics, and requested them to await here her summons. Then beckoning to her ladies of honor, she withdrew into her boudoir.
The two bishops remained by themselves in the drawing-room. The circumstance of their being alone seemed to impress them both alike and unpleasantly; for a dark scowl gathered on the brows of both, and they withdrew, as if at a concerted signal, to the opposite sides of the spacious apartment.
A long pause ensued. Nothing was heard save the regular ticking of a large clock of rare workmanship which stood over the fireplace, and from the street afar off, the rejoicing of the people, who surged toward the palace like a roaring sea.
Gardiner had stepped to the window, and was looking up with his peculiar dark smile at the clouds which, driven by the tempest, were sweeping across the heavens.
Cranmer stood by the wall on the opposite side, and sunk in sad thoughts, was contemplating a large portrait of Henry the Eighth, the masterly production of Holbein. As he gazed on that countenance, indicative at once of so much dignity and so much ferocity; as he contemplated those eyes which shone with such gloomy severity, those lips on which was a smile at once voluptuous and fierce, there came over him a feeling of deep sympathy with the young woman whom he had that day devoted to such splendid misery. He reflected that he had, in like manner, already conducted two wives of the king to the marriage altar, and had blessed their union. But he reflected, too, that he had also, afterward, attended both these queens when they ascended the scaffold.
How easily might this pitiable young wife of the king fall a victim to the same dark fate! How easily might Catharine Parr, like Anne Boleyn and Catharine Howard, purchase her short-lived glory with an ignominious death! At any time an inconsiderate word, a look, a smile, might be her ruin. For the king’s choler and jealousy were incalculable, and, to his cruelty, no punishment seemed too severe for those by whom he fancied himself injured.
Such were the thoughts which occupied Bishop Cranmer. They softened him, and caused the dark wrinkles to disappear from his brow.
He now smiled to himself at the ill-humor which he had felt shortly before, and upbraided himself for having been so little mindful of his holy calling, and for having exhibited so little readiness to meet his enemy in a conciliating spirit.
For Gardiner was his enemy; that Cranmer very well knew. Gardiner had often enough showed him this by his deeds, as he had also taken pains by his words to assure him of his friendship.
But even if Gardiner hated him, it did not therefore follow that Cranmer was obliged to return that hatred; that he should denominate him his enemy, whom he, in virtue of their mutual high calling, was bound to honor and love as his brother.
The noble Cranmer was, therefore, ashamed of his momentary ill-humor. A gentle smile lighted up his peaceful countenance. With an air at once dignified and friendly, he crossed the room and approached the Bishop of Winchester.
Lord Gardiner turned toward him with morose looks, and, without advancing from the embrasure of the window in which he was standing, waited for Cranmer to advance to him. As he looked into that noble, smiling countenance, he had a feeling as if he must raise his fist and dash it into the face of this man, who had the boldness to wish to be his equal, and to contend with him for fame and honor.
But he reflected in good time that Cranmer was still the king’s favorite, and therefore he must proceed to work against him with great caution.
So he forced these fierce thoughts back into his heart, and let his face again assume its wonted grave and impenetrable expression.
Cranmer now stood close before him, and his bright, beaming eye was fixed upon Gardiner’s sullen countenance.
“I come to your highness,” said Cranmer, in his gentle, pleasant voice, “to say to you that I wish with my whole heart the queen may choose you for her confessor and spiritual director, and to assure you that, should this be the case, there will not be in my soul, on that account, the least rancor, or the slightest dissatisfaction. I shall fully comprehend it, if her majesty chooses the distinguished and eminent Bishop of Winchester as her confessor, and the esteem and admiration which I entertain for you can only be enhanced thereby. In confirmation of this, permit me to offer you my hand.” He presented his hand to Gardiner, who, however, took it reluctantly and but for a moment.
“Your highness is very noble, and at the same time a very subtle diplomatist, for you only wish in an adroit and ingenious way to give me to understand how I am to act should the queen choose you for her spiritual director. But that she will do so, you know as well as I. It is, therefore, for me only a humiliation which etiquette imposes when she compels me to stand here and wait to see whether I shall be chosen, or contemptuously thrust aside.”
“Why will you look at matters in so unfriendly a light?” said Cranmer, gently. “Wherefore will you consider it a mark of contempt, if you are not chosen to an office to which, indeed, neither merit nor worthiness can call us, but only the personal confidence of a young woman?”
“Oh! you admit that I shall not be chosen?” cried Gardiner, with a malicious smile.
“I have already told you that I am wholly uninformed as to the queen’s wish, and I think it is known that the Bishop of Canterbury is wont to speak the truth.”
“Certainly that is known, but it is known also that Catharine Parr was a warm admirer of the Bishop of Canterbury; and now that she has gained her end and become queen, she will make it her duty to show her gratitude to him.”
“You would by that insinuate that I have made her queen. But I assure your highness, that here also, as in so many other matters which relate to myself, you are falsely informed.”
“Possibly!” said Gardiner, coldly. “At any rate, it is certain that the young queen is an ardent advocate of the abominable new doctrine which, like the plague, has spread itself from Germany over all Europe and scattered mischief and ruin through all Christendom. Yes, Catharine Parr, the present queen, leans to that heretic against whom the Holy Father at Rome has hurled his crushing anathema. She is an adherent of the Reformation.”
“You forget,” said Cranmer, with an arch smile, “that this anathema was hurled against the head of our king also, and that it has shown itself equally ineffectual against Henry the Eighth as against Luther. Besides, I might remind you that we no longer call the Pope of Rome, ‘Holy Father,’ and that you yourself have recognized the king as the head of our church.”
Gardiner turned away his face in order to conceal the vexation and rage which distorted his features. He felt that he had gone too far, that he had betrayed too much of the secret thoughts of his soul. But he could not always control his violent and passionate nature; and however much a man of the world and diplomatist he might be, still there were moments when the fanatical priest got the better of the man of the world, and the diplomat was forced to give way to the minister of the church.
Cranmer pitied Gardiner’s confusion, and, following the native goodness of his heart, he said pleasantly: “Let us not strive here about dogmas, nor attempt to determine whether Luther or the pope is most in the wrong. We stand here in the chamber of the young queen. Let us, therefore, occupy ourselves a little with the destiny of this young woman whom God has chosen for so brilliant a lot.”
“Brilliant?” said Gardiner, shrugging his shoulders. “Let us first wait for the termination of her career, and then decide whether it has been brilliant. Many a queen before this has fancied that she was resting on a couch of myrtles and roses, and has suddenly become conscious that she was lying on a red-hot gridiron, which consumed her.”
“It is true,” murmured Cranmer, with a slight shudder, “it is a dangerous lot to be the king’s consort. But just on that account let us not make the perils of her position still greater, by adding to them our own enmity and hate. Just on that account I beg you (and on my part I pledge you my word for it) that, let the choice of the queen be as it may, there may be no feeling of anger, and no desire for revenge in consequence. My God, the poor women are such odd beings, so unaccountable in their wishes and in their inclinations!”
“Ah! it seems you know the women very intimately,” cried Gardiner, with a malicious laugh. “Verily, were you not Archbishop of Canterbury, and had not the king prohibited the marriage of ecclesiastics as a very grave crime, one might suppose that you had a wife yourself, and had gained from her a thorough knowledge of female character.”
Cranmer, somewhat embarrassed, turned away, and seemed to evade Gardiner’s piercing look. “We are not speaking of myself,” said he at length, “but of the young queen, and I entreat for her your good wishes. I have seen her to-day almost for the first time, and have never spoken with her, but her countenance has touchingly impressed me, and it appeared to me, her looks besought us to remain at her side, ready to help her on this difficult pathway, which five wives have already trod before her, and in which they found only misery and tears, disgrace, and blood.”
“Let Catharine beware then that she does not forsake the right way, as her five predecessors have done!” exclaimed Gardiner. “May she be prudent and cautious, and may she be enlightened by God, that she may hold the true faith, and have true wisdom, and not allow herself to be seduced into the crooked path of the godless and heretical, but remain faithful and steadfast with those of the true faith!”
“Who can say who are of the true faith?” murmured Cranmer, sadly. “There are so many paths leading to heaven, who knows which is the right one?”
“That which we tread!” cried Gardiner, with all the overweening pride of a minister of the church. “Woe to the queen should she take any other road! Woe to her if she lends her ear to the false doctrines which come ringing over here from Germany and Switzerland, and in the worldly prudence of her heart imagines that she can rest secure! I will be her most faithful and zealous servant, if she is with me; I will be her most implacable enemy if she is against me.”
“And will you call it being against you, if the queen does not choose you for her confessor?”
“Will you ask me to call it, being for me?”
“Now God grant that she may choose you!” exclaimed Cranmer, fervently, as he clasped his hands and raised his eyes to heaven. “Poor, unfortunate queen! The first proof of thy husband’s love may be thy first misfortune! Why gave he thee the liberty of choosing thine own spiritual director? Why did he not choose for thee?”
And Cranmer dropped his head upon his breast, and sighed deeply.
At this instant the door of the royal chamber opened, and Lady Jane, daughter of Earl Douglas, and first maid of honor to the queen, made her appearance on the threshold. Both bishops regarded her in breathless silence. It was a serious, a solemn moment, the deep importance of which was very well comprehended by all three.
“Her majesty the queen,” said Lady Jane, in an agitated voice, “her majesty requests the presence of Lord Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury, in her cabinet, in order that she may perform her devotions with him.”
“Poor queen!” murmured Cranmer, as he crossed the room to go to Catharine--“poor queen! she has just made an implacable enemy.”
Lady Jane waited till Cranmer had disappeared through the door, then hastened with eager steps to the bishop of Winchester, and dropping on her knee, humbly said, “Grace, your highness, grace! My words were in vain, and were not able to shake her resolution.”
Gardiner raised up the kneeling maiden, and forced a smile. “It is well,” said he, “I doubt not of your zeal. You are a true handmaid of the church, and she will love and reward you for it as a mother! It is then decided. The queen is--” “Is a heretic,” whispered Lady Jane. “Woe to her!”
“And will you be true, and will you faithfully adhere to us?”
“True, in every thought of my being, and every drop of my heart’s blood.”
“So shall we overcome Catharine Parr, as we overcame Catharine Howard. To the block with the heretic! We found means of bringing Catharine Howard to the scaffold; you, Lady Jane, must find the means of leading Catharine Parr the same way.”
“I will find them,” said Lady Jane, quietly. “She loves and trusts me. I will betray her friendship in order to remain true to my religion.”
“Catharine Parr then is lost,” said Gardiner, aloud.
“Yes, she is lost,” responded Earl Douglas, who had just entered, and caught the last words of the bishop. “Yes, she is lost, for we are her inexorable and ever-vigilant enemies. But I deem it not altogether prudent to utter words like these in the queen’s drawing-room. Let us therefore choose a more favorable hour. Besides, your highness, you must betake yourself to the grand reception-hall, where the whole court is already assembled, and now only awaits the king to go in formal procession for the young queen, and conduct her to the balcony. Let us go, then.”
Gardiner nodded in silence, and betook himself to the reception-hall.
Earl Douglas with his daughter followed him. “Catharine Parr is lost,” whispered he in Lady Jane’s ear. “Catharine Parr is lost, and you shall be the king’s seventh wife.”
Whilst this was passing in the drawing-room, the young queen was on her knees before Cranmer, and with him sending up to God fervent prayers for prosperity and peace. Tears filled her eyes, and her heart trembled as if before some approaching calamity.
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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2
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THE QUEEN AND HER FRIEND
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At last this long day of ceremonies and festivities drew near its close, and Catharine might soon hope to be, for the time, relieved from this endless presenting and smiling, from this ever-renewed homage.
At her husband’s side she had shown herself on the balcony to receive the greetings of the people, and to bow her thanks. Then in the spacious audience-chamber her newly appointed court had passed before her in formal procession, and she had exchanged a few meaningless, friendly words with each of these lords and ladies. Afterward she had, at her husband’s side, given audience to the deputations from the city and from Parliament. But it was only with a secret shudder that she had received from their lips the same congratulations and praises with which the authorities had already greeted five other wives of the king.
Still she had been able to smile and seem happy, for she well knew that the king’s eye was never off of her, and that all these lords and ladies who now met her with such deference, and with homage apparently so sincere, were yet, in truth, all her bitter enemies. For by her marriage she had destroyed so many hopes, she had pushed aside so many who believed themselves better fitted to assume the lofty position of queen! She knew that these victims of disappointment would never forgive her this; that she, who was but yesterday their equal, had to-day soared above them as queen and mistress; she knew that all these were watching with spying eyes her every word and action, in order, it might be, to forge therefrom an accusation or a death-warrant.
But nevertheless she smiled! She smiled, though she felt that the choler of the king, so easily kindled and so cruelly vindictive, ever swung over her head like the sword of Damocles.
She smiled, so that this sword might not fall upon her.
At length all these presentations, this homage and rejoicing were well over, and they came to the more agreeable and satisfactory part of the feast.
They went to dinner. That was Catharine’s first moment of respite, of rest. For when Henry the Eighth seated himself at table, he was no longer the haughty monarch and the jealous husband, but merely the proficient artiste and the impassioned gourmand; and whether the pastry was well seasoned, and the pheasant of good flavor, was for him then a far more important question than any concerning the weal of his people, and the prosperity of his kingdom.
But after dinner came another respite, a new enjoyment, and this time a more real one, which indeed for a while banished all gloomy forebodings and melancholy fears from Catharine’s heart, and suffused her countenance with the rosy radiance of cheerfulness and happy smiles. For King Henry had prepared for his young wife a peculiar and altogether novel surprise. He had caused to be erected in the palace of Whitehall a stage, whereon was represented, by the nobles of the court, a comedy from Plautus. Heretofore there had been no other theatrical exhibitions than those which the people performed on the high festivals of the church, the morality and the mystery plays. King Henry the Eighth was the first who had a stage erected for worldly amusement likewise, and caused to be represented on it subjects other than mere dramatized church history. As he freed the church from its spiritual head, the pope, so he wished to free the stage from the church, and to behold upon it other more lively spectacles than the roasting of saints and the massacre of inspired nuns.
And why, too, represent such mock tragedies on the stage, when the king was daily performing them in reality? The burning of Christian martyrs and inspired virgins was, under the reign of the Christian king Henry, such a usual and every-day occurrence, that it could afford a piquant entertainment neither to the court nor to himself.
But the representation of a Roman comedy, that, however, was a new and piquant pleasure, a surprise for the young queen. He had the “Curculio” played before his wife, and if Catharine indeed could listen to the licentious and shameless jests of the popular Roman poet only with bashful blushes, Henry was so much the more delighted by it, and accompanied the obscenest allusions and the most indecent jests with his uproarious laughter and loud shouts of applause.
At length this festivity was also over with, and Catharine was now permitted to retire with her attendants to her private apartments.
With a pleasant smile, she dismissed her cavaliers, and bade her women and her second maid of honor, Anna Askew, go into her boudoir and await her call. Then she gave her arm to her friend Lady Jane Douglas, and with her entered her cabinet.
At last she was alone, at last unwatched. The smile disappeared from her face, and an expression of deep sadness was stamped upon her features.
“Jane,” said she, “pray thee shut the doors and draw the window curtains, so that nobody can see me, nobody hear me, no one except yourself, my friend, the companion of my happy childhood. Oh, my God, my God, why was I so foolish as to leave my father’s quiet, lonely castle and go out into the world, which is so full of terror and horror?”
She sighed and groaned deeply; and burying her face in her hands, she sank upon the ottoman, weeping and trembling.
Lady Jane observed her with a peculiar smile of malicious satisfaction.
“She is queen and she weeps,” said she to herself. “My God, how can a woman possibly feel unhappy, and she a queen?”
She approached Catharine, and, seating herself on the tabouret at her feet, she impressed a fervent kiss on the queen’s drooping hand.
“Your majesty weeping!” said she, in her most insinuating tone. “My God, you are then unhappy; and I received with a loud cry of joy the news of my friend’s unexpected good fortune. I thought to meet a queen, proud, happy, and radiant with joy; and I was anxious and fearful lest the queen might have ceased to be my friend. Wherefore I urged my father, as soon as your command reached us, to leave Dublin and hasten with me hither. Oh, my God! I wished to see you in your happiness and in your greatness.”
Catharine removed her hands from her face, and looked down at her friend with a sorrowful smile. “Well,” said she, “are you not satisfied with what you have seen? Have I not the whole day displayed to you the smiling queen, worn a dress embroidered with gold? did not my neck glitter with diamonds? did not the royal diadem shine in my hair? and sat not the king by my side? Let that, then, be sufficient for the present. You have seen the queen all day long. Allow me now for one brief, happy moment to be again the feeling, sensitive woman, who can pour into the bosom of her friend all her complaint and her wretchedness. Ah, Jane, if you knew how I have longed for this hour, how I have sighed after you as the only balm for my poor smitten heart, smitten even to death, how I have implored Heaven for this day, for this one thing--‘Give me back my Jane, so that she can weep with me, so that I may have one being at my side who understands me, and does not allow herself to be imposed upon by the wretched splendor of this outward display! ’” “Poor Catharine!” whispered Lady Jane, “poor queen!”
Catharine started and laid her hand, sparkling with brilliants, on Jane’s lips. “Call me not thus!” said she. “Queen! My God, is not all the fearful past heard again in that word? Queen! Is it not as much as to say, condemned to the scaffold and a public criminal trial? Ah, Jane! a deadly tremor runs through my members. I am Henry the Eighth’s sixth queen; I shall also be executed, or, loaded with disgrace, be repudiated.”
Again she hid her face in her hands, and her whole frame shook; so she saw not the smile of malicious satisfaction with which Lady Jane again observed her. She suspected not with what secret delight her friend heard her lamentations and sighs.
“Oh! I am at least revenged!” thought Jane, while she lovingly stroked the queen’s hair. “Yes, I am revenged! She has robbed me of a crown, but she is wretched; and in the golden goblet which she presses to her lips she will find nothing but wormwood! Now, if this sixth queen dies not on the scaffold, still we may perhaps so work it that she dies of anxiety, or deems it a pleasure to be able to lay down again her royal crown at Henry’s feet.”
Then said she aloud: “But why these fears, Catharine? The king loves you; the whole court has seen with what tender and ardent looks he has regarded you to-day, and with what delight he has listened to your every word. Certainly the king loves you.”
Catharine seized her hand impulsively. “The king loves me,” whispered she, “and I, I tremble before him. Yes, more than that, his love fills me with horror! His hands are dipped in blood, and as I saw him to-day in his crimson robes I shuddered, and I thought, How soon, and my blood, too, will dye this crimson!”
Jane smiled. “You are sick, Catharine,” said she. “This good fortune has taken you by surprise, and your overstrained nerves now depict before you all sorts of frightful forms. That is all.”
“No, no, Jane; these thoughts have ever been with me. They have attended me ever since the king selected me for his wife.”
“And why, then, did you not refuse him?” asked Lady Jane. “Why did you not say ‘no’ to the king’s suit?”
“Why did I not do it, ask you? Ah, Jane, are you such a stranger at this court as not to know, then, that one must either fulfil the king’s behests or die? My God, they envy me! They call me the greatest and most potent woman of England. They know not that I am poorer and more powerless than the beggar of the street, who at least has the power to refuse whom she will. I could not refuse. I must either die or accept the royal hand which was extended to me; and I would not die yet, I have still so many claims on life, and it has hitherto made good so few of them! Ah, my poor, hapless existence! what has it been, but an endless chain of renunciations and deprivations, of leafless flowers and dissolving views? It is true, I have never learned to know what is usually called misfortune. But is there a greater misfortune than not to be happy; than to sigh through a life without wish or hope; to wear away the endless, weary days of an existence without delight, yet surrounded with luxury and splendor?”
“You were not unfortunate, and yet you are an orphan, fatherless and motherless?”
“I lost my mother so early that I scarcely knew her. And when my father died I could hardly consider it other than a blessing, for he had never shown himself a father, but always only as a harsh, tyrannical master to me.”
“But you were married?”
“Married!” said Catharine, with a melancholy smile. “That is to say, my father sold me to a gouty old man, on whose couch I spent a few comfortless, awfully wearisome years, till Lord Neville made me a rich widow. But what did my independence avail me, when I had bound myself in new fetters? Hitherto I had been the slave of my father, of my husband; now I was the slave of my wealth. I ceased to be a sick-nurse to become steward of my estate. Ah! this was the most tedious period of my life. And yet I owe to it my only real happiness, for at that period I became acquainted with you, my Jane, and my heart, which had never yet learned to know a tenderer feeling, flew to you with all the impetuosity of a first passion. Believe me, my Jane, when this long-missing nephew of my husband came and snatched away from me his hereditary estate, and, as the lord, took possession of it, then the thought that I must leave you and your father, the neighboring proprietor, was my only grief. Men commiserated me on account of my lost property. I thanked God that He had relieved me of this load, and I started for London, that I might at last live and feel, that I might learn to know real happiness or real misery.”
“And what did you find?”
“Misery, Jane, for I am queen.”
“Is that your sole unhappiness?”
“My only one, but it is great enough, for it condemns me to eternal anxiety, to eternal dissimulation. It condemns me to feign a love which I do not feel, to endure caresses which make me shudder, because they are an inheritance from five unfortunate women. Jane, Jane, do you comprehend what it is to be obliged to embrace a man who has murdered three wives and put away two? to be obliged to kiss this king whose lips open just as readily to utter vows of love as sentences of death? Ah, Jane, I speak, I live, and still I suffer all the agonies of death! They call me a queen, and yet I tremble for my life every hour, and conceal my anxiety and fear beneath the appearance of happiness! My God, I am five-and-twenty, and my heart is still the heart of a child; it does not yet know itself, and now it is doomed never to learn to know itself; for I am Henry’s wife, and to love another is, in other words, to wish to mount the scaffold. The scaffold! Look, Jane. When the king approached me and confessed his love and offered me his hand, suddenly there rose before me a fearful picture. It was no more the king whom I saw before me, but the hangman; and it seemed to me that I saw three corpses lying at his feet, and with a loud scream I sank senseless before him. When I revived, the king was holding me in his arms. The shock of this unexpected good fortune, he thought, had made me faint. He kissed me and called me his bride; he thought not for a moment that I could refuse him. And I--despise me, Jane--I was such a dastard, that I could not summon up courage for a downright refusal. Yes, I was so craven also, as to be unwilling to die. Ah, my God, it appeared to me that life at that moment beckoned to me with thousands of joys, thousands of charms, which I had never known, and for which my soul thirsted as for the manna in the wilderness. I would live, live at any cost. I would gain myself a respite, so that I might once more share happiness, love, and enjoyment. Look, Jane, men call me ambitious. They say I have given my hand to Henry because he is king. Ah, they know not how I shuddered at this royal crown. They know not that in anguish of heart I besought the king not to bestow his hand upon me, and thereby rouse all the ladies of his kingdom as foes against me. They know not that I confessed that I loved him, merely that I might be able to add that I was ready, out of love to him, to sacrifice my own happiness to his, and so conjured him to choose a consort worthy of himself, from the hereditary princesses of Europe. [Footnote: “La vie d’Elizabeth, Reine d’Angleterre, traduite de l’Italien de Monsieur Gregoire Leti,” vol. ii. Amsterdam, 1694] But Henry rejected my sacrifice. He wished to make a queen, in order to possess a wife, who may be his own property--whose blood, as her lord and master, he can shed. So I am queen. I have accepted my lot, and henceforth my existence will be a ceaseless struggle and wrestling with death. I will at least sell my life as dearly as possible; and the maxim which Cranmer has given me shall hereafter be my guide on the thorny path of life.”
“And how runs this maxim?” asked Jane.
“Be wise as serpents and harmless as doves,” replied Catharine, with a languid smile, as she dropped her head upon her breast and surrendered herself to her painful and foreboding reflections.
Lady Jane stood opposite to her, and gazed with cruel composure upon the painfully convulsed countenance and at times violently trembling form of the young queen for whom all England that day kept festival, and who yet was sitting before her so wretched and full of sorrow.
Suddenly Catharine raised her head. Her countenance had now assumed an entirely different expression. It was now firm, resolute, and dauntless. With a slight inclination of the head she extended her hand to Lady Jane, and drew her friend more closely to her.
“I thank you, Jane,” said she, as she imprinted a kiss upon her forehead--“I thank you! You have done my heart good and relieved it of its oppressive load of secret anguish. He who can give his grief utterance, is already half cured of it. I thank you, then, Jane! Henceforth, you will find me calm and cheerful. The woman has wept before you, but the queen is aware that she has a task to accomplish as difficult as it is noble, and I give you my word for it, she will accomplish it. The new light which has risen on the world shall no more be dimmed by blood and tears, and no more in this unhappy land shall men of sense and piety be condemned as insurgents and traitors! This is the task which God has set me, and I swear that I will accomplish it! Will you help me in this, too, Jane?”
Lady Jane responded faintly in a few words, which Catharine did not understand, and as she looked up to her, she noticed, with astonishment, the corpse-like pallor which had suddenly overspread the countenance of her maid of honor.
Catharine gave a start, and fixed on her face a surprised and searching look.
Lady Jane cast down her eyes before that searching and flashing glance. Her fanaticism had for the moment got the better of her, and much as she was wont at other times to hide her thoughts and feelings, it had, at that moment, carried her away and betrayed her to the keen eye of her friend.
“It is now a long while since we saw each other,” said Catharine, sadly. “Three years! It is a long time for a young girl’s heart! And you were those three years with your father in Dublin, at that rigidly popish court. I did not consider that! But however much your opinions may have changed, your heart, I know, still remains the same, and you will ever be the proud, high-minded Jane of former days, who could never stoop to tell a lie--no, not even if this lie would procure her profit and glory. I ask you then, Jane, what is your religion? Do you believe in the Pope of Rome, and the Church of Rome as the only channel of salvation? or do you follow the new teaching which Luther and Calvin have promulgated?”
Lady Jane smiled. “Would I have risked appearing before you, if I still reckoned myself of the Roman Catholic Church? Catharine Parr is hailed by the Protestants of England as the new patroness of the persecuted doctrine, and already the Romish priests hurl their anathemas against you, and execrate you and your dangerous presence here. And you ask me, whether I am an adherent of that church which maligns and damns you? You ask me whether I believe in the pope, who has laid the king under an interdict--the king, who is not only my lord and master, but also the husband of my precious and noble Catharine? Oh, queen, you love me not when you can address such a question to me.”
And as if overcome by painful emotion, Lady Jane sank down at Catharine’s feet, and hid her head in the folds of the queen’s robe.
Catharine bent down to raise her and take her to her heart. Suddenly she started, and a deathly paleness overspread her face. “The king,” whispered she, “the king is coming!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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3
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KING HENRY THE EIGHTH.
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Catharine was not deceived. The doors were opened, and on the threshold appeared the lord marshal, with his golden mace.
“His majesty the king!” whispered he, in his grave, solemn manner, which filled Catharine with secret dread, as though he were pronouncing the sentence of death over her.
But she forced a smile and advanced to the door to receive the king. Now was heard a thunder-like rumble, and over the smoothly carpeted floor of the anteroom came rolling on the king’s house equipage. This house equipage consisted of a large chair, resting on castors, which was moved by men in the place of horses, and to which they had, with artful flattery, given the form of a triumphal car of the old victorious Roman Caesars, in order to afford the king, as he rolled through the halls, the pleasant illusion that he was holding a triumphal procession, and that it was not the burden of his heavy limbs which fastened him to his imperial car. King Henry gave ready credence to the flattery of his truckle-chair and his courtiers, and as he rolled along in it through the saloons glittering with gold, and through halls adorned with Venetian mirrors, which reflected his form a thousandfold, he liked to lull himself into the dream of being a triumphing hero, and wholly forgot that it was not his deeds, but his fat, that had helped him to his triumphal car.
For that monstrous mass which filled up the colossal chair, that mountain of purple-clad flesh, that clumsy, almost shapeless mass, that was Henry the Eighth, king of merry England. But thae mass had a head--a head full of dark and wrathful thoughts, a heart full of bloodthirsty and cruel lusts. The colossal body was indeed, by its physical weight, fastened to the chair. Yet his mind never rested, but he hovered, with the talons and flashing eye of the bird of prey, over his people, ever ready to pounce upon some innocent dove, to drink her blood, and tear out her heart, that he might lay it, all palpitating, as an offering on the altar of his sanguinary god.
The king’s sedan now stopped, and Catharine hastened forward with smiling face, to assist her royal husband in alighting.
Henry greeted her with a gracious nod, and rejected the proffered aid of the attendant pages.
“Away,” said he, “away! My Catharine alone shall extend me her hand, and give me a welcome to the bridal chamber. Go, we feel to-day as young and strong as in our best and happiest days, and the young queen shall see that it is no decrepit graybeard, tottering with age, who woos her, but a strong man rejuvenated by love. Think not, Kate, that I use my car because of weakness. No, it was only my longing for you which made me wish to be with you the sooner.”
He kissed her with a smile, and, lightly leaning on her arm, alighted from his car.
“Away with the equipage, and with all of you!” said he. “We wish to be alone with this beautiful young wife, whom the lord bishops have to-day made our own.”
At a signal from his hand, the brilliant cortege withdrew, and Catharine was alone with the king.
Her heart beat so wildly that it made her lips tremble, and her bosom swell high.
Henry saw it, and smiled; but it was a cold, cruel smile, and Catharine grew pale before it.
“He has only the smile of a tyrant,” said she to herself. “With this same smile, by which he would now give expression to his love, he yesterday, perhaps, signed a death-warrant, or will, to-morrow, witness an execution.”
“Do you love me, Kate?” suddenly said the king, who had till now observed her in silence and thoughtfulness. “Say, Kate, do you love me?”
He looked steadily into her eyes, as though he would read her soul to the very bottom.
Catharine sustained his look, and did not drop her eyes. She felt that this was the decisive moment which determined her whole future; and this conviction restored to her all her self-possession and energy.
She was now no longer the shy, timid girl, but the resolute, proud woman, who was ready to wrestle with fate for greatness and glory.
“Do you love me, Kate?” repeated the king; and his brow already began to darken.
“I know not,” said Catharine, with a smile, which enchanted the king, for there was quite as much graceful coquetry as bashfulness on her charming face.
“You know not?” replied Henry, astonished. “Now, by the Mother of God, it is the first time in my life that a woman has ever been bold enough to return me such an answer! You are a bold woman, Kate, to hazard it, and I praise you for it. I love bravery, because it is something I so rarely see. They all tremble before me, Kate--all! They know that I am not intimidated by blood, and in the might of my royalty I subscribe a death-warrant with the same calmness of soul as a love-letter.”
“Oh, you are a great king,” murmured Catharine. Henry did not notice her. He was wholly buried in one of those self-contemplations to which he so willingly surrendered himself, and which generally had for their subject his own greatness and superbility.
“Yes,” continued he, and his eyes, which, in spite of his corpulency and his extremely fleshy face, were yet large and wide open, shone more brightly. “Yes, they all tremble before me, for they know that I am a righteous and powerful king, who spares not his own blood, if it is necessary to punish and expiate crime, and with inexorable hand punishes the sinner, though he were the nearest to the throne. Take heed to yourself, therefore, Kate, take heed to yourself. You behold in me the avenger of God, and the judge of men. The king wears the crimson, not because it is beautiful and glossy, but because it is red like blood, and because it is the king’s highest prerogative to shed the blood of his delinquent subjects, and thereby expiate human crime. Thus only do I conceive of royalty, and thus only will I carry it out till the end of my days. Not the right to pardon, but the right to punish, is that whereby the ruler manifests himself before the lower classes of mankind. God’s thunder should be on his lips, and the king’s wrath should descend like lightning on the head of the guilty.”
“But God is not only wrathful, but also merciful and forgiving,” said Catharine, as she lightly and shyly leaned her head on the king’s shoulder.
“Just that is the prerogative of God above kings; that He can, as it pleases Him, show mercy and grace, where we can only condemn and punish. There must be something in which God is superior to kings, and greater than they. But how, Kate, you tremble, and the lovely smile has vanished from your countenance! Be not afraid of me, Kate! Be always frank with me, and without deceit; then I shall always love you, and iniquity will then have no power over you. And now, Kate, tell me, and explain to me. You do not know that you love me?”
“No, I do not know, your majesty. And how should I be able to recognize, and know, and designate by name what is strange to me, and what I have never before felt?”
“How, you have never loved, Kate?” asked the king with a joyful expression.
“Never. My father maltreated me, so that I could feel for him nothing but dread and terror.”
“And your husband, child? That man who was my predecessor in the possession of you. Did you not love your husband either?”
“My husband?” asked she abstractedly. “It is true, my father sold me to Lord Neville, and as the priest had joined our hands, men called him my husband. But he very well knew that I did not love him, nor did he require my love. He needed a nurse, not a wife. He had given me his name as a father gives his to a daughter; and I was his daughter, a true, faithful, and obedient daughter, who joyfully fulfilled her duty and tended him till his death.”
“And after his death, child? Years have elapsed since then, Kate. Tell me, and I conjure you, tell me the truth, the simple, plain truth! After the death of your husband, then even, did you never love?”
He gazed with visible anxiety, with breathless expectation, deep into her eyes; but she did not drop them.
“Sire,” said she, with a charming smile, “till a few weeks past, I have often mourned over myself; and it seemed to me that I must, in the desperation of my singular and cold nature, lay open my breast, in order to search there for the heart, which, senseless and cold, had never betrayed its existence by its stronger beating. Oh, sire, I was full of trouble about myself; and in my foolish rashness, I accused Heaven of having robbed me of the noblest feeling and the fairest privilege of any woman--the capacity of loving.”
“Till the past few weeks, did you say, Kate?” asked the king, breathless with emotion.
“Yes, sire, until the day on which you, for the first time, graciously afforded me the happiness of speaking with me.”
The king uttered a low cry, and drew Catharine, with impetuous vehemence, into his arms.
“And since, tell me now, you dear little dove, since then, does your heart throb?”
“Yes, sire, it throbs, oh, it often throbs to bursting! When I hear your voice, when I behold your countenance, it is as if a cold tremor rilled through my whole being, and drove all my blood to the heart. It is as though my heart anticipated your approach before my eyes discern you. For even before you draw near me, I feel a peculiar trembling of the heart, and the breath is stifled in my bosom; then I always know that you are coming, and that your presence will relieve this peculiar tension of my being. When you are not by me I think of you, and when I sleep I dream of you. Tell me, sire, you who know every thing, tell me, know you now whether I love you?”
“Yes, yes, you love me,” cried Henry, to whom this strange and joyous surprise had imparted youthful vivacity and warmth. “Yes, Kate, you love me; and if I may trust your dear confession, I am your first love. Repeat it yet again; you were nothing but a daughter to Lord Neville?”
“Nothing more, sire!”
“And after him have you had no love?”
“None, sire!”
“And can it be that so happy a marvel has come to pass? and that I have made, not a widow, but a young maiden, my queen?”
As he now gazed at her with warm, passionate, tender looks, Catharine cast down her eyes, and a deep blush covered her sweet face.
“Ah, a woman’s bashful blushes, what an exquisite sight!” cried the king, and while he wildly pressed Catharine to his bosom, he continued: “Oh, are we not foolish and short-sighted men, all of us, yes, even we kings? In order that I might not be, perhaps, forced to send my sixth wife also to the scaffold, I chose, in trembling dread of the deceitfulness of your sex, a widow for my queen, and this widow with a blessed confession, mocks at the new law of the wise Parliament, and makes good to me what she never promised.” [Footnote: After Catharine Howard’s infidelity and incontinency had been proved, and she had atoned for them by her death, Parliament enacted a law “that if the king or his successors should intend to marry any woman whom they took to be a clean and pure maid--if she, not being so, did not declare the same to the king, it should be high treason: and all who knew it; and did not reveal it, were guilty of misprision of treason.” --“Burnet’s History of the Reformation of the Church of England.” London, 1681 (vol. i, p. 313)] “Come, Kate, give me a kiss. You have opened before me to-day a happy, blissful future, and prepared for me a great and unexpected pleasure. I thank you for it, Kate, and the Mother of God be my witness, I will never forget it.”
And drawing a rich diamond ring from his own finger, and putting it upon Catharine’s, he continued: “Be this ring a remembrancer of this hour, and when you hereafter present it to me, with a request, I will grant that request, Kate!”
He kissed her forehead, and was about to press her more closely in his arms, when suddenly from without was heard the dull roll of drums, and the ringing of bells.
The king started a moment and released Catharine from his arms. He listened; the roll of drums continued, and now and then was heard in the distance, that peculiar thundering and yet sullen sound, which so much resembles the roar and rush of the sea, and which can be produced only by a large and excited mob.
The king, with a fierce curse, pushed open the glass door leading to the balcony, and walked out.
Catharine gazed after him with a strange, half-timid, half-scornful look. “I have not at least told him that I love him,” muttered she. “He has construed my words as it suited his vanity. No matter. I will not die on the scaffold!”
With a resolute step, and firm, energetic air, she followed the king to the balcony. The roll of drums was kept up, and from all the steeples the bells were pealing. The night was dark and calm. All London seemed to slumber, and the dark houses around about stood up out of the universal darkness like huge coffins.
Suddenly the horizon began to grow bright, and on the sky appeared a streak of fiery red, which, blazing up higher and higher, soon illuminated the entire horizon with a crimson glow, and even shed its glaring fiery beams over the balcony on which stood the royal pair. Still the bells clanged and clamored; and blended with their peals was heard now and then, in the distance, a piercing shriek and a clamor as of thousands and thousands of confusedly mingled voices.
Suddenly the king turned to Catharine, and his countenance, which was just then overspread by the fire-light as with a blood-red veil, had now assumed an expression of savage, demoniacal delight.
“Ah,” said he, “I know what it is. You had wholly bewildered me, and stolen away my attention, you little enchantress. I had for a moment ceased to be a king, because I wished to be entirely your lover. But now I bethink me again of my avenging sovereignty! It is the fagot-piles about the stake which flame so merrily yonder. And that yelling and clamor indicate that my merry people are enjoying with all their soul the comedy which I have had played before them to-day, for the honor of God, and my unimpeachable royal dignity.”
“The stake!” cried Catharine, trembling. “Your majesty does not mean thereby to say that right yonder, men are to die a cruel, painful death--that the same hour in which their king pronounces himself happy and content, some of his subjects are to be condemned to dreadful torture, to a horrible destruction! Oh, no! my king will not overcloud his queen’s wedding-day with so dark a veil of death. He will not wish to dim my happiness so cruelly.”
The king laughed. “No, I will not darken it, but light it up with bright names,” said he; and as, with outstretched arm, he pointed over to the glaring heavens, he continued: “There are our wedding-torches, my Kate, and the most sacred and beautiful which I could find, for they burn to the honor of God and of the king. [Footnote: “Life of King Henry the Eighth, founded on Authentic and Original Documents.” By Patrick Fraser Tytler. (Edinburgh, 1887, p. 440.)] And the heavenward flaring flames which carries up the souls of the heretics will give to my God joyous intelligence of His most faithful and obedient son, who, even on the day of his happiness, forgets not his kingly duty, but ever remains the avenging and destroying minister of his God.”
He looked frightful as he thus spoke. His countenance, lit up by the fire, had a fierce, threatening expression; his eyes blazed; and a cold, cruel smile played about his thin, firmly-pressed lips.
“Oh, he knows no pity!” murmured Catharine to herself, as in a paroxysm of anguish she stared at the king, who, in fanatical enthusiasm, was looking over toward the fire, into which, at his command, they were perhaps hurling to a cruel, torturing death, some poor wretch, to the honor of God and the king. “No, he knows no pity and no mercy.”
Now Henry turned to her, and laying his extended hand softly on the back of her slender neck, he spanned it with his fingers, and whispered in her ear tender words and vows of love.
Catharine trembled. This caress of the king, however harmless in itself, had in it for her something dismal and dreadful. It was the involuntary, instinctive touch of the headsman, who examines the neck of his victim, and searches on it for the place where he will make the stroke. Thus had Anne Boleyn once put her tender white hands about her slender neck, and said to the headsman, brought over from Calais specially for her execution: “I pray you strike me well and surely! I have, indeed, but a slim little neck.” [Footnote: Tytler, p. 382] Thus had the king clutched his hand about the neck of Catharine Howard, his fifth wife when certain of her infidelity, he had thrust her from himself with fierce execrations, when she would have clung to him. The dark marks of that grip were still visible upon her neck when she laid it on the block. [Footnote: Leti, vol. i, p. 193] And this dreadful twining of his fingers Catharine must now endure as a caress; at which she must smile, which she must receive with all the appearance of delight.
While he spanned her neck, he whispered in her ear words of tenderness, and bent his face close to her cheeks.
But Catharine heeded not his passionate whispers. She saw nothing save the blood-red handwriting of fire upon the sky. She heard nothing save the shrieks of the wretched victims.
“Mercy, mercy!” faltered she. “Oh, let this day be a day of festivity for all your subjects! Be merciful, and if you would have me really believe that you love me, grant this first request which I make of you. Grant me the lives of these wretched ones. Mercy, sire, mercy!”
And as if the queen’s supplication had found an echo, suddenly was heard from the chamber a wailing, despairing voice, repeating loudly and in tones of anguish: “Mercy, your majesty, mercy!” The king turned round impetuously, and his face assumed a dark, wrathful expression. He fastened his searching eyes on Catharine, as though he would read in her looks whether she knew who had dared to interrupt their conversation.
But Catharine’s countenance expressed unconcealed astonishment. “Mercy, mercy!” repeated the voice from the interior of the chamber.
The king uttered an angry exclamation, and hastily withdrew from the balcony.
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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4
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KING BY THE WRATH OF GOD.
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“Who dares interrupt us?” cried the king, as with headlong step he returned to the chamber--“who dares speak of mercy?”
“I dare!” said a young lady, who, pale, with distorted features, in frightful agitation, now hastened to the king and prostrated herself before him. “Anne Askew!” cried Catharine, amazed. “Anne, what want you here?”
“I want mercy, mercy for those wretched ones, who are suffering yonder,” cried the young maiden, pointing with an expression of horror to the reddened sky. “I want mercy for the king himself, who is so cruel as to send the noblest and the best of his subjects to the slaughter like miserable brutes!”
“Oh, sire, have compassion on this poor child!” besought Catharine, turning to Henry, “compassion on her impassioned excitement and her youthful ardor! She is as yet unaccustomed to these frightful scenes--she knows not yet that it is the sad duty of kings to be constrained to punish, where they might prefer to pardon!”
Henry smiled; but the look which he cast on the kneeling girl made Catharine tremble. There was a death-warrant in that look!
“Anne Askew, if I mistake not, is your second maid of honor?” asked the king; “and it was at your express wish that she received that place?”
“Yes sire.”
“You knew her, then?”
“No, sire! I saw her a few days ago for the first time. But she had already won my heart at our first meeting, and I feel that I shall love her. Exercise forbearance, then, your majesty!”
But the king was still thoughtful, and Catharine’s answers did not yet satisfy him.
“Why, then, do you interest yourself for this young lady, if you did not know her?”
“She has been so warmly recommended to me.”
“By whom?”
Catharine hesitated a moment; she felt that she had, perhaps, in her zeal, gone too far, and that it was imprudent to tell the king the truth. But the king’s keen, penetrating look was resting on her, and she recollected that he had, the first thing that evening, so urgently and solemnly conjured her to always tell him the truth. Besides, it was no secret at court who the protector of this young maiden was, and who had been the means of her obtaining the place of maid of honor to the queen, a place which so many wealthy and distinguished families had solicited for their daughters.
“Who recommended this lady to you?” repeated the king, and already his ill-humor began to redden his face, and make his voice tremble.
“Archbishop Cranmer did so, sire,” said Catharine as she raised her eyes to the king, and looked at him with a smile surpassingly charming.
At that moment was heard without, more loudly, the roll of drums, which nevertheless was partially drowned by piercing shrieks and horrible cries of distress. The blaze of the fire shot up higher, and now was seen the bright flame, which with murderous rage licked the sky above.
Anne Askew, who had kept respectful silence during the conversation of the royal pair, now felt herself completely overcome by this horrible sight, and bereft of the last remnant of self-possession.
“My God, my God!” said she, quivering from the internal tremor, and stretching her hands beseechingly toward the king, “do you not hear that frightful wail of the wretched? Sire, by the thought of your own dying hour, I conjure you have compassion on these miserable beings! Let them not, at least, be thrown alive into the flames. Spare them this last frightful torture.”
King Henry cast a wrathful look on the kneeling girl; then strode past her to the door, which led into the adjoining hall, in which the courtiers were waiting for their king.
He beckoned to the two bishops, Cranmer and Gardiner, to come nearer, and ordered the servants to throw the hall doors wide open.
The scene now afforded an animated and singular spectacle, and this chamber, just before so quiet, was suddenly changed to the theatre of a great drama, which was perhaps to end tragically. In the queen’s bedchamber, a small room, but furnished with the utmost luxury and splendor, the principal characters of this scene were congregated. In the middle of the space stood the king in his robes, embroidered with gold and sparkling with jewels, which were irradiated by the bright light of the chandelier. Near him was seen the young queen, whose beautiful and lovely face was turned in anxious expectation toward the king, in whose stern and rigid features she sought to read the development of this scene.
Not far from her still knelt the young maiden, hiding in her hands her face drenched in tears; while farther away, in the background, were the two bishops observing with grave, cool tranquillity the group before them. Through the open hall doors were descried the expectant and curious countenances of the courtiers standing with their heads crowded close together in the space before the doors; and opposite to them, through the open door leading to the balcony, was seen the fiery, blazing sky, and heard the clanging of the bells and the rolling of the drama, the piercing shrieks and the yells of the people.
A deep silence ensued, and when the king spoke, the tone of his voice was so hard and cold, that an involuntary shudder ran through all present.
“My Lord Bishops of Winchester and Canterbury,” said the king, “we have called you that you may, by the might of your prayers and the wisdom of your words, rid this young girl here from the devil, who, without doubt, has the mastery over her, since she dares charge her king and master with cruelty and injustice.”
The two bishops drew nearer to the kneeling girl; each laid a hand upon her shoulder, and bent over her, but the one with an expression of countenance wholly different from that of the other.
Cranmer’s look was gentle and serious, and at the same time a compassionate and encouraging smile played about his thin lips.
Gardiner’s features on the contrary bore the expression of cruel, cold-hearted irony; and the smile which rested on his thick, protruding lips was the joyful and merciless smile of a priest ready to sacrifice a victim to his idol.
“Courage, my daughter, courage and prudence!” whispered Cranmer.
“God, who blesses the righteous and punishes and destroys sinners, be with thee and with us all!” said Gardiner.
But Anne Askew recoiled with a shudder from the touch of his hand, and with an impetuous movement pushed it away from her shoulder.
“Touch me not; you are the hangman of those poor people whom they are putting to death down yonder,” said she impetuously; and as she turned to the king and extended her hands imploringly toward him, she cried: “Mercy, King Henry, mercy!”
“Mercy!” repeated the king, “mercy, and for whom? Who are they that they are putting to death down there? Tell me, forsooth, my lord bishops, who are they that are led to the stake to-day? Who are the condemned?”
“They are heretics, who devote themselves to this new false doctrine which has come over to us from Germany, and who dare refuse to recognize the spiritual supremacy of our lord and king,” said Bishop Gardiner.
“They are Roman Catholics, who regard the Pope of Rome as the chief shepherd of the Church of Christ, and will regard nobody but him as their lord,” said Bishop Cranmer.
“Ah, behold this young maiden accuses us of injustice,” cried the king; “and yet, you say that not heretics alone are executed down there, but also Romanists. It appears to me then that we have justly and impartially, as always, punished only criminals and given over the guilty to justice.”
“Oh, had you seen what I have seen,” said Anne Askew, shuddering, “then would you collect all your vital energies for a single cry, for a single word--mercy! and that word would you shout out loud enough to reach yon frightful place of torture and horror.”
“What saw you, then?” asked the king, smiling. Anne Askew had stood up, and her tall, slender form now lifted itself, like a lily, between the sombre forms of the bishops. Her eye was fixed and glaring; her noble and delicate features bore the expression of horror and dread.
“I saw,” said she, “a woman whom they were leading to execution. Not a criminal, but a noble lady, whose proud and lofty heart never harbored a thought of treason or disloyalty, but who, true to her faith and her convictions, would not forswear the God whom she served. As she passed through the crowd, it seemed as if a halo encompassed her head, and covered her white hair with silvery rays; all bowed before her, and the hardest natures wept over the unfortunate woman who had lived more than seventy years, and yet was not allowed to die in her bed, but was to be slaughtered to the glory of God and of the king. But she smiled, and graciously saluting the weeping and sobbing multitude, she advanced to the scaffold as if she were ascending a throne to receive the homage of her people. Two years of imprisonment had blanched her cheek, but had not been able to destroy the fire of her eye, or the strength of her mind, and seventy years had not bowed her neck or broken her spirit. Proud and firm, she mounted the steps of the scaffold, and once more saluted the people and cried aloud, ‘I will pray to God for you.’ But as the headsman approached and demanded that she should allow her hands to be bound, and that she should kneel in order to lay her head upon the block, she refused, and angrily pushed him away. ‘Only traitors and criminals lay their head on the block!’ exclaimed she, with a loud, thundering voice. ‘There is no occasion for me to do so, and I will not submit to your bloody laws as long as there is a breath in me. Take, then, my life, if you can.’
“And now began a scene which filled the hearts of the lookers-on with fear and horror. The countess flew like a hunted beast round and round the scaffold. Her white hair streamed in the wind; her black grave-clothes rustled around her like a dark cloud, and behind her, with uplifted axe, came the headsman, in his fiery red dress; he, ever endeavoring to strike her with the falling axe, but she, ever trying, by moving her head to and fro, to evade the descending stroke. But at length her resistance became weaker; the blows of the axe reached her, and stained her white hair, hanging loose about her shoulders, with crimson streaks. With a heart-rending cry, she fell fainting. Near her, exhausted also, sank down the headsman, bathed in sweat. This horrible wild chase had lamed his arm and broken his strength. Panting and breathless, he was not able to drag this fainting, bleeding woman to the block, or to lift up the axe to separate her noble head from the body. [Footnote: Tytler, p. 430] The crowd shrieked with distress and horror, imploring and begging for mercy, and even the lord chief justice could not refrain from tears, and he ordered the cruel work to be suspended until the countess and the headsman should have regained strength; for a living, not a dying person was to be executed: thus said the law. They made a pallet for the countess on the scaffold and endeavored to restore her; invigorating wine was supplied to the headsman, to renew his strength for the work of death; and the crowd turned to the stakes which were prepared on both sides of the scaffold, and at which four other martyrs were to be burnt. But I flew here like a hunted doe, and now, king, I lie at your feet. There is still time. Pardon, king, pardon for the Countess of Somerset, the last of the Plantagenets.”
“Pardon, sire, pardon!” repeated Catharine Parr, weeping and trembling, as she clung to her husband’s side. “Pardon!” repeated Archbishop Cranmer; and a few of the courtiers re-echoed it in a timid and anxious whisper.
The king’s large, brilliant eyes glanced around the whole assembly, with a quick, penetrating look. “And you, my Lord Bishop Gardiner,” asked he, in a cold, sarcastic tone, “will you also ask for mercy, like all these weak-hearted souls here?”
“The Lord our God is a jealous God,” said Gardiner, solemnly, “and it is written that God will punish the sinner unto the third and fourth generation.”
“And what is written shall stand true!” exclaimed the king, in a voice of thunder. “No mercy for evil-doers, no pity for criminals. The axe must fall upon the head of the guilty, the flames shall consume the bodies of criminals.”
“Sire, think of your high vocation!” exclaimed Anne Askew, in a tone of enthusiasm. “Reflect what a glorious name you have assumed to yourself in this land. You call yourself the head of the Church, and you want to rule and govern upon earth in God’s stead. Exercise mercy, then, for you entitle yourself king by the grace of God.”
“No, I do not call myself king by God’s grace; I call myself king by God’s wrath!” exclaimed Henry, as he raised his arm menacingly. “It is my duty to send sinners to God; may He have mercy on them there above, if He will! I am the punishing judge, and I judge mercilessly, according to the law, without compassion. Let those whom I have condemned appeal to God, and may He have mercy upon them. I cannot do it, nor will I. Kings are here to punish, and they are like to God, not in His love, but in His avenging wrath.”
“Woe, then, woe to you and to all of us!” exclaimed Anne Askew. “Woe to you, King Henry, if what you now say is the truth! Then are they right, those men who are bound to yonder stakes, when they brand you with the name of tyrant; then is the Bishop of Rome right when he upbraids you as an apostate and degenerate son, and hurls his anathemas against you! Then you know not God, who is love and mercy; then you are no disciple of the Saviour, who has said, ‘Love your enemies, bless them that curse you.’ Woe to you, King Henry, if matters are really so bad with you; if--” “Silence, unhappy woman, silence!” exclaimed Catharine; and as she vehemently pushed away the furious girl she grasped the king’s hand, and pressed it to her lips. “Sire,” whispered she, with intense earnestness, “Sire, you told me just now that you loved me. Prove it by pardoning this maiden, and having consideration for her impassioned excitement. Prove it by allowing me to lead Anne Askew to her room and enjoin silence upon her.”
But at this moment the king was wholly inaccessible to any other feelings than those of anger and delight in blood.
He indignantly repelled Catharine, and without moving his sharp, penetrating look from the young maiden, he said in a quick, hollow tone: “Let her alone; let her speak; let no one dare to interrupt her!”
Catharine, trembling with anxiety and inwardly hurt at the harsh manner of the king, retired with a sigh to the embrasure of one of the windows.
Anne Askew had not noticed what was going on about her. She remained in that state of exaltation which cares for no consequences and which trembles before no danger. She would at this moment have gone to the stake with cheerful alacrity, and she almost longed for this blessed martyrdom.
“Speak, Anne Askew, speak!” commanded the king. “Tell me, do you know what the countess, for whose pardon you are beseeching me, has done? Know you why those four men were sent to the stake?”
“I do know, King Henry, by the wrath of God,” said the maiden, with burning passionateness. “I know why you have sent the noble countess to the slaughter-house, and why you will exercise no mercy toward her. She is of noble, of royal blood, and Cardinal Pole is her son. You would punish the son through the mother, and because you cannot throttle the cardinal, you murder his mother.”
“Oh, you are a very knowing child!” cried the king, with an inhuman, ironical laugh. “You know my most secret thoughts and my most hidden feelings. Without doubt you are a good papist, since the death of the popish countess fills you with such heart-rending grief. Then you must confess, at the least, that it is right to burn the four heretics!”
“Heretics!” exclaimed Anne, enthusiastically, “call you heretics those noble men who go gladly and boldly to death for their convictions and their faith? King Henry! King Henry! Woe to you if these men are condemned as heretics! They alone are the faithful, they are the true servants of God. They have freed themselves from human supremacy, and as you would not recognize the pope, so they will not recognize you as head of the Church! God alone, they say, is Lord of the Church and Master of their consciences, and who can be presumptuous enough to call them criminals?”
“I!” exclaimed Henry the Eighth, in a powerful tone. “I dare do it. I say that they are heretics, and that I will destroy them, will tread them all beneath my feet, all of them, all who think as they do! I say that I will shed the blood of these criminals, and prepare for them torments at which human nature will shudder and quake. God will manifest Himself by me in fire and blood! He has put the sword into my hand, and I will wield it for His glory. Like St. George, I will tread the dragon of heresy beneath my feet!”
And haughtily raising his crimsoned face and rolling his great bloodshot eyes wildly around the circle, he continued: “Hear this all of you who are here assembled; no mercy for heretics, no pardon for papists. It is I, I alone, whom the Lord our God has chosen and blessed as His hangman and executioner! I am the high-priest of His Church, and he who dares deny me, denies God; and he who is so presumptuous as to do reverence to any other head of the Church, is a priest of Baal and kneels to an idolatrous image. Kneel down all of you before me, and reverence in me God, whose earthly representative I am, and who reveals Himself through me in His fearful and exalted majesty. Kneel down, for I am sole head of the Church and high-priest of our God!”
And as if at one blow all knees bent; all those haughty cavaliers, those ladies sparkling with jewels and gold, even the two bishops and the queen fell upon the ground.
The king gazed for a moment on this sight, and, with radiant looks and a smile of triumph, his eyes ran over this assembly, consisting of the noblest of his kingdom, humbled before him.
Suddenly they were fastened on Anne Askew.
She alone had not bent her knee, but stood in the midst of the kneelers, proud and upright as the king himself. A dark cloud passed over the king’s countenance.
“You obey not my command?” asked he.
She shook her curly head and fixed on him a steady, piercing look. “No,” said she, “like those over yonder whose last death-groan we even now hear, like them, I say: To God alone is honor due, and He alone is Lord of His Church! If you wish me to bend my knee before you as my king, I will do it, but I bow not to you as the head of the holy Church!”
A murmur of surprise flew through the assembly, and every eye was turned with fear and amazement on this bold young girl, who confronted the king with a countenance smiling and glowing with enthusiasm.
At a sign from Henry the kneelers arose and awaited in breathless silence the terrible scene that was coming.
A pause ensued. King Henry himself was struggling for breath, and needed a moment to collect himself.
Not as though wrath and passion had deprived him of speech. He was neither wrathful nor passionate, and it was only joy that obstructed his breathing--the joy of having again found a victim with which he might satisfy his desire for blood, on whose agony he might feast his eyes, whose dying sigh he might greedily inhale.
The king was never more cheerful than when he had signed a death-warrant. For then he was in full enjoyment of his greatness as lord over the lives and deaths of millions of other men, and this feeling made him proud and happy, and fully conscious of his exalted position.
Hence, as he now turned to Anne Askew, his countenance was calm and serene, and his voice friendly, almost tender.
“Anne Askew,” said he, “do you know that the words you have now spoken make you guilty of high treason?”
“I know it, sire.”
“And you know what punishment awaits traitors?”
“Death, I know it.”
“Death by fire!” said the king with perfect calmness and composure. A hollow murmur ran through the assembly. Only one voice dared give utterance to the word mercy.
It was Catharine, the king’s consort, who spoke this one word. She stepped forward, and was about to rush to the king and once more implore his mercy and pity. But she felt herself gently held back. Archbishop Cranmer stood near her, regarding her with a serious and beseeching look.
“Compose yourself, compose yourself,” murmured he. “You cannot save her; she is lost. Think of yourself, and of the pure and holy religion whose protectress you are. Preserve yourself for your Church and your companions in the faith!”
“And must she die?” asked Catharine, whose eyes filled with tears as she looked toward the poor young child, who was confronting the king with such a beautiful and innocent smile.
“Perhaps we may still save her, but this is not the moment for it. Any opposition now would only irritate the king the more, and he might cause the girl to be instantly thrown into the flames of the fires still burning yonder! So let us be silent.”
“Yes, silence,” murmured Catharine, with a shudder, as she withdrew again to the embrasure of the window.
“Death by fire awaits you, Anne Askew!” repeated the king. “No mercy for the traitress who vilifies and scoffs at her king!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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5
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THE RIVALS.
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At the very moment when the king was pronouncing, in a voice almost exultant, Anne Askew’s sentence of death, one of the king’s cavaliers appeared on the threshold of the royal chamber and advanced toward the king.
He was a young man of noble and imposing appearance, whose lofty bearing contrasted strangely with the humble and submissive attitude of the rest of the courtiers. His tall, slim form was clad in a coat of mail glittering with gold; over his shoulders hung a velvet mantle decorated with a princely crown; and his head, covered with dark ringlets, was adorned with a cap embroidered with gold, from which a long white ostrich-feather drooped to his shoulder. His oval face presented the full type of aristocratic beauty; his cheeks were of a clear, transparent paleness; about his slightly pouting mouth played a smile, half contemptuous and half languid; the high, arched brow and delicately chiselled aquiline nose gave to his face an expression at once bold and thoughtful. The eyes alone were not in harmony with his face; they were neither languid like the mouth, nor pensive like the brow. All the fire and all the bold and wanton passion of youth shot from those dark, flashing eyes. When he looked down, he might have been taken for a completely worn-out, misanthropic aristocrat; but when he raised those ever-flashing and sparkling eyes, then was seen the young man full of dashing courage and ambitious desires, of passionate warmth and measureless pride.
He approached the king, as already stated, and as he bent his knee before him, he said in a full, pleasant voice: “Mercy, sire, mercy!”
The king stepped back in astonishment, and turned upon the bold speaker a look almost of amazement.
“Thomas Seymour!” said he. “Thomas, you have returned, then, and your first act is again an indiscretion and a piece of foolhardy rashness?”
The young man smiled. “I have returned,” said he, “that is to say, I have had a sea-fight with the Scots and taken from them four men-of-war. With these I hastened hither to present them to you, my king and lord, as a wedding-gift, and just as I entered the anteroom I heard your voice pronouncing a sentence of death. Was it not natural, then, that I, who bring you tidings of a victory, should have the heart to utter a prayer for mercy, for which, as it seems, none of these noble and proud cavaliers could summon up courage?”
“Ah!” said the king, evidently relieved and fetching a deep breath, “then you knew not at all for whom and for what you were imploring pardon?”
“Yet!” said the young man, and his bold glance ran with an expression of contempt over the whole assembly--“yet, I saw at once who the condemned must be, for I saw this young maiden forsaken by all as if stricken by the plague, standing alone in the midst of this exalted and brave company. And you well know, my noble king, that at court one recognizes the condemned and those fallen into disgrace by this, that every one flies from them, and nobody has the courage to touch such a leper even with the tip of his finger!”
King Henry smiled. “Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley, you are now, as ever, imprudent and hasty,” said he. “You beg for mercy without once knowing whether she for whom you beg it is worthy of mercy.”
“But I see that she is a woman,” said the intrepid young earl. “And a woman is always worthy of mercy, and it becomes every knight to come forward as her defender, were it but to pay homage to her sex, so fair and so frail, and yet so noble and mighty. Therefore I beg mercy for this young maiden!”
Catharine had listened to the young earl with throbbing heart and flushed cheeks. It was the first time that she had seen him, and yet she felt for him a warm sympathy, an almost tender anxiety.
“He will plunge himself into ruin,” murmured she; “he will not save Anne, but will make himself unhappy. My God, my God, have a little compassion and pity on my anguish!”
She now fixed her anxious gaze on the king, firmly resolved to rush to the help of the earl, who had so nobly and magnanimously interested himself in an innocent woman, should the wrath of her husband threaten him also. But, to her surprise, Henry’s face was perfectly serene and contented.
Like the wild beast, that, following its instinct, seeks its bloody prey only so long as it is hungry, so King Henry felt satiated for the day. Yonder glared the fires about the stake, at which four heretics were burned; there stood the scaffold on which the Countess of Somerset had just been executed; and now, within this hour, he had already found another new victim for death. Moreover, Thomas Seymour had always been his favorite. His audacity, his liveliness, his energy, had always inspired the king with respect; and then, again, he so much resembled his sister, the beautiful Jane Seymour, Henry’s third wife.
“I cannot grant you this favor, Thomas,” said the king. “Justice must not be hindered in her course, and where she has passed sentence, mercy must not give her the lie; and it was the justice of your king which pronounced sentence at that moment. You were guilty, therefore, of a double wrong, for you not only besought mercy, but you also brought an accusation against my cavaliers. Do you really believe that, were this maiden’s cause a just one, no knight would have been found for her?”
“Yes, I really believe it,” cried the earl, with a laugh. “The sun of your favor had turned away from this poor girl, and in such a case your courtiers no longer see the figure wrapped in darkness.”
“You are mistaken, my lord; I have seen it,” suddenly said another voice, and a second cavalier advanced from the anteroom into the chamber. He approached the king, and, as he bent his knee before him, he said, in a loud, steady voice: “Sire, I also beg mercy for Anne Askew!”
At this moment was heard from that side of the room where the ladies stood, a low cry, and the pale, affrighted face of Lady Jane Douglas was for a moment raised above the heads of the other ladies. No one noticed it. All eyes were directed toward the group in the middle of the room: all looked with eager attention upon the king and these two young men, who dared protect one whom he had sentenced.
“Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey!” exclaimed the king; and now an expression of wrath passed over his countenance. “How! you, too, dare intercede for this girl? You, then, grudge Thomas Seymour the pre-eminence of being the most discreet man at my court?”
“I will not allow him, sire, to think that he is the bravest,” replied the young man, as he fixed on Thomas Seymour a look of haughty defiance, which the other answered by a cold, disdainful smile.
“Oh,” said he, with a shrug of his shoulders, “I willingly allow you, my dear Earl of Surrey, to tread behind me, at your convenience, the path, the safety of which I first tested at the peril of my life. You saw that I had not, as yet, lost either my head or my life in this reckless under taking, and that has given you courage to follow my example. That is a new proof of your prudent valor, my Honorable Earl of Surrey, and I must praise you for it.”
A hot flush suffused the noble face of the earl, his eyes shot lightning, and, trembling with rage, he laid his hand on his sword. “Praise from Thomas Seymour is--” “Silence!” interposed the king, imperatively. “It must not be said that two of the noblest cavaliers of my court have turned the day, which should be one of festivity to all of you, into a day of contention. I command you, therefore, to be reconciled. Shake hands, my lords, and let your reconciliation be sincere. I, the king command it!”
The young men gazed at each other with looks of hatred and smothered rage, and their eyes spoke the insulting and defiant words which their lips durst no longer utter. The king had ordered, and, however great and powerful they might be, the king was to be obeyed. They, therefore, extended their hands to each other, and muttered a few low, unintelligible words, which might be, perhaps, a mutual apology, but which neither of them understood.
“And now, sire,” said the Earl of Surrey, “now I venture to reiterate my prayer. Mercy, your majesty, mercy for Anne Askew!”
“And you, Thomas Seymour, do you also renew your petition?”
“No, I withdraw it. Earl Surrey protects her; I, therefore, retire, for without doubt she is a criminal; your majesty says so, and, therefore, it is so. It would ill become a Seymour to protect a person who sinned against the king.”
This new indirect attack on Earl Surrey seemed to make on all present a deep but very varied impression. Here, faces were seen to turn pale, and there, to light up with a malicious smile; here, compressed lips muttered words of threatening, there, a mouth opened to express approbation and agreement.
The king’s brow was clouded and troubled; the arrow which Earl Sudley had shot with so skilful a hand had hit. The king, ever suspicious and distrustful, felt so much the more disquieted as he saw that the greater part of his cavaliers evidently reckoned themselves friends of Henry Howard, and that the number of Seymour’s adherents was but trifling.
“These Howards are dangerous, and I will watch them carefully,” said the king to himself; and for the first time his eye rested with a dark and hostile look on Henry Howard’s noble countenance.
But Thomas Seymour, who wished only to make a thrust at his old enemy, had at the same time decided the fate of poor Anne Askew. It was now almost an impossibility to speak in her behalf, and to implore pardon for her was to become a partaker of her crime. Thomas Seymour had abandoned her, because, as traitress to her king, she had rendered herself unworthy of his protection. Who now would be so presumptuous as to still protect the traitress?
Henry Howard did it; he reiterated his supplication for Anne Askew’s pardon. But the king’s countenance grew darker and darker, and the courtiers watched with dread the coming of the moment when his wrath would dash in pieces the poor Earl of Surrey.
In the row of ladies also, here and there, a pale face was visible, and many a beautiful and beaming eye was dimmed with tears at the sight of this gallant and handsome cavalier, who was hazarding even his life for a woman.
“He is lost!” murmured Lady Jane Douglas; and, completely crushed and lifeless, she leaned for a moment against the wall. But she soon recovered herself, and her eye beamed with bold resolution. “I will try and save him!” she said to herself; and, with firm step, she advanced from the ladies’ ranks, and approached the king.
A murmur of applause ran through the company, and all fares brightened and all eyes were bent approvingly on Lady Jane. They knew that she was the queen’s friend, and an adherent of the new doctrine; it was, therefore, very marked and significant when she supported the Earl of Surrey in his magnanimous effort.
Lady Jane bowed her beautiful and haughty head before the king, and said, in her clear, silvery voice: “Sire, in the name of all the women, I also beseech you to pardon Anne Askew, because she is a woman. Lord Surrey has done so because a true knight can never be false to himself and his ever high and sacred obligation: to be the protector of those who are helpless and in peril is enough for him. A real gentleman asks not whether a woman is worthy of his protection; he grants it to her, simply because she is a woman, and needs his help. And while I, therefore, in the name of all the women, thank the Earl of Surrey for the assistance that he has been desirous to render to a woman, I unite my prayer with his, because it shall not be said that we women are always cowardly and timid, and never venture to hasten to the help of the distressed. I, therefore, ask mercy, sire, mercy for Anne Askew!”
“And I,” said the queen, as she again approached the king, “I add my prayers to hers, sire. To-day is the feast of love, my festival, sire! To-day, then, let love and mercy prevail.”
She looked at the king with so charming a smile, her eyes had an expression so radiant and happy, that the king could not withstand her.
He was, therefore, in the depths of his heart, ready to let the royal clemency prevail for this time; but he wanted a pretext for this, some way of bringing it about. He had solemnly vowed to pardon no heretic, and he might not break his word merely because the queen prayed for mercy.
“Well, then,” said he, after a pause, “I will comply with your request. I will pardon Anne Askew, provided she will retract, and solemnly abjure all that she has said. Are you satisfied with that, Catharine?”
“I am satisfied,” said she, sadly.
“And you, Lady Jane Douglas, and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey?”
“We are satisfied.”
All eyes were now turned again upon Anne Askew, who, although every one was occupied by her concerns, had been entirely overlooked and left unnoticed.
Nor had she taken any more notice of the company than they of her. She had scarcely observed what was going on about her. She stood leaning against the open door leading to the balcony, and gazed at the flaming horizon. Her soul was with those pious martyrs, for whom she was sending up her heart-felt prayers to God, and whom she, in her feverish exaltation, envied their death of torture. Entirely borne away from the present, she had heard neither the petitions of those who protected her, nor the king’s reply.
A hand laid upon her shoulder roused her from her reverie.
It was Catharine, the young queen, who stood near her.
“Anne Askew,” said she, in a hurried whisper, “if your life is dear to you, comply with the king’s demand.”
She seized the young girl’s hand, and led her to the king.
“Sire,” said she, in a full voice, “forgive the exalted and impassioned agony of a poor girl, who has now, for the first time, been witness of an execution, and whose mind has been so much impressed by it that she is scarcely conscious of the mad and criminal words that she has uttered before you! Pardon her, then, your majesty, for she is prepared cheerfully to retract.”
A cry of amazement burst from Anne’s lips, and her eyes flashed with anger, as she dashed the queen’s hand away from her.
“I retract!” exclaimed she, with a contemptuous smile. “Never, my lady, never! No! as sure as I hope for God to be gracious to me in my last hour, I retract not! It is true, it was agony and horror that made me speak; but what I have spoken is yet, nevertheless, the truth. Horror caused me to speak, and forced me to show my soul undisguised. No, I retract not! I tell you, they who have been executed over yonder are holy martyrs, who have ascended to God, there to enter an accusation against their royal hangman. Ay, they are holy, for eternal truth had illumined their souls, and it beamed about their faces bright as the flames of the fagots into which the murderous hand of an unrighteous judge had cast them. Ah, I must retract! I, forsooth, am to do as did Shaxton, the miserable and unfaithful servant of his God, who, from fear of earthly death, denied the eternal truth, and in blaspheming pusillanimity perjured himself concerning the holy doctrine. [Footnote: Burnet, vol. i, p. 341] King Henry, I say unto you, beware of dissemblers and perjurers; beware of your own haughty and arrogant thoughts. The blood of martyrs cries to Heaven against you, and the time will come when God will be as merciless to you as you have been to the noblest of your subjects! You deliver them over to the murderous flames, because they will not believe what the priests of Baal preach; because they will not believe in the real transubstantiation of the chalice; because they deny that the natural body of Christ is, after the sacrament, contained in the sacrament, no matter whether the priest be a good or a bad man. [Footnote: Ibid.] You give them over to the executioner, because they serve the truth, and are faithful followers of the Lord their God!”
“And you share the views of these people whom you call martyrs?” asked the king, as Anne Askew now paused for a moment and struggled for breath.
“Yes, I share them!”
“You deny, then, the truth of the six articles?”
“I deny them!”
“You do not see in me the head of the Church?”
“God only is Head and Lord of the Church!”
A pause followed--a fearful, awful pause.
Every one felt that for this poor young girl there was no hope, no possible escape; that her doom was irrevocably sealed.
There was a smile on the king’s countenance.
The courtiers knew that smile, and feared it yet more than the king’s raging wrath.
When the king thus smiled, he had taken his resolve. Then there was with him no possible vacillation or hesitation, but the sentence of death was resolved on, and his bloodthirsty soul rejoiced over a new victim.
“My Lord Bishop of Winchester,” said the king, at length, “come hither.”
Gardiner drew near and placed himself by Anne Askew, who gazed at him with angry, contemptuous looks.
“In the name of the law I command you to arrest this heretic, and hand her over to the spiritual court,” continued the king. “She is damned and lost. She shall be punished as she deserves!”
Gardiner laid his hand on Anne Askew’s shoulder. “In the name of the law of God, I arrest you!” said he, solemnly.
Not a word more was spoken. The lord chief justice had silently followed a sign from Gardiner, and touching Anne Askew with his staff, ordered the soldiers to conduct her thence.
With a smile, Anne Askew offered them her hand, and surrounded by the soldiers and followed by the Bishop of Winchester and the lord chief justice, walked erect and proudly out of the room.
The courtiers had divided and opened a passage for Anne and her attendants. Now their ranks closed again, as the sea closes and flows calmly on when it has just received a corpse. To them all Anne Askew was already a corpse, as one buried. The waves had swept over her and all was again serene and bright.
The king extended his hand to his young wife, and, bending down, whispered in her ear a few words, which nobody understood, but which made the young queen tremble and blush.
The king, who observed this, laughed and impressed a kiss on her forehead. Then he turned to his court; “Now, good-night, my lords and gentlemen,” said he, with a gracious inclination of the head. “The feast is at an end, and we need rest.”
“Forget not the Princess Elizabeth,” whispered Archbishop Cranmer, as he took leave of Catharine, and pressed to his lips her proffered hand.
“I will not forget her,” murmured Catharine, and, with throbbing heart and trembling with inward dread, she saw them all retire, and leave her alone with the king.
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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6
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THE INTERCESSION.
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“And now, Kate,” said the king, when all had withdrawn, and he was again alone with her, “now let us forget everything, save that we love each other.”
He embraced her and with ardor pressed her to his breast. Wearied to death, she bowed her head on his shoulder and lay there like a shattered rose, completely broken, completely passive.
“You give me no kiss, Kate?” said Henry, with a smile. “Are you then yet angry with me that I did not comply with your first request? But what would you have me do, child? How, indeed, shall I keep the crimson of my royal mantle always fresh and bright, unless I continually dye it anew in the blood of criminals? Only he who punishes and destroys is truly a king, and trembling mankind will acknowledge him as such. The tender-hearted and gracious king it despises, and his pitiful weakness it laughs to scorn. Bah! Humanity is such a wretched, miserable thing, that it only respects and acknowledges him who makes it tremble. And people are such contemptible, foolish children, that they have respect only for him who makes them feel the lash daily, and every now and then whips a few of them to death. Look at me, Kate: where is there a king who has reigned longer and more happily than I? whom the people love more and obey better than me? This arises from the fact that I have already signed more than two hundred death-warrants, [Footnote: Tytler, p. 428. Leti, vol. i, p. 187.] and because every one believes that, if he does not obey me, I will without delay send his head after the others!”
“Oh, you say you love me,” murmured Catharine, “and you speak only of blood and death while you are with me.”
The king laughed. “You are right, Kate,” said he, “and yet, believe me, there are other thoughts slumbering in the depths of my heart, and could you look down into it, you would not accuse me of coldness and unkindness. I love you truly, my dear, virgin bride, and, to prove it, you shall now ask a favor of me. Yes, Kate, make me a request, and, whatever it may be, I pledge you my royal word, it shall be granted you. Now, Kate, think, what will please you? Will you have brilliants, or a castle by the sea, or, perhaps, a yacht? Would you like fine horses, or it may be some one has offended you, and you would like his head? If so, tell me, Kate, and you shall have his head; a wink from me, and it drops at your feet. For I am almighty and all-powerful, and no one is so innocent and pure, that my will cannot find in him a crime which will cost him his life. Speak, then, Kate; what would you have? What will gladden your heart?”
Catharine smiled in spite of her secret fear and horror. “Sire,” said she, “you have given me so many brilliants, that I can shine and glitter with them, as night does with her stars. If you give me a castle by the sea, that is, at the same time, banishing me from Whitehall and your presence; I wish, therefore, for no castle of my own. I wish only to dwell with you in your castles, and my king’s abode shall be my only residence.”
“Beautifully and wisely spoken,” said the king; “I will remember these words if ever your enemies endeavor to send you to a dwelling and a castle other than that which your king occupies. The Tower is also a castle, Kate, but I give you my royal word you shall never occupy that castle. You want no treasures and no castles? It is, then, somebody’s head that you demand of me?”
“Yes, sire, it is the head of some one!”
“Ah, I guessed it, then,” said the king with a laugh. “Now speak, my little bloodthirsty queen, whose head will you have? Who shall be brought to the block?”
“Sire, it is true I ask you for the head of a person,” said Catharine, in a tender, earnest tone, “but I wish not that head to fall, but to be lifted up. I beg you for a human life--not to destroy it, but, on the contrary, to adorn it with happiness and joy. I wish to drag no one to prison, but to restore to one, dearly beloved, the freedom, happiness, and splendid position which belong to her. Sire, you have permitted me to ask a favor. Now, then, I beg you to call the Princess Elizabeth to court. Let her reside with us at Whitehall. Allow her to be ever near me, and share my happiness and glory. Sire, only yesterday the Princess Elizabeth was far above me in rank and position, but since your all-powerful might and grace have to-day elevated me above all other women, I may now love the Princess Elizabeth as my sister and dearest friend. Grant me this, my king! Let Elizabeth come to us at Whitehall, and enjoy at our court the honor which is her due.” [Footnote: Leti, vol. i. p. 147. Tytler. p. 410.]
The king did not reply immediately; but in his quiet and smiling air one could read that his young consort’s request had not angered him. Something like an emotion flitted across his face, and his eyes were for a moment dimmed with tears. Perhaps just then a pale, soul-harrowing phantom passed before his mind, and a glance at the past showed him the beautiful and unfortunate mother [Footnote: Ann Boleyn] of Elizabeth, whom he had sentenced to a cruel death at the hands of the public executioner, and whose last word nevertheless was a blessing and a message of love for him.
He passionately seized Catharine’s hand and pressed it to his lips. “I thank you! You are unselfish and generous. That is a very rare quality, and I shall always highly esteem you for it. But you are also brave and courageous, for you have dared what nobody before you has dared; you have twice on the same evening interceded for one condemned and one fallen into disgrace. The fortunate, and those favored by me, have always had many friends, but I have never yet seen that the unfortunate and the exiled have also found friends. You are different from these miserable, cringing courtiers; different from this deceitful and trembling crowd, that with chattering teeth fall down and worship me as their god and lord; different from these pitiful, good-for-nothing mortals, who call themselves my people, and who allow me to yoke them up, because they are like the ox, which is obedient and serviceable, only because he is so stupid as not to know his own might and strength. Ah, believe me, Kate, I would be a milder and more merciful king, if the people were not such an utterly stupid and contemptible thing; a dog, which is so much the more submissive and gentle the more you maltreat him. You, Kate, you are different, and I am glad of it. You know, I have forever banished Elizabeth from my court and from my heart, and still you intercede for her. That is noble of you, and I love you for it, and grant you your request. And that you may see how I love and trust you, I will now reveal to you a secret: I have long since wished to have Elizabeth with me, but I was ashamed, even to myself, of this weakness. I have long yearned once again to look into my daughter’s large deep eyes, to be a kind and tender father to her, and make some amends to her for the wrong I perhaps may have done to her mother. For sometimes, in sleepless nights, Anne’s beautiful face comes up before me and gazes at me with mournful, mild look, and my whole heart shudders before it. But I could not confess this to anybody, for then they might say that I repented what I had done. A king must be infallible, like God himself, and never, through regret or desire to compensate, confess that he is a weak, erring mortal, like others. You see why I repressed my longing and parental tenderness, which was suspected by no one, and appeared to be a heartless father, because nobody would help me and make it easy for me to be a tender father. Ah, these courtiers! They are so stupid, that they can understand only just what is echoed in our words; but what our heart says, and longs for, of that they know nothing. But you know, Kate; you are an acute woman, and a high-minded one besides. Come, Kate, a thankful father gives you this kiss, and this, ay, this, your husband gives you, my beautiful, charming queen.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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7
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HENRY THE EIGHTH AND HIS WIVES.
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The calm of night had now succeeded to the tempest of the day, and after so much bustle, festivity, and rejoicing, deep quiet now reigned in the palace of Whitehall, and throughout London. The happy subjects of King Henry might, without danger, remain for a few hours at least in their houses, and behind closed shutters and bolted doors, either slumber and dream, or give themselves to their devotional exercises, on account of which they had that day, perhaps, been denounced as malefactors. They might, for a few hours, resign themselves to the sweet, blissful dream of being freemen untrammelled in belief and thought. For King Henry slept, and likewise Gardiner and the lord chancellor had closed their watchful, prying, devout, murderous eyes, and reposed awhile from the Christian employment of ferreting out heretics.
And like the king, the entire households of both their majesties were also asleep and resting from the festivities of the royal wedding-day, which, in pomp and splendor, by far surpassed the five preceding marriages.
It appeared, however, as though not all the court officials were taking rest, and following the example of the king. For in a chamber, not far from that of the royal pair, one could perceive, from the bright beams streaming from the windows, in spite of the heavy damask curtains which veiled them, that the lights were not yet extinguished; and he who looked more closely would have observed that now and then a human shadow was portrayed upon the curtain.
So the occupant of this chamber had not yet gone to rest, and harassing must have been the thoughts which cause him to move so restlessly to and fro.
This chamber was occupied by Lady Jane Douglas, first maid of honor to the queen. The powerful influence of Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, had seconded Catharine’s wish to have near her the dear friend of her youth, and, without suspecting it, the queen had given a helping hand to bring nearer to their accomplishment the schemes which the hypocritical Gardiner was directing against her.
For Catharine knew not what changes had taken place in the character of her friend in the four years in which she had not seen her. She did not suspect how fatal her sojourn in the strongly Romish city of Dublin had been to the easily impressible mind of her early playmate, and how much it had transformed her whole being. Lady Jane, once so sprightly and gay, had become a bigoted Romanist, who, with fanatical zeal, believed that she was serving God when she served the Church, and paid unreserved obedience to her priests.
Lady Jane Douglas had therefore--thanks to her fanaticism and the teachings of the priests--become a complete dissembler. She could smile, while in her heart she secretly brooded over hatred and revenge. She could kiss the lips of those whose destruction she had perhaps just sworn. She could preserve a harmless, innocent air, while she observed everything, and took notice of every breath, every smile, every movement of the eyelashes.
Hence it was very important for Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, to bring his “friend” of the queen to court, and make of this disciple of Loyola an ally and friend.
Lady Jane Douglas was alone; and, pacing up and down her room, she thought over the events of the day.
Now, that no one was observing her, she had laid aside that gentle, serious mien, which one was wont to see about her at other times; her countenance betrayed in rapid changes all the various sad and cheerful, tempestuous and tender feelings which agitated her.
She who had hitherto had only one aim before her eyes, to serve the Church, and to consecrate her whole life to this service; she whose heart had been hitherto open only to ambition and devotion, she felt to-day wholly new and never-suspected feelings springing up within her. A new thought had entered into her life, the woman was awakened in her, and beat violently at that heart which devotion had overlaid with a hard coating.
She had tried to collect herself in prayer, and to fill her soul so entirely with the idea of God and her Church, that no earthly thought or desire could find place therein. But ever and again arose before her mind’s eye the noble countenance of Henry Howard, ever and again she fancied that she heard his earnest, melodious voice, which made her heart shake and tremble like a magical incantation. She had at first struggled against these sweet fancies, which forced upon her such strange and undreamed-of thoughts; but at length the woman in her got the better of the fanatical Romanist, and, dropping into a seat, she surrendered herself to her dreams and fancies.
“Has he recognized me?” asked she of herself. “Does he still remember that a year ago we saw each other daily at the king’s court in Dublin?”
“But no,” added she mournfully, “he knows nothing of it. He had then eyes and sense only for his young wife. Ah, and she was beautiful and lovely as one of the Graces. But I, am not I also beautiful? and have not the noblest cavaliers paid me homage, and sighed for me in unavailing love? How comes it, then, that where I would please, there I am always overlooked? How comes it, that the only two men, for whose notice I ever cared, have never shown any preference for me? I felt that I loved Henry Howard, but this love was a sin, for the Earl of Surrey was married. I therefore tore my heart from him by violence, and gave it to God, because the only man whom I could love did not return my affection. But even God and devotion are not able to entirely fill a woman’s heart. In my breast there was still room for ambition; and since I could not be a happy wife, I would at least be a powerful queen. Oh, everything was so well devised, so nicely arranged! Gardiner had already spoken of me to the king, and inclined him to his plan; and while I was hastening at his call from Duma, hither, this little Catharine Parr comes between and snatches him from me, and overturns all our schemes. I will never forgive her. I will find a way to revenge myself. I will force her to leave this place, which belongs to me, and if there is no other way for it, she must go the way of the scaffold, as did Catharine Howard. I will be Queen of England, I will--” She suddenly interrupted her soliloquy, and listened. She thought she heard a slight knock at the door. She was not mistaken; this knock was now repeated, and indeed with a peculiar, significant stroke.
“It is my father!” said Lady Jane, and, as she resumed again her grave and quiet air, she proceeded to open the door.
“Ah, you expected me, then?” said Lord Archibald Douglas, kissing his daughter’s forehead.
“Yes, I expected you, my father,” replied Lady Jane with a smile. “I knew that you would come to communicate to me your experiences and observations during the day, and to give me directions for the future.”
The earl seated himself on the ottoman, and drew his daughter down by him.
“No one can overhear us, can they?”
“Nobody, my father! My women are sleeping in the fourth chamber from here, and I have myself fastened the intervening doors. The anteroom through which you came is, as you know, entirely empty, and nobody can conceal himself there. It remains, then, only to fasten the door leading thence into the corridor, in order to be secure from interruption.”
She hastened into the anteroom to fasten the door.
“Now, my father, we are secure from listeners,” said she, as she returned and resumed her place on the ottoman.
“And the walls, my child? know you whether or no the walls are safe? You look at me with an expression of doubt and surprise! My God, what a harmless and innocent little maiden you still are! Have I not constantly reiterated the great and wise lesson, ‘Doubt everything and mistrust everything, even what you see.’ He who will make his fortune at court, must first of all mistrust everybody, and consider everybody his enemy, whom he is to flatter, because he can do him harm, and whom he is to hug and kiss, until in some happy embrace he can either plunge a dagger into his breast wholly unobserved, or pour poison into his mouth. Trust neither men nor walls, Jane, for I tell you, however smooth and innocent both may appear, still there may be found an ambuscade behind the smooth exterior. But I will for the present believe that these walls are innocent, and conceal no listeners. I will believe it, because I know this room. Those were fine and charming days in which I became acquainted with it. Then I was yet young and handsome, and King Henry’s sister was not yet married to the King of Scotland, and we loved each other so dearly. Ah, I could relate to you wonderful stories of those happy days. I could--” “But, my dear father,” interrupted Lady Jane, secretly trembling at the terrible prospect of being forced to listen yet again to the story of his youthful love, which she had already heard times without number, “but, my dear father, doubtless you have not come hither so late at night in order to relate to me what I--forgive me, my lord--what I long since knew. You will rather communicate to me what your keen and unerring glance has discovered here.”
“It is true,” said Lord Douglas, sadly. “I now sometimes become loquacious--a sure sign that I am growing old. I have, by no means, come here to speak of the past, but of the present. Let us, then, speak of it. Ah, I have to-day perceived much, seen much, observed much, and the result of my observations is, you will be King Henry’s seventh wife.”
“Impossible, my lord!” exclaimed Lady Jane, whose countenance, in spite of her will, assumed an expression of delight.
Her father remarked it. “My child,” said he, “I observe that you have not yet your features entirely under your control. You aimed just now, for example, to play the coy and humble, and yet your face had the expression of proud satisfaction. But this by the way! The principal thing is, you will be King Henry’s seventh wife! But in order to become so, there is need for great heedfulness, a complete knowledge of present relations, constant observation of all persons, impenetrable dissimulation, and lastly, above all things, a very intimate and profound knowledge of the king, of the history of his reign, and of his character. Do you possess this knowledge? Know you what it is to wish to become King Henry’s seventh wife, and how you must begin in order to attain this? Have you studied Henry’s character?”
“A little, perhaps, but certainly not sufficiently. For, as you know, my lord, worldly matters have lain upon my heart less than the holy Church, to whose service I have consecrated myself, and to which I would have presented my whole being, my whole soul, my whole heart, as a sacrifice, had not you yourself determined otherwise concerning me. Ah, my father, had I been allowed to follow my inclination, I would have retired into a convent in Scotland in order to spend my life in quiet contemplation and pious penances, and close my soul and ear to every profane sound. But my wishes have not been regarded; and, by the mouth of His venerable and holy priests, God has commanded me to remain in the world, and take upon myself the yoke of greatness and regal splendor. If I then struggle and strive to become queen, this is done, not because the vain pomp and glory allure me, but solely because through me the Church, out of which is no salvation, may find a fulcrum to operate on this weak and fickle king, and because I am to bring him back again to the only true faith.”
“Very well played!” cried her father, who had stared her steadily in the face while she was speaking. “On my word, very well played. Everything was in perfect harmony, the gesticulation, the play of the eyes, and the voice. My daughter, I withdraw my censure. You have perfect control over yourself. But let us speak of King Henry. We will now subject him to a thorough analysis, and no fibre of his heart, no atom of his brain shall remain unnoticed by us. We will observe him in his domestic, his political, and his religious life, and get a perfectly clear view of every peculiarity of his character, in order that we may deal with him accordingly. Let us, then, speak first of his wives. Their lives and deaths afford you excellent finger-posts; for I do not deny that it is an extremely difficult and dangerous undertaking to be Henry’s consort. There is needed for it much personal courage and very great self-control. Know you which, of all his wives, possessed these in the highest degree? It was his first consort, Catharine of Aragon! By Heaven, she was a sensible woman, and born a queen! Henry, avaricious as he was, would gladly have given the best jewel in his crown, if he could have detected but a shadow, the slightest trace of unfaithfulness in her. But there was absolutely no means of sending this woman to the scaffold, and at that time he was as yet too cowardly and too virtuous to put her out of the way by poison. He, therefore, endured her long, until she was an old woman with gray hairs, and disagreeable for his eyes to look upon. So after he had been married to her seventeen years, the good, pious king was all at once seized with a conscientious scruple, and because he had read in the Bible, ‘Thou shalt not marry thy sister,’ dreadful pangs of conscience came upon the noble and crafty monarch. He fell upon his knees and beat his breast, and cried: ‘I have committed a great sin; for I have married my brother’s wife, and consequently my sister. But I will make amends for it. I will dissolve this adulterous marriage!’ --Do you know, child, why he would dissolve it?”
“Because he loved Anne Boleyn!” said Jane, with a smile.
“Perfectly correct! Catharine had grown old, and Henry was still a young man, and his blood shot through his veins like streams of fire. Hut he was yet somewhat virtuous and timid, and the main peculiarity of his character was as yet undeveloped. He was not yet bloodthirsty, that is to say, he had not yet licked blood. But you will see how with each new queen his desire for blood increased, till at length it has now become a wasting disease. Had he then had the system of lies that he now has, he would somehow have bribed a slanderer, who would have declared that he was Catharine’s lover. But he was yet so innocent; he wanted yet to gratify his darling lusts in a perfectly legal way. So Anne Boleyn must become his queen, that he might love her. And in order to attain this, he threw down the glove to the whole world, became an enemy to the pope, and set himself in open opposition to the holy head of the Church. Because the Holy Father would not dissolve his marriage, King Henry became an apostate and atheist. He constituted himself head of his Church, and, by virtue of his authority as such, he declared his marriage with Catharine of Aragon null and void. He said that he had not in his heart given his consent to this marriage, and that it had not consequently been properly consummated. [Footnote: Burnet, vol. i, p. 37.] It is true, Catharine had in the Princess Mary a living witness of the consummation of her marriage, but what did the enamored and selfish king care about that? Princess Mary was declared a bastard, and the queen was now to be nothing more than the widow of the Prince of Wales. It was strictly forbidden to longer give the title and to show the honor due to a queen, to the woman who for seventeen years had been Queen of England, and had been treated and honored as such. No one was permitted to call her anything but the Princess of Wales; and that nothing might disturb the good people or the noble queen herself in this illusion, Catharine was banished from the court and exiled to a castle, which she had once occupied as consort of Arthur, Prince of Wales. And Henry likewise allowed her only the attendance and pension which the law appoints to the widow of the Prince of Wales. [Footnote: Burnet, vol. i, p. 120.]
“I have ever held this to be one of the most prudent and subtle acts of our exalted king, and in the whole history of this divorce the king conducted himself with admirable consistency and resolution. But this is to say, he was excited by opposition. Mark this, then, my child, for this is the reason why I have spoken to you of these things so much at length. Mark this, then: King Henry is every way entirely unable to bear contradiction, or to be subjected to restraint. If you wish to win him to any purpose, you must try to draw him from it; you must surround it with difficulties and hinderances. Therefore show yourself coy and indifferent; that will excite him. Do not court his looks; then will he seek to encounter yours. And when finally he loves you, dwell so long on your virtue and your conscience, that at length Henry, in order to quiet your conscience, will send this troublesome Catharine Parr to the block, or do as he did with Catharine of Aragon, and declare that he did not mentally give his consent to this marriage, and therefore Catharine is no queen, but only Lord Neville’s widow. Ah, since he made himself high-priest of his Church, there is no impediment for him in matters of this kind, for only God is mightier than he.
“The beautiful Anne Boleyn, Henry’s second wife, proved this. I have seen her often, and I tell you, Jane, she was of wondrous beauty. Whoever looked upon her, could not but love her, and he whom she smiled upon felt himself fascinated and glorified. When she had borne to the king the Princess Elizabeth, I heard him say, that he had attained the summit of his happiness, the goal of his wishes, for the queen had borne him a daughter, and so there was a regular and legitimate successor to his throne. But this happiness lasted only a brief time.
“The king conceived one day that Anne Boleyn was not, as he had hitherto believed, the most beautiful woman in the world; but that there were women still more beautiful at his court, who therefore had a stronger vocation to become Queen of England. He had seen Jane Seymour, and she without doubt was handsomer than Anne Boleyn, for she was not as yet the king’s consort, and there was an obstacle to his possession of her--the Queen Anne Boleyn. This obstacle must be got out of the way.
“Henry, by virtue of his plentitude of power, might again have been divorced from his wife, but he did not like to repeat himself, he wished to be always original; and no one was to be allowed to say that his divorces were only the cloak of his capricious lewdness.
“He had divorced Catharine of Aragon on account of conscientious scruples; therefore, some other means must be devised for Anne Boleyn.
“The shortest way to be rid of her was the scaffold. Why should not Anne travel that road, since so many had gone it before her? for a new force had entered into the king’s life: the tiger had licked blood! His instinct was aroused, and he recoiled no more from those crimson rills which flowed in the veins of his subjects.
“He had given Lady Anne Boleyn the crimson mantle of royalty, why then should she not give him her crimson blood? For this there was wanted only a pretext, and this was soon found. Lady Rochfort was Jane Seymour’s aunt, and she found some men, of whom she asserted that they had been lovers of the fair Anne Boleyn. She, as the queen’s first lady of the bed-chamber, could of course give the most minute particulars concerning the matter, and the king believed her. He believed her, though these four pretended lovers of the queen, who were executed for their crime, all, with the exception of a single one, asseverated that Anne Boleyn was innocent, and that they had never been in her presence. The only one who accused the queen of illicit intercourse with him was James Smeaton, a musician. [Footnote: Tytler.] But he had been promised his life for this confession. However, it was not thought advisable to keep this promise, for fear that, when confronted with the queen, he might not have the strength to sustain his assertion. But not to be altogether unthankful to him for so useful a confession, they showed him the favor of not executing him with the axe, but the more agreeable and easier death of hanging was vouchsafed to him. [Footnote: Burnet, vol. i, p. 205.]
“So the fair and lovely Anne Boleyn must lay her head upon the block. The day on which this took place, the king had ordered a great hunt, and early that morning we rode out to Epping Forest. The king was at first unusually cheerful and humorous, and he commanded me to ride near him, and tell him something from the chronique scandaleuse of our court. He laughed at my spiteful remarks, and the worse I calumniated, the merrier was the king. Finally, we halted; the king had talked and laughed so much that he had at last become hungry. So he encamped under an oak, and, in the midst of his suite and his dogs, he took a breakfast, which pleased him very much, although he had now become a little quieter and more silent, and sometimes turned his face toward the direction of London with visible restlessness and anxiety. But suddenly was heard from that direction the dull sound of a cannon. We all knew that this was the signal which was to make known to the king that Anne Boleyn’s head had fallen. We knew it, and a shudder ran through our whole frames. The king alone smiled, and as he arose and took his weapon from my hand, he said, with cheerful face, ‘It is done, the business is finished. Unleash the dogs, and let us follow the boar.’ [Footnote: The king’s very words. Tytler, p. 383. The oak under which this took place is still pointed out in Epping Forest, and in fact is not less remarkable as the oak of Charles II.]
“That,” said Lord Douglas, sadly, “that was King Henry’s funeral discourse over his charming and innocent wife.”
“Do you regret her, my father?” asked Lady Jane, with surprise. “But Anne Boleyn was, it seems to me, an enemy of our Church, and an adherent of the accursed new doctrine.”
Her father shrugged his shoulders almost contemptuously. That did not prevent Lady Anne from being one of the fairest and loveliest women of Old England. And, besides, much as she inclined to the new doctrine, she did us essential good service, for she it was who bore the blame of Thomas More’s death. Since he had not approved her marriage with the king, she hated him, as the king hated him because he would not take the oath of supremacy. Henry, however, would have spared him, for, at that time, he still possessed some respect for learning and virtue, and Thomas More was so renowned a scholar that the king held him in reverence. But Anne Boleyn demanded his death, and so Thomas More must be executed. Oh, believe me, Jane, that was an important and sad hour for all England, the hour when Thomas More laid his head upon the block. We only, we gay people in the palace of Whitehall, we were cheerful and merry. We were dancing a new kind of dance, the music of which was written by the king himself, for you know the king is not merely an author, but also a composer, and as he now writes pious books, so he then composed dances. [Footnote: Granger’s “Biographical History of England,” vol. I, p. 137. of Tytler, p. 354.] That evening, after we had danced till we were tired, we played cards. Just as I had won a few guineas from the king, the lieutenant of the Tower came with the tidings that the execution was over, and gave us a description of the last moments of the great scholar. The king threw down his cards, and, turning an angry look on Anne Boleyn, said, in an agitated voice, ‘You are to blame for the death of this man!’ Then he arose and withdrew to his apartments, while no one was permitted to follow him, not even the queen. [Footnote: Tytler, p. 354] You see, then, that Anne Boleyn had a claim on our gratitude, for the death of Thomas More delivered Old England from another great peril. Melanchthon and Bucer, and with them several of the greatest pulpit orators of Germany, had set out to come to London, and, as delegates of the Germanic Protestant princes, to nominate the king as head of their alliance. But the terrible news of the execution of their friend frightened them back, and caused them to return when half-way here. [Footnote: Tytler, p. 357. Leti, vol. I, p. 180. Granger, vol. I, p. 119.]
“Peace, then, to the ashes of unhappy Anne Boleyn! However, she was avenged too, avenged on her successor and rival, for whose sake she was made to mount the scaffold--avenged on Jane Seymour.”
“But she was the king’s beloved wife,” said Jane, “and when she died the king mourned for her two years.”
“He mourned!” exclaimed Lord Douglas, contemptuously. “He has mourned for all his wives. Even for Anne Boleyn he put on mourning, and in his white mourning apparel, the day after Anne’s execution, he led Jane Seymour to the marriage altar! This outward mourning, what does it signify? Anne Boleyn also mourned for Catharine of Aragon, whom she had pushed from the throne. For eight weeks she was seen in yellow mourning on account of Henry’s first wife; but Anne Boleyn was a shrewd woman, and she knew very well that the yellow mourning dress was exceedingly becoming to her.”
“But the king’s mourning was not merely external,” said Lady Jane. “He mourned really, for it was two years before he resolved on a new marriage.”
Earl Douglas laughed. “But he cheered himself during these two years of widowhood with a very beautiful mistress, the French Marchioness de Montreuil, and he would have married her had not the prudent beauty preferred returning to France, because she found it altogether too dangerous to become Henry’s consort. For it is not to be denied, a baleful star hovers over Henry’s queens, and none of them has descended from the throne in a natural way.”
“Yet, father, Jane Seymour did so in a very natural way; she died in childbed.”
“Well, yes, in childbed. And yet by no natural death, for she could have been saved. But Henry did not wish to save her. His love had already grown cool, and when the physicians asked him whether they should save the mother or the child, he replied, ‘Save the child, and let the mother die. I can get wives enough.’ [Footnote: Burnet.] Ah, my daughter, I hope you may not die such a natural death as Jane Seymour did, for whom, as you say, the king mourned two years. But after that period, something new, something altogether extraordinary happened to the king. He fell in love with a picture, and because, in his proud self-conceit, he was convinced that the fine picture which Holbein had made of him, was not at all flattered, but entirely true to nature, it did not occur to him that Holbein’s likeness of the Princess Anne of Cleves might be somewhat flattered, and not altogether faithful. So the king fell in love with a picture, and sent ambassadors to Germany to bring the original of the portrait to England as his bride. He himself went to meet her at Rochester, where she was to land. Ah, my child, I have witnessed many queer and droll things in my eventful life, but the scene at Rochester, however, is among my most spicy recollections. The king was as enthusiastic as a poet, and deep in love as a youth of twenty, and so began our romantic wedding-trip, on which Henry disguised himself and took part in it, assuming the name of my cousin. As the king’s master of horse, I was honored with the commission of carrying to the young queen the greeting of her ardent husband, and begging her to receive the knight, who would deliver to her a present from the king. She granted my request with a grin which made visible a frightful row of yellow teeth. I opened the door, and invited the king to enter. Ah, you ought to have witnessed that scene! It is the only farcical passage in the bloody tragedy of Henry’s married life. You should have seen with what hasty impatience the king rushed in, then suddenly, at the sight of her, staggered back and stared at the princess. Slowly retiring, he silently thrust into my hand the rich present that he had brought, while at the same time he threw a look of flaming wrath on Lord Cromwell, who had brought him the portrait of the princess and won him to this marriage. The romantic, ardent lover vanished with this look at his beloved. He approached the princess again--this time not as a cavalier, but, with harsh and hasty words, he told her he was the king himself. He bade her welcome in a few words, and gave her a cold, formal embrace. He then hastily took my hand and drew me out of the room, beckoning the rest to follow him. And when at length we were out of the atmosphere of this poor ugly princess, and far enough away from her, the king, with angry countenance, said to Cromwell: ‘Call you that a beauty? She is a Flanders mare, but no princess.’ [Footnote: Burnet, p. 174. Tytler, p. 417.] Anne’s ugliness was surely given her of God, that by it, the Church, in which alone is salvation, might be delivered from the great danger which threatened it. For had Anne of Cleves, the sister, niece, granddaughter and aunt of all the Protestant princes of Germany, been beautiful, incalculable danger would have threatened our church. The king could not overcome his repugnance, and again his conscience, which always appeared to be most tender and scrupulous, when it was farthest from it and most regardless, must come to his aid.
“The king declared that he had been only in appearance, not in his innermost conscience, disposed to this marriage, from which he now shrank back, because it would be, properly speaking, nothing more than perfidy, perjury, and bigamy. For Anne’s father had once betrothed her to the son of the Duke of Lorraine, and had solemnly pledged him his word to give her as a wife to the young duke as soon as she was of age; rings had been exchanged and the marriage contract already drawn up. Anne of Cleves, therefore, was virtually already married, and Henry, with his tender conscience, could not make one already married his wife. [Footnote: Burnet.] He made her, therefore, his sister, and gave her the palace at Richmond for a residence, in case she wished to remain in England. She accepted it; her blood, which crept coldly and quietly through her veins, did not rise at the thought of being despised and repudiated. She accepted it, and remained in England.
“She was rejected because she was ugly; and now the king selected Catharine Howard for his fifth consort, because she was pretty. Of this marriage I know but little to tell you, for, at that time, I had already gone to Dublin as minister, whither you soon followed me. Catharine was very beautiful, and the king’s heart, now growing old, once more flamed high with youthful love. He loved her more warmly than any other of his wives. He was so happy in her that, kneeling down publicly in the church, with a loud voice he thanked God for the happiness which his beautiful young queen afforded him. But this did not last long. Even while the king was extolling it, his happiness had reached its highest point, and the next day he was dashed down into the abyss. I speak without poetical exaggeration, my child. The day before, he thanked God for his happiness, and the next morning Catharine Howard was already imprisoned and accused, as an unfaithful wife, a shameless strumpet. [Footnote: Tytler, p. 432.] More than seven lovers had preceded her royal spouse, and some of them had accompanied her even on the progress through Yorkshire, which she made with the king her husband. This time it was no pretence, for he had not yet had time to fall in love with another woman, and Catharine well knew how to enchain him and ever to kindle new flames within him. But just because he loved her, he could not forgive her for having deceived him. In love there is so much cruelty and hatred; and Henry, who but yesterday lay at her feet, burned to-day with rage and jealousy, as yesterday with love and rapture. In his rage, however, he still loved her, and when he held in his hand indubitable proof of her guilt, he wept like a child. But since he could no longer be her lover, he would be her hangman; since she had spotted the crimson of his royal mantle, he would dye it afresh with her own crimson blood. And he did so. Catharine Howard was forced to lay her beautiful head upon the block, as Anne Boleyn had done before her; and Anne’s death was now once more avenged. Lady Rochfort had been Anne Boleyn’s accuser, and her testimony had brought that queen to the scaffold; but now she was convicted of being Catharine Howard’s assistant and confidante in her love adventures, and with Catharine, Lady Rochfort also ascended the scaffold.
“Ah, the king needed a long time to recover from this blow. He searched two years for a pure, uncontaminated virgin, who might become his queen without danger of the scaffold. But he found none; so he took then Lord Neville’s widow, Catharine Parr. But you know, my child, that Catharine is an unlucky name for Henry’s queens. The first Catharine he repudiated, the second he beheaded. What will he do with the third?”
Lady Jane smiled. “Catharine does not love him,” said she, “and I believe she would willingly consent, like Anne of Cleves, to become his sister, instead of his wife.”
“Catharine does not love the king?” inquired Lord Douglas, in breathless suspense. “She loves another, then!”
“No, my father! Her heart is yet like a sheet of white paper: no single name is yet inscribed there.”
“Then we must write a name there, and this name must drive her to the scaffold, or into banishment,” said her father impetuously. “It is your business, my child, to take a steel graver, and in some way write a name in Catharine’s heart so deep and indelibly, that the king may some day read it there.”
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{
"id": "3476"
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8
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FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
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Both now kept silent for a long time. Lord Douglas had leaned back on the ottoman, and, respiring heavily, seemed to breathe a little from the exertion of his long discourse. But while he rested, his large, piercing eyes were constantly turned to Jane, who, leaning back on the cushion, was staring thoughtfully into the empty air, and seemed to be entirely forgetful of her father’s presence.
A cunning smile played for a moment over the countenance of the earl as he observed her, but it quickly disappeared, and now deep folds of care gathered on his brow. As he saw that Lady Jane was plunging deeper and deeper into reverie, he at length laid his hand on her shoulder and hastily asked, “What are you thinking of, Jane?”
She gave a sudden start, and looked at the earl with an embarrassed air.
“I am thinking of all that you have been saying to me, my father,” replied she, calmly. “I am considering what benefit to our object I can draw from it.”
Lord Douglas shook his head, and smiled incredulously. At length he said solemnly: “Take care, Jane, take care that your heart does not deceive your head. If we would reach our aim here, you must, above all things, maintain a cool heart and a cool head. Do you still possess both, Jane?”
In confusion she cast down her eyes before his penetrating look. Lord Douglas noticed it, and a passionate word was already on his lips. But he kept it back. As a prudent diplomat, he knew that it is often more politic to destroy a thing by ignoring it, than to enter into an open contest with it. The feelings are like the dragons’ teeth of Theseus. If you contend with them, they always grow again anew, and with renewed energy, out of the soil. Lord Douglas, therefore, was very careful not to notice his daughter’s confusion. “Pardon me, my daughter, if, in my zeal and my tender care for you, I go too far. I know that your dear and beautiful head is cool enough to wear a crown. I know that in your heart dwell only ambition and religion. Let us, then, further consider what we have to do in order to attain our end.
“We have spoken of Henry as a husband, of Henry as a man; and I hope you have drawn some useful lessons from the fate of his wives. You have learned that it is necessary to possess all the good and all the bad qualities of woman in order to control this stiff-necked and tyrannical, this lustful and bigoted, this vain and sensual man, whom the wrath of God has made King of England. You must, before all things, be perfect master of the difficult art of coquetry. You must become a female Proteus--today a Messalina, to-morrow a nun; to-day one of the _literati_, to-morrow a playful child; you must ever seek to surprise the king, to keep him on the stretch, to enliven him. You must never give way to the dangerous feeling of security, for in fact King Henry’s wife is never safe. The axe always hangs over her head, and you must ever consider your husband as only a fickle lover, whom you must every day captivate anew.”
“You speak as though I were already queen,” said Lady Jane, smiling; “and yet I cannot but think that, in order to come to that, many difficulties are to be overcome, which may indeed perhaps be insuperable.”
“Insuperable!” exclaimed her father with a shrug of the shoulders. “With the aid of the holy Church, no hinderance is insuperable. Only, we must be perfectly acquainted with our end and our means. Do not despise, then, to sound the character of this king ever and again, and be certain you will always find in him some new hidden recess, some surprising peculiarity. We have spoken of him as a husband and the father of a family, but of his religious and political standing I have as yet told you nothing. And yet that, my child, is the principal point in his whole character.
“In the first place, then, Jane, I will tell you a secret. The king, who has constituted himself high-priest of his Church--whom the pope once called ‘the Knight of the Truth and the Faith’--the king has at the bottom of his heart no religion. He is a wavering reed, which the wind turns this way to-day, and that way to-morrow. He knows not his own will, and, coquetting with both parties, to-day he is a heretic, in order to exhibit himself as a strong, unprejudiced, enlightened man; to-morrow a Catholic, in order to show himself an obedient and humble servant of God, who seeks and finds his happiness only in love and piety. But for both confessions of faith he possesses at heart a profound indifference; and had the pope at that time placed no difficulties in his way, had he consented to his divorce from Catharine, Henry would have always remained a very good and active servant of the Catholic Church. But they were imprudent enough to irritate him by contradiction; they stimulated his vanity and pride to resistance; and so Henry became a church reformer, not from conviction, but out of pure love of opposition. And that, my child, you must never forget, for, by means of this lever, you may very well convert him again to a devout, dutiful, and obedient servant of our holy Church. He has renounced the pope, and usurped the supremacy of the Church, but he cannot summon up courage to carry out his work and throw himself wholly into the arms of the Reformation. However much he has opposed the person of the pope, still he has always remained devoted to the Church, although perhaps he does not know it himself. He is no Catholic, and he hears mass; he has broken up the monasteries, and yet forbids priests to marry; he has the Lord’s supper administered under both kinds, and believes in the real transubstantiation of the wine into the Redeemer’s holy blood. He destroys the convents, and yet commands that vows of chastity, spoken by man or woman, must be faithfully kept; and lastly, auricular confession is still a necessary constituent of his Church. And these he calls his six articles, [Footnote: Burnet, vol. I, p. 259. Tytler, p. 402. Mioti, vol. I, p. 134.] and the foundation of his English Church. Poor, short-sighted and vain man! He knows not that he has done all this, only because he wanted to be the pope himself, and he is nothing more than an anti-pope of the Holy Father at Rome, whom he, in his blasphemous pride, dares call ‘the Bishop of Rome. ’” “But, for this audacity,” said Jane, with looks of burning rage, “the anathema has struck him and laid a curse upon his head, and given him up to the hatred, contempt, and scorn of his own subjects. Therefore, the Holy Father has justly named him ‘the apostate and lost son, the blaspheming usurper of the holy Church.’ Therefore, the pope has declared his crown forfeited, and promised it to him who will vanquish him by force of arms. Therefore, the pope has forbidden any of his subjects to obey him, and respect and recognize him as king.”
“And yet he remains King of England, and his subjects still obey him in slavish submission,” exclaimed Earl Douglas, shrugging his shoulders. “It is very unwise to go so far in threats, for one should never threaten with punishment which he is not likewise able to really execute. This Romish interdict has rather been an advantage to the king, than done him harm, for it has forced the king into haughtier opposition, and proved to his subjects that a man may royally be under an interdict, and yet in prosperity and the full enjoyment of life.”
“The pope’s excommunication has not hurt the king at all; his throne has not felt the slightest jar from it, but the apostasy of the king has deprived the Holy See at Rome of a very perceptible support; therefore we must bring the faithless king back to the holy Church, for she needs him. And this, my daughter, is the work that God and the will of His holy representative have placed in your hands. A noble, glorious, and at the same time profitable work, for it makes you a queen! But I repeat, be cautious, never irritate the king by contradiction. Without their knowing it, we must lead the wavering where salvation awaits them. For, as we have said, he is a waverer; and in the haughty pride of his royalty, he has the presumption to wish to stand above all parties, and to be himself able to found a new Church, a Church which is neither Catholic nor Protestant, but Ms Church; to which, in the six articles, the so-called ‘Bloody Statute’ he has given its laws.
“He will not be Protestant nor Catholic, and, in order to show his impartiality, he is an equally terrible persecutor of both parties. So that it has come to pass that we must say, ‘In England, Catholics are hanged, and those not stich are burned.’ [Footnote: Leti, vol. I, p. 144. f Tytler, p. 38.] It gives the king pleasure to hold with steady and cruel hand the balance between the two parties, and on the same day that he has a papist incarcerated, because he has disputed the king’s supremacy, he has one of the reformed put upon the rack, because he has denied the real transubstantiation of the wine, or perhaps has disputed concerning the necessity of auricular confession. Indeed, during the last session of Parliament, five men were hanged because they disputed the supremacy, and five others burned because they professed the reformed views! And this evening, Jane--this, the king’s wedding-night--by the special order of the king, who wanted to show his impartiality as head of the church, Catholics and Protestants have been coupled together like dogs, and hurried to the stake, the Catholics being condemned (as traitors, and the others as heretics!)
“Oh,” said Jane, shuddering and turning pale, “I will not be Queen of England. I have a horror of this cruel, savage king, whose heart is wholly without compassion or love.”
Her father laughed. “Do you not then know, child, how you can make the hyena gentle, and the tiger tame? You throw them again and again a fresh prey, which they may devour, and since they love blood so dearly, you constantly give them blood to drink, so that they may never thirst for it. The king’s only steady and unchanging peculiarity is his cruelty and delight in blood; one then must always have some food ready for these, then he will ever be a very affectionate and gracious king and husband.
“And there is no lack of objects for this bloodthirstiness. There are so many men and women at his court, and when he is precisely in a bloodthirsty humor, it is all the same to Henry whose blood he drinks. He has shed the blood of his wives and relatives; he has executed those whom he called his most confidential friends; he has sent the noblest men of his kingdom to the scaffold.
“Thomas More knew him very well, and in a few striking words he summed up the whole of the king’s character. Ah, it seems to me that I see now the quiet and gentle face of this wise man, as I saw him standing in yonder bay-window, and near him the king, his arms around the neck of High-Chancellor More, and listening to his discourse with a kind of reverential devotion. And when the king had gone, I walked up to Thomas More and congratulated him on the high and world-renowned favor in which he stood with the king. ‘The king really loves you,’ said I. ‘Yes,’ replied he, with his quiet, sad smile, ‘yes, the king truly loves me. But that would not for one moment hinder him from giving my head for a valuable diamond, a beautiful woman, or a hand’s breadth of land in France.’ [Footnote: Leti, vol. i, p 194.] He was right, and for a beautiful woman, the head of this sage had to fall, of whom the most Christian emperor and king, Charles V., said: ‘Had I been the master of such a servant, of whose ability and greatness we have had so much experience for many years; had I possessed an adviser so wise and earnest as Thomas More was, I would rather have lost the best city of my realm, than so worthy a servant and counsellor.’ [Footnote: Tytler, p. 354.]
“No, Jane, be that your first and most sacred rule, never to trust the king, and never reckon on the duration of his affection and the manifestations of his favor. For, in the perfidy of his heart, it often pleases him to load with tokens of his favor those whose destruction he has already resolved upon, to adorn and decorate with orders and jewels to-day those whom to-morrow he is going to put to death. It flatters his self-complacency, like the lion, to play a little with the puppy he is about to devour. Thus did he with Cromwell, for many years his counsellor and friend, who had committed no other crime than that of having first exhibited to the king the portrait of the ugly Anne of Cleves, whom Holbein had turned into a beauty. But the king took good care not to be angry with Cromwell, or to reproach him for it. Much more--in recognition of his great services, he raised him to the earldom of Essex, decorated him with the Order of the Garter and appointed him lord chamberlain; and then, when Cromwell felt perfectly secure and proudly basked in the sunshine of royal favor, then all at once the king had him arrested and dragged to the tower, in order to accuse him of high treason. [Footnote: Ibid, p. 423.] And so Cromwell was executed, because Anne of Cleves did not please the king, and because Hans Holbein had flattered her picture.
“But now we have had enough of the past, Jane. Now let us speak of the present and of the future, my daughter. Let us now first of all devise the means to overthrow this woman who stands in our way. When she is once overthrown, it will not be very difficult for us to put you in her place. For you are now here, near the king. The great mistake in our earlier efforts was, that we were not present and could work only through go-betweens and confidants. The king did not see you, and since the unlucky affair with Anne of Cleves he mistrusts likenesses; I very well knew that, for I, my child, confide in no one, not even in the most faithful and noblest friends. I rely upon nobody but ourselves. Had we been here, you would now be Queen of England instead of Catharine Parr. But, to our misfortune, I was still the favorite of the Regent of Scotland, and as such, I could not venture to approach Henry. It was necessary that I should fall into disgrace there, in order to be again sure of the king’s favor here.
“So I fell into disgrace and fled with you hither. Now, then, here we are, and let the fight begin. And you have to-day already taken an important step toward our end. You have attracted the notice of the king, and established yourself still more securely in the favor of Catharine. I confess, Jane, I am charmed with your prudent conduct. You have this day won the hearts of all parties, and it was wonderfully shrewd in you to come to the aid of the Earl of Surrey, as you at the same time won to you the heretical party, to which Anne Askew belongs. Oh, it was indeed, Jane, a stroke of policy that you made. For the Howard family is the most powerful and greatest at court, and Henry, Earl of Surrey, is one of its noblest representatives. Therefore we have now already a powerful party at court, which has in view only the high and holy aim of securing a victory for the holy Church, and which quietly and silently works only for this--to again reconcile the king to the pope. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, like his father, the Duke of Norfolk, is a good Catholic, as his niece Catharine Howard was; only she, besides God and the Church, was a little too fond of the images of God--fine-looking men. It was this that gave the victory to the other party, and forced the Catholic to succumb to the heretical party at court. Yes, for the moment, Cranmer with Catharine has got the better of us, but soon Gardiner with Jane Douglas will overcome the heretics, and send them to the scaffold. That is our plan, and, God permitting, we will carry it out.”
“But it will be a difficult undertaking,” said Lady Jane, with a sigh. “The queen is a pure, transparent soul; she has a shrewd head and a clear glance. She is, moreover, guileless in her thoughts, and recoils with true maidenly timidity from every sin.”
“We must cure her of this timidity, and that is your task, Jane. You must despoil her of these strict notions about virtue. With flattering voice you must ensnare her heart, and entice it to sin.”
“Oh, that is an infernal plot!” said Lady Jane, turning pale. “That, my father, would be a crime, for that would be not only destroying her earthly happiness, but also imperilling her soul. I must entice her to a crime; that is your dishonorable demand! But I will not obey you! It is true, I hate her, for she stands in the way of my ambition. It is true I will destroy her, for she wears the crown which I wish to possess; but never will I be so base as to pour into her very heart the poison by which she shall fall. Let her seek the poison for herself; I will not hold back her hand; I will not warn her. Let her seek the ways of sin herself: I will not tell her that she has erred; but I will, from afar, dog her, and watch each step, and listen for every word and sigh, and when she has committed a crime, then I will betray her, and deliver her up to her judges. That is what I can and will do. I will be the demon to drive her from paradise in God’s name, but not the serpent to entice her in the devil’s name to sin.”
She paused, and, panting for breath, sunk back upon the cushion; but her father’s hand was laid upon her shoulder with a convulsive grip, and pale with rage and with eyes flashing with anger, he stared at her.
A cry of terror burst from Lady Jane. She, who never had seen her father but smiling and full of kindness, scarcely recognized that countenance, distorted with rage. She could scarcely convince herself that this man, with eyes darting fire, scowling eyebrows and lips quivering with rage, was really her father.
“You will not?” exclaimed he, with a hollow, threatening voice. “You dare rebel against the holy commands of the Church? Have you, then, forgotten what you promised to the Holy Fathers, whose pupil you are? Have you forgotten that the brothers and sisters of the Holy League are permitted to have no other will than that of their masters! Have you forgotten the sublime vow which you made to our master, Ignatius Loyola? Answer me, unfaithful and disobedient daughter of the Church! Repeat to me the oath which you took when he received you into the holy Society of the Disciples of Jesus! Repeat your oath, I say!”
As if constrained by an invisible power, Jane had arisen, and now stood, her hands folded across her breast, submissive and trembling before her father, whose erect, proud, and wrathful form towered above her.
“I have sworn,” said she, “to subject my own thought, and will, my life, and endeavors, obediently to the will of the Holy Father. I have sworn to be a blind tool in the hands of my masters, and to do only what they command and enjoin. I have vowed to serve the holy Church, in which alone is salvation, in every way and with all the means at my command; and I will despise none of these means, consider none trifling, disdain none, provided it leads to the end. For the end sanctifies the means, and nothing is a sin which is done for the honor of God and the Church!”
“Ad majorem Dei gloriam!” said her father, devoutly folding his hands. “And you know what awaits you, if you violate your oath?”
“Earthly disgrace and eternal destruction await me. The curse of all my brethren and sisters awaits me--eternal damnation and punishment. With thousands of torments and tortures of the rack, will the Holy Fathers put me to death; and as they kill my body and throw it as food to the beasts of prey, they will curse my soul and deliver it over to purgatory.”
“And what awaits you if you remain faithful to your oath, and obey the commands given you?”
“Honor and glory on earth, besides eternal blessedness in heaven.”
“Then you will be a queen on earth and a queen in heaven. You know, then, the sacred laws of the society, and you remember your oath?”
“I remember it.”
“And you know that the holy Loyola, before he left us, gave the Society of Jesus, in England, a master and general, whom all the brethren and sisters must serve and submit to, to whom they owe blind obedience and service without questioning?”
“I know it.”
“And you know, likewise, by what sign the associates may recognize the general?”
“By Loyola’s ring, which he wears on the forefinger of his right hand.”
“Behold here this ring!” said the earl, drawing his hand out of his doublet.
Lady Jane uttered a cry, and sank almost senseless at his feet.
Lord Douglas, smiling graciously, raised her in his arms. “You see, Jane, I am not merely your father, but your master also. And you will obey me, will you not?”
“I will obey!” said she, almost inaudibly, as she kissed the hand with the fatal ring.
“You will be to Catharine Parr, as you have expressed it, the serpent, that seduces her to sin?”
“I will.”
“You will beguile her into sin, and entice her to indulge a love which must lead her to destruction?”
“I will do it, my father.”
“I will now tell you whom she is to love, and who is to be the instrument of destruction. You will so manage the queen that she will love Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.”
Jane uttered a scream, and clung to the back of a chair to keep from falling.
Her father observed her with penetrating, angry looks. “What means this outcry? Why does this choice surprise you?” asked he.
Lady Jane had already gained her self-possession. “It surprised me,” said she, “because the earl is betrothed.”
A singular smile played about the earl’s lips. “It is not the first time,” said he, “that even a man already married has become dangerous to a woman’s heart, and often the very impossibility of possession adds fuel to the flames of love. Woman’s heart is ever so full of selfishness and contradiction.”
Lady Jane cast down her eyes, and made no reply. She felt that the piercing and penetrating look of her father was resting on her face. She knew that, just then, he was reading her soul, although she did not look at him.
“Then you no longer refuse?” asked he, at length. “You will inspire the young queen with love for the Earl of Surrey?”
“I will endeavor to do it, my father.”
“If you try, with a real and energetic determination to succeed, you will prevail. For, as you said, the queen’s heart is still free; it is, then, like a fruitful soil, which is only waiting for some one to sow the seed in it, to bring forth flowers and fruit. Catharine Parr does not love the king; you will, then, teach her to love Henry Howard.”
“Yet, my father,” said Lady Jane, with a sarcastic smile, “to bring about this result, one must, before all things, be acquainted with a magic spell, through the might of which the earl will first glow with love for Catharine. For the queen has a proud soul, and she will never so forget her dignity as to love a man who is not inflamed with an ardent passion for her. But the earl has not only a bride, but, as it is said, a mistress also.”
“Ah! you consider it, then, perfectly unworthy of a woman to love a man who does not adore her?” asked the earl, in a significant tone. “I am rejoiced to hear this from my daughter, and thus to be certain that she will not fall in love with the Earl of Surrey, who is everywhere else called ‘the lady-killer.’ And if you have informed yourself in so surprising a manner as to the earl’s private relations, you have done so, without doubt, only because your sagacious and subtle head has already guessed what commission I would give you with respect to the earl. Besides, my daughter, you are in error: and if a certain high, but not on that account the less very unfortunate lady, should happen to really love the Earl of Surrey, her lot will, perhaps, be the common one--to practise resignation.”
An expression of joyful surprise passed over the countenance of Lady Jane, while her father thus spoke; but it was forced to instantly give way to a deathly paleness, as the earl added: “Henry Howard is destined for Catharine Parr, and you are to help her to love so hotly this proud, handsome earl, who is a faithful servant of the Church, wherein alone is salvation, that she will forget all considerations and all dangers.”
Lady Jane ventured one more objection. She caught eagerly at her father’s words, to seek still for some way of escape.
“You call the earl a faithful servant of our Church,” said she, “and yet you would implicate him also in your dangerous plot? You have not, then, my father, considered that it is just as pernicious to love the queen as to be loved by her? And, without doubt, if love for the Earl of Surrey bring the queen to the scaffold, the head of the earl will fall at the same time, no matter whether he return her love or not.”
The earl shrugged his shoulders.
“When the question is about the weal of the Church and our holy religion, the danger which, thereby, it may be, threatens one of our number, must not frighten us back. Holy sacrifices must be always offered to a holy cause. Well and good, then, let the earl’s head fall, provided the only saving Church gains new vigor from this blood of martyrs. But see, Jane, the morning already begins to dawn, and I must hasten to leave you, lest these courtiers, ever given to slandering, may in some way or other take the father for a lover, and cast suspicion on the immaculate virtue of my Jane. Farewell, then, my daughter! We both, now, know our rôles, and will take care to play them with success. You are the friend and confidante of the queen, and I the harmless courtier, who tries, now and then, to gain a smile from the king by some kind and merry jest. That is all. Good-morning, then, Jane, and good-night. For you must sleep, my child, so that your cheeks may remain fresh and your eyes bright. The king hates pining pale-faces. Sleep, then, future Queen of England!”
He gently kissed her forehead, and left the room with lingering step.
Lady Jane stood and listened to the sound of his footsteps gradually dying away, when she sank on her knees, wholly crushed, utterly stunned.
“My God, my God!” murmured she, while streams of tears flooded her face, “and I am to inspire the queen with love for the Earl of Surrey, and I--I love him!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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9
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LENDEMAIN.
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The great levée was over. Sitting beside the king on the throne, Catharine had received the congratulations of her court; and the king’s smiling look, and the tender words which, in undertone, he now and then addressed to the queen, had manifested to the prudent and expert courtiers that the king was to-day just as much enamored of his young consort as he had been yesterday of his bride. Therefore, every one exerted himself to please the queen, and to catch every look, every smile, which she let fall, like sunbeams, here and there, in order to see for whom they were intended, so that they might, perchance, by this means, divine who were to be the future favorites of the queen, and be the first to become intimate with them.
But the young queen directed her looks to no one in particular. She was friendly and smiling, yet one felt that this friendliness was constrained, this smile full of sadness. The king alone did not notice it. He was cheerful and happy, and it seemed to him, therefore, that nobody at his court could dare sigh when he, the king, was satisfied.
After the grand presentation, at which all the great and noble of the realm had passed in formal procession before the royal pair, the king had, according to the court etiquette of the time, given his hand to his consort, led her down from the throne and conducted her to the middle of the hall, in order to present to her the personages in waiting at her court.
But this walk from the throne to the centre of the hall had greatly fatigued the king; this promenade of thirty steps was for him a very unusual and troublesome performance, and the king longed to change to something else more agreeable. So he beckoned to the chief master of ceremonies, and bade him open the door leading into the dining-room. Then he ordered his “house equipage” to be brought up, and, seating himself in it with the utmost stateliness, he had the sedan kept at the queen’s side, waiting impatiently till the presentation should at last conclude, and Catharine accompany him to lunch.
The announcements of the maids of honor and female attendants had been already made, and now came the gentlemen’s turn.
The chief master of ceremonies read from his list the names of those cavaliers who were, henceforth, to be in waiting near the queen, and which names the king had written down with his own hand. And at each new appointment a slight expression of pleased astonishment flitted across the faces of the assembled courtiers, for it was always one of the youngest, handsomest, and most amiable lords whom the master of ceremonies had to name.
Perhaps the king proposed to play a cruel game at hazard, in surrounding his consort with the young men of his court; he wished to plunge her into the midst of danger, either to let her perish there, or, by her avoiding danger, to be able to place the unimpeachable virtue of his young wife in the clearest light.
The list had begun with the less important offices, and, ever ascending higher, they now came to positions the highest and of greatest consequence.
Still the queen’s master of horse and the chamberlain had not been named, and these were without doubt the most important charges at the queen’s court. For one or the other of these officers was always very near the queen. When she was in the palace, the lord of the chamber had to remain in the anteroom, and no one could approach the queen but through his mediation. To him the queen had to give her orders with regard to the schemes and pleasures of the day. He was to contrive new diversions and amusements. He had the right of joining the queen’s narrow evening circle, and to stand behind the queen’s chair when the royal pair, at times, desired to sup without ceremony.
This place of chief chamberlain was, therefore, a very important one; for since it confined him a large part of the day in the queen’s presence, it was scarcely avoidable that the lord chamberlain should become either the confidential and attentive friend, or the malevolent and lurking enemy of the queen!
But the place of master of horse was of no less consequence. For as soon as the queen left the palace, whether on foot or in a carriage, whether to ride in the forest or to glide down the Thames in her gilded yacht, the master of horse must be ever at her side, must ever attend her. Indeed, this service was still more exclusive, still more important. For, though the queen’s apartments were open to the lord chamberlain, yet, however, he was never alone with her. The attending maids of honor were always present and prevented there being any têtes-à-têtes or intimacy between the queen and her chamberlain.
But with the master of horse it was different--since many opportunities presented themselves, when he could approach the queen unnoticed, or at least speak to her without being overheard. He had to offer her his hand to assist her in entering her carriage; he could ride near the door of her coach; he accompanied her on water excursions and pleasure rides, and these last were so much the more important because they afforded him, to a certain extent, opportunity for a tête-à-tête with the queen. For only the master of horse was permitted to ride at her side; he even had precedence of the ladies of the suite, so as to be able to give the queen immediate assistance in case of any accident, or the stumbling of her horse. Therefore, no one of the suite could perceive what the queen said to the master of horse when he rode at her side.
It was understood, therefore, how influential this place might be. Besides, when the queen was at Whitehall, the king was almost always near her; while, thanks to his daily increasing corpulency, he was not exactly in a condition to leave the palace otherwise than in a carriage.
It was therefore very natural that the whole company at court awaited with eager attention and bated breath the moment when the master of ceremonies would name these two important personages, whose names had been kept so secret that nobody had yet learned them. That morning, just before he handed the list to the master of ceremonies, the king had written down these two names with his own hand.
Not the court only, but also the king himself, was watching for these two names. For he wished to see the effect of them, and, by the different expression of faces, estimate the number of the friends of these two nominees. The young queen alone exhibited the same unconcerned affability; her heart only beat with uniform calmness, for she did not once suspect the importance of the moment.
Even the voice of the master of ceremonies trembled slightly, as he now read, “To the place of high chamberlain to the queen, his majesty appoints my Lord Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.”
An approving murmur was heard, and almost all faces manifested glad surprise.
“He has a great many friends,” muttered the king. “He is dangerous, then!” An angry look darted from his eyes upon the young earl, who was now approaching the queen, to bend his knee before her and to press to his lips the proffered hand.
Behind the queen stood Lady Jane, and as she beheld thus close before her the young man, so handsome, so long yearned for, and so secretly adored; and as she thought of her oath, she felt a violent pang, raging jealousy, killing hatred toward the young queen, who had, it is true, without suspecting it, robbed her of the loved one, and condemned her to the terrible torture of pandering to her.
The chief master of ceremonies now read in a loud solemn voice, “To the place of master of horse, his majesty appoints my Lord Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley.”
It was very well that the king had at that moment directed his whole attention to his courtiers, and sought to read in their appearance the impression made by this nomination.
Had he observed his consort, he would have seen that an expression of delighted surprise flitted across Catharine’s countenance, and a charming smile played round her lips.
But the king, as we have said, thought only of his court; he saw only that the number of those who rejoiced at Seymour’s appointment did not come up to that of those who received Surrey’s nomination with so much applause.
Henry frowned and muttered to himself, “These Howards are too powerful. I will keep a watchful eye upon them.”
Thomas Seymour approached the queen, and, bending his knee before her, kissed her hand. Catharine received him with a gracious smile. “My lord,” said she, “you will at once enter on service with me, and indeed, as I hope, in such manner as will be acceptable to the whole court. My lord, take the fleetest of your coursers, and hasten to Castle Holt, where the Princess Elizabeth is staying. Carry her this letter from her royal father, and she will follow you hither. Tell her that I long to embrace in her a friend and sister, and that I pray her to pardon me if I cannot give up to her exclusively the heart of her king and father, but that I also must still keep a place in the same for myself. Hasten to Castle Holt, my lord, and bring us Princess Elizabeth.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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10
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THE KING’S FOOL.
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Two years had passed away since the king’s marriage, and still Catharine Parr had always kept in favor with her husband; still her enemies were foiled in their attempts to ruin her, and raise the seventh queen to the throne.
Catharine had ever been cautious, ever discreet. She had always preserved a cold heart and a cool head. Each morning she had said to herself that this day might be her last; that some incautious word, some inconsiderate act, might deprive her of her crown and her life. For Henry’s savage and cruel disposition seemed, like his corpulency, to increase daily, and it needed only a trifle to inflame him to the highest pitch of rage, rage which, each time, fell with fatal stroke on him who aroused it.
A knowledge and consciousness of this had made the queen cautious. She did not wish to die yet. She still loved life so much. She loved it because it had as yet afforded her so little delight. She loved it because she had so much happiness, so much rapture and enjoyment yet to hope from it. She did not wish to die yet, for she was ever waiting for that life of which she had a foretaste only in her dreams, and which her palpitating and swelling heart told her was ready to awake in her, and, with its sunny, brilliant eyes, arouse her from the winter sleep of her existence.
It was a bright and beautiful spring day. Catharine wanted to avail herself of it, to take a ride and forget for one brief hour that she was a queen. She wanted to enjoy the woods, the sweet May breeze, the song of birds, the green meadows, and to inhale in full draughts the pure air.
She wanted to ride. Nobody suspected how much secret delight and hidden rapture lay in these words. No one suspected that for months she had been looking forward with pleasure to this ride, and scarcely dared to wish for it, just because it would be the fulfilment of her ardent wishes.
She was already dressed in her riding-habit, and the little red velvet hat, with its long, drooping white feather, adorned her beautiful head. Walking up and down the room, she was waiting only for the return of the lord chamberlain, whom she had sent to the king to inquire whether he wished to speak with her before her ride.
Suddenly the door opened, and a strange apparition showed itself on the threshold. It was a small, compact masculine figure, clad in vesture of crimson silk, which was trimmed in a style showy and motley enough, with puffs and bows of all colors, and which, just on account of its motley appearance, contrasted strangely enough with the man’s white hair, and earnest and sombre face.
“Ah, the king’s fool,” said Catharine, with a merry laugh. “Well, John, what is it that brings you here? Do you bring me a message from the king, or have you made a bold hit, and wish me to take you again under my protection?”
“No, queen,” said John Heywood, seriously, “I have made no bold hit, nor do I bring a message from the king. I bring nothing but myself. Ah, queen, I see you want to laugh, but I pray you forget for a moment that John Heywood is the king’s fool, and that it does not become him to wear a serious face and indulge sad thoughts like other men.”
“Oh, I know that you are not merely the king’s fool, but a poet also,” said Catharine, with a gracious smile.
“Yes,” said he, “I am a poet, and therefore it is altogether proper for me to wear this fool’s cap, for poets are all fools, and it were better for them to be hung on the nearest tree instead of being permitted to run about in their crazy enthusiasm, and babble things on account of which people of sense despise and ridicule them. I am a poet, and therefore, queen, I have put on this fool’s dress, which places me under the king’s protection, and allows me to say to him all sorts of things which nobody else has the courage to speak out. But to-day, queen, I come to you neither as a fool nor as a poet, but I come to you because I wish to cling to your knees and kiss your feet. I come because I wish to tell you that you have made John Heywood forever your slave. He will from this time forth lie like a dog before your threshold and guard you from every enemy and every evil which may press upon you. Night and day he will be ready for your service, and know neither repose nor rest, if it is necessary to fulfil your command or your wish.”
As he thus spoke, with trembling voice and eyes dimmed with tears, he knelt down and bowed his head at Catharine’s feet.
“But what have I done to inspire you with such a feeling of thankfulness?” asked Catharine with astonishment. “How have I deserved that you, the powerful and universally dreaded favorite of the king, should dedicate yourself to my service?”
“What have you done?” said he. “My lady, you have saved my son from the stake! They had condemned him--that handsome noble youth--condemned him, because he had spoken respectfully of Thomas More; because he said this great and noble man did right to die, rather than be false to his convictions. Ah, nowadays, it requires such a trifle to condemn a man to death! a couple of thoughtless words are sufficient! And this miserable, lick-spittle Parliament, in its dastardliness and worthlessness, always condemns and sentences, because it knows that the king is always thirsty for blood, and always wants the fires of the stake to keep him warm. So they had condemned my son likewise, and they would have executed him, but for you. But you, whom God has sent as an angel of reconciliation on this regal throne reeking with blood; you who daily risk your life and your crown to save the life of some one of those unfortunates whom fanaticism and thirst for blood have sentenced, and to procure their pardon, you have save my son also.”
“How! that young man who was to be burned yesterday, was your son?”
“Yes, he was my son.”
“And you did not tell the king so? and you did not intercede for him?”
“Had I done so, he would have been irretrievably lost! For you well know the king is so proud of his impartiality and his virtue! Oh, had he known that Thomas is my son he would have condemned him to death, to show the people that Henry the Eighth everywhere strikes the guilty and punishes the sinner, whatever name he may bear, and whoever may intercede for him. Ah, even your supplication would not have softened him, for the high-priest of the English Church could never have pardoned this young man for not being the legitimate son of his father, for not having the right to bear his name, because his mother was the spouse of another man whom Thomas must call father.”
“Poor Heywood! Yes, now I understand. The king would, indeed, never have forgiven this; and had he known it, your son would have inevitably been condemned to the stake.”
“You saved him, queen! Do you not believe now that I shall be forever thankful to you?”
“I do believe it,” said the queen, with a pleasant smile, as she extended her hand for him to kiss. “I believe you, and I accept your service.”
“And you will need it, queen, for a tempest is gathering over your head, and soon the lightning will flash and the thunders roll.”
“Oh, I fear not! I have strong nerves!” said Catharine, smiling. “When a storm comes, it is but a refreshing of nature, and I have always seen that after a storm the sun shines again.”
“You are a brave soul!” swirl John Heywood, sadly.
“That is, I am conscious of no guilt!”
“But your enemies will invent a crime to charge you with. Ah, as soon as it is the aim to calumniate a neighbor and plunge him in misery, men are all poets!”
“But you just now said that poets are crack-brained, and should be hung to the first tree. We will, therefore, treat these slanderers as poets, that is all.”
“No, that is not all!” said John Heywood, energetically. “For slanderers are like earth-worms. You cut them in pieces, but instead of thereby killing them, you multiply each one and give it several heads.”
“But what is it, then, that I am accused of?” exclaimed Catharine, impatiently. “Does not my life lie open and clear before you all? Do I ever take pains to have any secrets? Is not my heart like a glass house, into which you can all look, to convince yourselves that it is a soil wholly unfruitful, and that not a single poor little flower grows there?”
“Though this be so, your enemies will sow weeds and make the king believe that it is burning love which has grown up in your heart.”
“How! They will accuse me of having a love-affair?” asked Catharine, and her lips slightly trembled.
“I do not know their plans yet; but I will find them out. There is a conspiracy at work. Therefore, queen, be on your guard! Trust nobody, for foes are ever wont to conceal themselves under hypocritical faces and deceiving words.”
“If you know my enemies, name them to me!” said Catharine, impatiently. “Name them to me, that I may beware of them.”
“I have not come to accuse anybody, but to warn you. I shall, therefore, take good care not to point out your enemies to you; but I will name your friends to you.”
“Ah, then, I have friends, too!” whispered Catharine, with a happy smile.
“Yes, you have friends; and, indeed, such as are ready to give their blood and life for you.”
“Oh, name them, name them to me!” exclaimed Catharine, all of a tremble with joyful expectation.
“I name first, Cranmer, archbishop of Canterbury. He is your true and staunch friend, on whom you can build. He loves you as queen, and he prizes you as the associate whom God has sent him to bring to completion, here at the court of this most Christian and bloody king, the holy work of the Reformation, and to cause the light of knowledge to illuminate this night of superstition and priestly domination. Build strongly on Cranmer, for he is your surest and most invariable supporter, and should he sink, your fall would inevitably follow. Therefore, not only rely on him, but also protect him, and look upon him as your brother; for what you do for him, you do for yourself.”
“Yes, you are right,” said Catharine, thoughtfully. “Cranmer is a noble and staunch friend; and often enough already he has protected me, in the king’s presence, against those little pin-prickings of my enemies, which do not indeed kill, but which make the whole body sore and faint.”
“Protect him, and thus protect yourself.”
“Well, and the other friends?”
“I have given Cranmer the precedence; but now, queen, I name myself as the second of your friends. If Cranmer is your staff, I will be your dog; and, believe me, so long as you have such a staff and so faithful a dog, you are safe. Cranmer will warn you of every stone that lies in your way, and I will bite and drive off the enemies, who, hidden behind the thicket, lurk in the way to fall upon you from behind.”
“I thank you! Really, I thank you!” said Catharine, heartily. “Well, and what more?”
“More?” inquired Heywood with a sad smile.
“Mention a few more of my friends.”
“Queen, it is a great deal, if one in a lifetime has found two friends upon whom he can rely, and whose fidelity is not guided by selfishness. You are perhaps the only crowned head that can boast of such friends.”
“I am a woman,” said Catharine, thoughtfully, “and many women surround me and daily swear to me unchanging faithfulness and attachment. How! are all these unworthy the title of friends? Is even Lady Jane Douglas unworthy; she, whom I have called my friend these many long years, and whom I trust as a sister? Tell me, John Heywood, you who, as it is said, know everything, and search out everything that takes place at court, tell me, is not Lady Jane Douglas my friend?”
John Heywood suddenly became serious and gloomy, and looked on the ground, absorbed in reflection. Then he swept his large, bright eyes all around the room, in a scrutinizing manner, as if he wished to convince himself that no listener was really concealed there, and stepping close up to the queen, he whispered: “Trust her not; she is a papist, and Gardiner is her friend.”
“Ah, I suspected it,” whispered Catharine, sadly.
“But listen, queen; give no expression to this suspicion by look, or words, or by the slightest indication. Lull this viper into the belief that you are harmless; lull her to sleep, queen. She is a venomous and dangerous serpent, which must not be roused, lest, before you suspect it, it bite you on the heel. Be always gracious, always confidential, always friendly toward her. Only, queen, do not tell her what you would not confide to Gardiner and Earl Douglas likewise. Oh, believe me, she is like the lion in the doge’s palace at Venice. The secrets that you confide to her will become accusations against you before the tribunal of blood.”
Catharine shook her head with a smile. “You are too severe, John Heywood. It is possible that the religion which she secretly professes has estranged her heart from me, but she would never be capable of betraying me, or of leaguing herself with my foes. No, John, you are mistaken. It would be a crime to believe thus. My God, what a wicked and wretched world it must be in which we could not trust even our most faithful and dearest friends!”
“The world is indeed wicked and wretched, and one must despair of it, or consider it a merry jest, with which the devil tickles our noses. For me, it is such a jest, and therefore, queen, I have become the king’s fool, which at least gives me the right of spurting out upon the crawling brood all the venom of the contempt I feel for mankind, and of speaking the truth to those who have only lies, by dripping honey, ever on their lips. The sages and poets are the real fools of our day, and since I did not feel a vocation to be a king, or a priest, a hangman, or a lamb for sacrifice, I became a fool.”
“Yes, a fool, that is to say, an epigrammatist, whose biting tongue makes the whole court tremble.”
“Since I cannot, like my royal master, have these criminals executed, I give them a few sword-cuts with my tongue. Ah, I tell you, you will much need this ally. Be on your guard, queen: I heard this morning the first growl of the thunder, and in Lady Jane’s eyes I observed the stealthy lightning. Trust her not. Trust no one here but your friends Cranmer and John Heywood.”
“And you say, that in all this court, among all these brilliant women, these brave cavaliers, the poor queen has not a single friend, not a soul, whom she may trust, on whom she may lean? Oh, John Heywood, think again, have pity on the poverty of a queen. Think again. Say, only you two? No friend but you?”
And the queen’s eyes filled with tears, which she tried in vain to repress.
John Heywood saw it and sighed deeply. Better than the queen herself perhaps, he had read the depths of her heart, and knew its deep wound. But he also had sympathy with her pain, and wished to mitigate it a little.
“I recollect,” said he, gently and mournfully--“yes, I recollect, you have yet a third friend at this court.”
“Ah, a third friend!” exclaimed Catharine, and again her voice sounded cheery and joyous. “Name him to me, name him! For you see clearly I am burning with impatience to hear his name.”
John Heywood looked into Catharine’s glowing countenance with a strange expression, at once searching and mournful, and for a moment dropped his head upon his breast and sighed.
“Now, John, give me the name of this third friend.”
“Do you not know him, queen?” asked Heywood, as he again stared steadily in her face. “Do you not know him? It is Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley.”
There passed as it were a sunbeam over Catharine’s face, and she uttered a low cry.
John Heywood said, sadly: “Queen, the sun strikes directly in your face. Take care that it does not blind your bright eyes. Stand in the shade, your majesty, for, hark! there comes one who might report the sunshine in your face for a conflagration.”
Just then the door opened, and Lady Jane appeared on the threshold. She threw a quick, searching glance around the room, and an imperceptible smile passed over her beautiful pale face.
“Your majesty,” said she solemnly, “everything is ready. You can begin your ride when it pleases you. The Princess Elizabeth awaits you in the anteroom, and your master of horse already holds the stirrup of your steed.”
“And the lord chamberlain?” asked Catharine, blushing, “has he no message from the king to bring me?”
“Ay!” said the Earl of Surrey as he entered. “His majesty bids me tell the queen that she may extend her ride as far as she wishes. The glorious weather is well worth that the Queen of England should enjoy it, and enter into a contest with the sun.”
“Oh, the king is the most gallant of cavaliers,” said Catharine, with a happy smile. “Now come, Jane, let us ride.”
“Pardon me, your majesty,” said Lady Jane, stepping back. “I cannot to-day enjoy the privilege of accompanying your majesty. Lady Anne Ettersville is to-day in attendance.”
“Another time, then, Jane! And you, Earl Douglas, you ride with us?”
“The king, your majesty, has ordered me to his cabinet.”
“Behold now a queen abandoned by all her friends!” said Catharine cheerily, as with light, elastic step she passed through the hall to the courtyard.
“Here is something going on which I must fathom!” muttered John Heywood, who had left the hall with the rest. “A mousetrap is set, for the cats remain at home, and are hungry for their prey.”
Lady Jane had remained behind in the hall with her father. Both had stepped to the window, and were silently looking down into the yard, where the brilliant cavalcade of the queen and her suite was moving about in motley confusion.
Catharine had just mounted her palfrey; the noble animal, recognizing his mistress, neighed loudly, and, giving a snort, reared up with his noble burden.
Princess Elizabeth, who was close to the queen, uttered a cry of alarm. “You will fall, queen,” said she, “you ride such a wild animal.”
“Oh, no, indeed,” said Catharine, smiling; “Hector is not wild. It is with him as with me. This charming May air has made us both mettlesome and happy. Away, then, my ladies and lords! our horses must be to-day swift as birds. We ride to Epping Forest.”
And through the open gateway dashed the cavalcade. The queen in front; at her right, the Princess Elizabeth; at her left, the master of horse, Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley.
When the train had disappeared, father and daughter stepped back from the window, and looked at each other with strange, dark, and disdainful looks.
“Well, Jane?” said Earl Douglas, at length. “She is still queen, and the king becomes daily more unwieldy and ailing. It is time to give him a seventh queen.”
“Soon, my father, soon.”
“Loves the queen Henry Howard at last?”
“Yes, he loves her!” said Jane, and her pale face was now colorless as a winding-sheet.
“I ask, whether she loves him?”
“She will love him!” murmured Jane, and then suddenly mastering herself, she continued: “but it is not enough to make the queen in love; doubtless it would be still more efficient if some one could instill a new love into the king. Did you see, father, with what ardent looks his majesty yesterday watched me and the Duchess of Richmond?”
“Did I see it? The whole court talked about it.”
“Well, now, my father, manage it so that the king may be heartily bored to-day, and then bring him to me. He will find the Duchess of Richmond with me.”
“Ah, a glorious thought! You will surely be Henry’s seventh queen.”
“I will ruin Catharine Parr, for she is my rival, and I hate her!” said Jane, with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. “She has been queen long enough, and I have bowed myself before her. Now she shall fall in the dust before me, and I will set my foot upon her head.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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11
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THE RIDE.
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It was a wondrous morning. The dew still lay on the grass of the meadows, over which they had just ridden to reach the thicket of the forest, in whose trees resounded the melodious voices of blithe birds. Then they rode along the banks of a babbling forest stream, and spied the deer that came forth into the glade on the other side, as if they wanted, like the queen and her train, to listen to the song of the birds and the murmuring of the fountains. Catharine felt a nameless, blissful pleasure swell her bosom. She was to-day no more the queen, surrounded by perils and foes; no more the wife of an unloved, tyrannical husband; not the queen trammelled with the shackles of etiquette. She was a free, happy woman, who, in presageful, blissful trepidation, smiled at the future, and said to each minute, “Stay, stay, for thou art so beautiful!”
It was a sweet, dreamy happiness, the happiness of that hour. With glad heart, Catharine would have given her crown for it, could she have prolonged this hour to an eternity.
He was at her side--he of whom John Heywood had said, that he was among her most trustful and trusty friends. He was there; and even if she did not dare to look at him often, often to speak to him, yet she felt his presence, she perceived the glowing beams of his eyes, which rested on her with consuming fire. Nobody could observe them. For the court rode behind them, and before them and around them was naught but Nature breathing and smiling with joy, naught but heaven and God.
She had forgotten however that she was not quite alone, and that while Thomas Seymour rode on her left, on her right was Princess Elizabeth--that young girl of fourteen years--that child, who, however, under the fire of suffering and the storms of adversity, was early forced to precocious bloom, and whose heart, by the tears and experience of her unhappy childhood, had acquired an early ripeness. Elizabeth, a child in years, had already all the strength and warmth of a woman’s feelings. Elizabeth, the disowned and disinherited princess, had inherited her father’s pride and ambition; and when she looked on the queen, and perceived that little crown wrought on her velvet cap in diamond embroidery, she felt in her bosom a sharp pang, and remembered, with feelings of bitter grief, that this crown was destined never to adorn her head, since the king, by solemn act of Parliament, had excluded her from the succession to the throne. [Footnote: Tytler, p. 340] But for a few weeks this pain had been more gentle, and less burning. Another feeling had silenced it. Elizabeth who was never to be queen or sovereign--Elizabeth might be a wife at least. Since she was denied a crown, they should at least allow her instead a wife’s happiness; they should not grudge her the privilege of twining in her hair a crown of myrtle.
She had been early taught to ever have a clear consciousness of all her feelings; nor had she now shrunk from reading the depths of her heart with steady and sure eye.
She knew that she loved, and that Thomas Seymour was the man whom she loved.
But the earl? Did he love her in return? Did he understand the child’s heart? Had he, beneath the childish face, already recognized the passionate, proud woman? Had he guessed the secrets of this soul, at once so maidenly and chaste, and yet so passionate and energetic?
Thomas Seymour never betrayed a secret, and what he had, it may be, read in the eyes of the princess, and what he had, perhaps, spoken to her in the quiet shady walks of Hampton Court, or in the long, dark corridors of Whitehall, was known to no one save those two. For Elizabeth had a strong, masculine soul; she needed no confidant to share her secrets; and Thomas Seymour had feared even, like the immortal hair-dresser of King Midas, to dig a hole and utter his secret therein; for he knew very well that, if the reed grew up and repeated his words, he might, for these words, lay his head on the block.
Poor Elizabeth! She did not even suspect the earl’s secret and her own were not, however, the same; she did not suspect that Thomas Seymour, if he guessed her secret, might, perhaps, avail himself of it to make thereof a brilliant foil for his own secret.
He had, like her, ever before his eyes the diamond crown on the head of the young queen, and he had noticed well how old and feeble the king had become of late.
As he now rode by the side of the two princesses, he felt his heart swell with a proud joy, and bold and ambitious schemes alone occupied his soul.
The two women understood nothing of this. They were both too much occupied with their own thoughts; and while Catharine’s eyes swept with beaming look the landscape far and wide, the brow of the princess was slightly clouded, and her sharp eye rested with a fixed and watchful gaze on Thomas Seymour.
She had noticed the impassioned look which he had now and then fastened on the queen. The slight, scarcely perceptible tremor of his voice, when he spoke, had not escaped her.
Princess Elizabeth was jealous; she felt the first torturing motions of that horrible disease which she had inherited from her father, and in the feverish paroxysms of which the king had sent two of his wives to the scaffold.
She was jealous, but not of the queen; much more, she dreamed not that the queen might share and return Seymour’s love. It never came into her mind to accuse the queen of an understanding with the earl. She was jealous only of the looks which he directed toward the queen; and because she was watching those looks, she could not at the same time read the eyes of her young stepmother also; she could not see the gentle flames which, kindled by the fire of his looks, glowed in hers.
Thomas Seymour had seen them, and had he now been alone with Catharine, he would have thrown himself at her feet and confided to her all the deep and dangerous secrets that he had so long harbored in his breast; he would have left to her the choice of bringing him to the block, or of accepting the love which he consecrated to her.
But there, behind them, were the spying, all-observing, all-surmising courtiers; there was the Princess Elizabeth, who, had he ventured to speak to the queen, would have conjectured from his manner the words which she could not understand; for love sees so clearly, and jealousy has such keen ears!
Catharine suspected nothing of the thoughts of her companions. She alone was happy; she alone gave herself up with full soul to the enjoyment of the moment. She drew in with intense delight the pure air; she drank in the odor of the meadow blossoms; she listened with thirsty ear to the murmuring song which the wind wafted to her from the boughs of the trees. Her wishes extended not beyond the hour; she rested in the full enjoyment of the presence of her beloved. He was there--what needed she more to make her happy?
Her wishes extended not beyond this hour. She was only conscious how delightful it was thus to be at her beloved’s side, to breathe the same air, to see the same sun, the same flowers on which his eyes rested, and on which their glances at least might meet in kisses which were denied to their lips.
But as they thus rode along, silent and meditative, each occupied with his own thoughts, there came the assistance for which Thomas Seymour had prayed, fluttering along in the shape of a fly.
At first this fly sported and buzzed about the nose of the fiery, proud beast which the queen rode; and as no one noticed it, it was not disturbed by Hector’s tossing of his mane, but crept securely and quietly to the top of the noble courser’s head, pausing a little here and there, and sinking his sting into the horse’s flesh, so that he reared and began loudly to neigh.
But Catharine was a bold and dexterous rider, and the proud spirit of her horse only afforded her delight, and gave the master of horse an opportunity to praise her skill and coolness.
Catharine received with a sweet smile the encomiums of her beloved. But the fly kept creeping on, and, impelled by a diabolic delight, now penetrated the horse’s ear. The poor, tormented animal made a spring forward. This spring, instead of freeing him from his enemy, made him penetrate the ear still farther, and sink his sting still deeper into the soft fleshy part of the same.
Stung by the maddening pain, the horse cast off all control, and, heedless of bridle and scorning the bit, dashed forward in a furious run--forward over the meadow swift as an arrow, resistless as the lightning.
“On, on, to the queen’s rescue!” thundered the master of horse, and with mad haste, away flew he also over the meadow.
“To the help of the queen!” repeated Princess Elizabeth, and she likewise spurred her horse and hurried forward, accompanied by the whole suite.
But what is the speed of a horse ever so swift, but yet in his senses, compared with the raving madness of a crazy courser, that, despising all subjection, and mocking at the bridle, dashes ahead, foaming with the sense of freedom and unrestraint, uncontrollable as the surge lashed by the storm!
Already far behind them lay the meadows, far behind them the avenues leading through the woods, and over brooks and ditches, over meadows and wastes, Hector was dashing on.
The queen still sat firmly in the saddle; her cheeks were colorless; her lips trembled; but her eye was still bright and clear. She had not yet lost her presence of mind; she was perfectly conscious of her danger. The din of screaming, screeching voices, which she heard at first, had long since died away in silence behind her. An immense solitude, the deep silence of the grave, was around her.
Naught was heard save the panting and snorting of the horse; naught but the crash and clatter of his hoofs. Suddenly, however, this sound seemed to find an echo. It was repeated over yonder. There was the same snorting and panting; there was the same resounding trampling of hoofs. And now, oh, now, struck on Catharine’s car the sound of a voice only too well loved, and made her scream aloud with delight and desire.
But this cry frightened anew the enraged animal. For a moment, exhausted and panting, he had slackened in his mad race; now he sprang forward with renewed energy; now he flew on as if impelled by the wings of the wind. But ever nearer and nearer sounded the loved voice ever nearer the tramp of his horse.
They were now upon a large plain, shut in on all sides by woods. While the queen’s horse circled the plain in a wide circuit, Seymour’s, obedient to the rein, sped directly across it, and was close behind the queen.
“Only a moment more! Only hold your arms firmly around the animal’s neck, that the shock may not hurl you off, when I lay hold of the rein!” shouted Seymour, and he set his spurs into his horse’s flanks, so that he sprang forward with a wild cry.
This cry roused Hector to new fury. Panting for breath, he shot forward with fearful leaps, now straight into the thicket of the woods.
“I hear his voice no more,” murmured Catharine. And at length overcome with anxiety and the dizzy race, and worn out with her exertions, she closed her eyes; her senses appeared to be about leaving her.
But at this moment, a firm hand seized with iron grasp the rein of her horse, so that he bowed his head, shaking, trembling, and almost ashame, as the horse had found his lord and master.
“Saved! I am saved!” faltered Catharine, and breathless, scarcely in her senses, she leaned her head on Seymour’s shoulder.
He lifted her gently from the saddle, and placed her on the soft moss beneath an ancient oak. Then he tied the horses to a bough, and Catharine, trembling and faint, sank on her knees to rest after such violent exertion.
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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12
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THE DECLARATION.
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Thomas Seymour returned to Catharine. She still lay there with closed eyes, pale and motionless.
He gazed on her long and steadily; his eyes drank in, in long draughts, the sight of this beautiful and noble woman, and he forgot at that moment that she was a queen.
He was at length alone with her. At last, after two years of torture, of resignation, of dissimulation, God had granted him this hour, for which he had so long yearned, which he had so long considered unattainable. Now it was there, now it was his.
And had the whole court, had King Henry himself, come right then, Thomas Seymour would not have heeded it; it would not have affrighted him. The blood had mounted to his head and overcome his reason. His heart, still agitated and beating violently from his furious ride and his anxiety for Catharine, allowed him to hear no other voice than that of passion.
He knelt by the queen and seized her hand.
Perhaps it was this touch which roused her from her unconsciousness. She raised her eyes and gazed around with a perplexed look.
“Where am I?” breathed she in a low tone.
Thomas Seymour pressed her hand to his lips. “You are with the most faithful and devoted of your servants, queen!”
“Queen!” This word roused her from her stupor, and caused her to raise herself half up.
“But where is my court? Where is the Princess Elizabeth? Where are all the eyes that heretofore watched me? Where are all the listeners and spies who accompany the queen?”
“They are far away from here,” said Seymour in a tone which betrayed his secret delight. “They are far away from here, and need at least an hour’s time to come up with us. An hour, queen! are you aware what that is to me? An hour of freedom, after two years of imprisonment! An hour of happiness, after two years of daily torture, daily endurance of the torments of hell!”
Catharine, who had at first smiled, had now become grave and sad.
Her eye rested on the cap which had fallen from her head and lay near her on the grass.
She pointed with trembling finger to the crown, and said softly, “Recognize you that sign, my lord?”
“I recognize it, my lady; but in this hour, I no longer shrink back at it. There are moments in which life is at its crowning point, and when one heeds not the abyss that threatens close beneath. Such an hour is the present. I am aware that this hour makes me guilty of high treason and may send me to the block; but nevertheless I will not be silent. The fire which burns in my breast consumes me. I must at length give it vent. My heart, that for years has burned upon a funeral pyre, and which is so strong that in the midst of its agonies it has still ever felt a sensation of its blessedness--my heart must at length find death or favor. You shall hear me, queen!”
“No, no,” said she, almost in anguish, “I will not, I cannot hear you! Remember that I am Henry the Eighth’s wife, and that it is dangerous to speak to her. Silence, then, earl, silence, and let us ride on.”
She would have arisen, but her own exhaustion and Lord Seymour’s hand caused her to sink back again.
“No, I will not be silent,” said he. “I will not be silent until I have told you all that rages and glows within me. The Queen of England may either condemn me or pardon me, but she shall know that to me she is not Henry the Eighth’s wife, but only the most charming and graceful, the noblest and loveliest woman in England. I will tell her that I never recollect she is my queen, or, if I do so, it is only to curse the king, who was presumptuous enough to set this brightly sparkling jewel in his bloody crown.”
Catharine, almost horrified, laid her hand on Seymour’s lips. “Silence, unhappy man, silence! Know you that it is your sentence of death which you are now uttering? Your sentence of death, if any soul hears you?”
“But no one hears me. No one save the queen, and God, who, however, is perhaps more compassionate and merciful than the queen. Accuse me then, queen; go and tell your king that Thomas Seymour is a traitor; that he dares love the queen. The king will send me to the scaffold, but I shall nevertheless deem myself happy, for I shall at least die by your instrumentality. Queen, if I cannot live for you, then beautiful it is to die for you!”
Catharine listened to him wholly stupefied, wholly intoxicated. This was, for her, language wholly new and never heard before, at which her heart trembled in blissful awe, which rushed around her in enchanting melodies and lulled her into a sweet stupefaction. Now she herself even forgot that she was queen, that she was the wife of Henry, the bloodthirsty and the jealous. She was conscious only of this, that the man whom she had so long loved, was now kneeling at her side. With rapture she drank in his words, which struck upon her ear like exquisite music.
Thomas Seymour continued. He told her all he had suffered. He told her he had often resolved to die, in order to put an end to these tortures, but that then a glance of her eye, a word from her lips, had given him strength to live, and still longer endure these tortures, which were at the same time so full of rapture.
“But now, queen, now my strength is exhausted, and it is for you to give me life or death. To-morrow I will ascend the scaffold, or you shall permit me to live, to live for you.”
Catharine trembled and looked at him wellnigh astounded. He seemed so proud and imperative, she almost felt a fear for him, but it was the happy fear of a loving, meek woman before a strong, commanding man.
“Know you,” said she, with a charming smile, “that you almost have the appearance of wishing to command me to love you?”
“No, queen,” said he, proudly, “I cannot command you to love me, but I bid you tell me the truth. I bid you do this, for I am a man who has the right to demand the truth of a woman face to face. And I have told you, you are not the queen to me. You are but a beloved, an adored woman. This love has nothing to do with your royalty, and while I confess it to you, I do not think that you abase yourself when you receive it. For the true love of a man is ever the holiest gift that he can present to a woman, and if a beggar dedicates it to a queen, she must feel herself honored by it. Oh, queen, I am a beggar. I lie at your feet and raise my hands beseechingly to you; but I want not charity, I want not your compassion and pity, which may, perhaps, grant me an alms to lessen my misery. No, I want you yourself. I require all or nothing. It will not satisfy me that you forgive my boldness, and draw the veil of silence over my mad attempt. No, I wish you to speak, to pronounce my condemnation or a benediction on me. Oh, I know you are generous and compassionate, and even if you despise my love and will not return it, yet, it may be, you will not betray me. You will spare me, and be silent. But I repeat it, queen, I do not accept this offer of your magnanimity. You are to make me either a criminal or a god; for I am a criminal if you condemn my love, a god if you return it.”
“And do you know, earl,” whispered Catharine, “that you are very cruel? You want me to be either an accuser or an accomplice. You leave me no choice but that of being either your murderess or a perjured and adulterous woman--a wife who forgets her plighted faith and her sacred duty, and defiles the crown which my husband has placed upon my head with stains, which Henry will wash out with my own blood and with yours also.”
“Let it be so, then,” cried the earl, almost joyfully. “Let my head fall, no matter how or when, if you but love me; for then I shall still be immortal; for a moment in your arms is an eternity of bliss.”
“But I have already told you that not only your head, but mine also, is concerned in this matter. You know the king’s harsh and cruel disposition. The mere suspicion is enough to condemn me. Ah, if he knew what we have just now spoken here, he would condemn me, as he condemned Catharine Howard, though I am not guilty as she was. Ah, I shudder at the thought of the block; and you, Earl Seymour, you would bring me to the scaffold, and yet you say you love me!”
Seymour sunk his head mournfully upon his breast and sighed deeply. “You have pronounced my sentence, queen, and though you are too noble to tell me the truth, yet I have guessed it. No, you do not love me, for you see with keen eyes the danger that threatens you, and you fear for yourself. No, you love me not, else you would think of nothing save love alone. The dangers would animate you, and the sword which hangs over your head you would not see, or you would with rapture grasp its edge and say, ‘What is death to me, since I am happy! What care I for dying, since I have felt immortal happiness!’ Ah, Catharine, you have a cold heart and a cool head. May God preserve them both to you; then will you pass through life quietly and safely; but you will yet be a poor, wretched woman, and when you come to die, they will place a royal crown upon your coffin, but love will not weep for you. Farewell, Catharine, Queen of England, and since you cannot love him, give Thomas Seymour, the traitor, your sympathy at least.”
He bowed low and kissed her feet, then he arose and walked with firm step to the tree where he had tied the horses. But now Catharine arose, now she flew to him, and grasping his hand, asked, trembling and breathless, “What are you about to do? whither are you going?”
“To the king, my lady.”
“And what will you do there?”
“I will show him a traitor who has dared love the queen. You have just killed my heart; he will kill only my body. That is less painful, and I will thank him for it.”
Catharine uttered a cry, and with passionate vehemence drew him back to the place where she had been resting.
“If you do what you say, you will kill me,” said she, with trembling lips. “Hear me, hear! The moment you mount your horse to go to the king, I mount mine too; but not to follow you, not to return to London, but to plunge with my horse down yonder precipice. Oh, fear nothing; they will not accuse you of my murder. They will say that I plunged down there with my horse, and that the raging animal caused my death.”
“Queen, take good heed, consider well what you say!” exclaimed Thomas Seymour, his countenance clearing up and his face flaming with delight. “Bear in mind that your words must be either a condemnation or an avowal. I wish death, or your love! Not the love of a queen, who thinks to be gracious to her subject, when for the moment she elevates him to herself; but the love of a woman who bows her head in meekness and receives her lover as at the same time her lord. Oh, Catharine, be well on your guard! If you come to me with the pride of a queen, if there be even one thought in you which tells you that you are bestowing a favor on a subject as you take him to your heart, then be silent and let me go hence. I am proud, and as nobly born as yourself, and however love throws me conquered at your feet, yet it shall not bow my head in the dust! But if you say that you love me, Catharine, for that I will consecrate my whole life to you. I will be your lord, but your slave also. There shall be in me no thought, no feeling, no wish that is not devoted and subservient to you. And when I say that I will be your lord, I mean not thereby that I will not lie forever at your feet and bow my head in the dust, and say to you: Tread on it, if it seem good to you, for I am your slave!”
And speaking thus, he dropped on his knees and pressed to her feet his face, whose glowing and noble expression ravished Catharine’s heart.
She hent down to him, and gently lifting his head, looked with an indescribable expression of happiness and love deep into his beaming eyes.
“Do you love me?” asked Seymour, as he put his arm softly around her slender waist, and arose from his kneeling attitude.
“I love you!” said she, with a firm voice and a happy smile. “I love you, not as a queen, but as a woman; and if perchance this love bring us both to the scaffold, well then we shall at least die together, to meet again there above!”
“No, think not now of dying, Catharine, think of living--of the beautiful, enchanting future which is beckoning to us. Think of the days which will soon come, and in which our love will no longer require secresy or a veil, but when we will manifest it to the whole world, and can proclaim our happiness from a full glad breast! Oh, Catharine, let us hope that compassionate and merciful death will loose at last the unnatural bonds that bind you to that old man. Then, when Henry is no more, then will you be mine, mine with your entire being, with your whole life; and instead of a proud regal crown, a crown of myrtle shall adorn your head! Swear that to me, Catharine; swear that you will become my wife, as soon as death has set you free.”
The queen shuddered and her cheeks grew pale. “Oh,” said she with a sigh, “death then is our hope and perhaps the scaffold our end!”
“No, Catharine, love is our hope, and happiness our end. Think of life, of our future! God grant my request. Swear to me here in the face of God, and of sacred and calm nature around us, swear to me, that from the day when death frees you from your husband you will be mine, my wife, my consort! Swear to me, that you, regardless of etiquette and unmindful of tyrannical custom, will be Lord Seymour’s wife, before the knell for Henry’s death has died away. We will find a priest, who may bless our love and sanctify the covenant that we have this day concluded for eternity! Swear to me, that, till that wished--for day, you will keep for me your truth and love, and never forget that my honor is yours also, that your happiness is also mine!”
“I swear it!” said Catharine, solemnly. “You may depend upon me at all times and at all hours. Never will I be untrue to you; never will I have a thought that is not yours. I will love you as Thomas Seymour deserves to be loved, that is with a devoted and faithful heart. It will be my pride to subject myself to you, and with glad soul will I serve and follow you, as your true and obedient wife.”
“I accept your oath!” said Seymour, solemnly. “But in return I swear that I will honor and esteem you as my queen and mistress. I swear to you that you shall never find a more obedient subject, a more unselfish counsellor, a more faithful husband, a braver champion, than I will be. ‘My life for my queen, my entire heart for my beloved’; this henceforth shall be my motto, and may I be disowned and despised by God and by you, if ever I violate this oath.”
“Amen!” said Catharine, with a bewitching smile.
Then both were silent. It was that silence which only love and happiness knows--that silence which is so rich in thoughts and feelings, and therefore so poor in words!
The wind rustled whisperingly in the trees, among whose dark branches here and there a bird’s warbling or flute-like notes resounded. The sun threw his emerald light over the soft velvety carpet of the ground, which, rising and falling in gentle, undulating lines, formed lovely little hollows and hillocks, on which now and then was seen here and there the slender and stately figure of a hart, or a roe, that, looking around searchingly with his bright eyes, started back frightened into the thicket on observing these two human figures and the group of horses encamped there.
Suddenly this quiet was interrupted by the loud sound of the hunter’s horn, and in the distance were heard confused cries and shouts, which were echoed by the dense forest and repeated in a thousand tones.
With a sigh the queen raised her head from the earl’s shoulder.
The dream was at an end; the angel came with flaming sword to drive her from paradise.
For she was no longer worthy of paradise. The fatal word had been spoken, and while it brought her love, it had perjured her.
Henry’s wife, his by her vow taken before the altar, had betrothed herself to another, and given him the love that she owed her husband.
“It is passed,” said he, mournfully. “These sounds call me back to my slavery. We must both resume our roles. I must become queen again.”
“But first swear to me that you will never forget this hour; that you will ever think upon the oaths which we have mutually sworn.”
She looked at him almost astounded. “My God! can truth and love be forgotten?”
“You will remain ever true, Catharine?”
She smiled. “See, now, my jealous lord, do I address such questions to you?”
“Oh, queen, you well know that you possess the charm that binds forever.”
“Who knows?” said she dreamily, as she raised her enthusiastic look to heaven, and seemed to follow the bright silvery clouds which were sailing slowly across the blue ether.
Then her eyes fell on her beloved, and laying her hand softly upon his shoulder, she said: “Love is like God--eternal, primeval, and ever present! But you must believe in it to feel its presence; you must trust it to be worthy of its blessing!”
But the hallooing and the clangor of the horns came nearer and nearer. Even now was heard the barking of the dogs and the tramp of horses.
The earl had untied the horses, and led Hector, who was now quiet and gentle as a lamb, to his mistress.
“Queen,” said Thomas Seymour, “two delinquents now approach you! Hector is my accomplice, and had it not been that the fly I now see on his swollen ear had made him raving, I should be the most pitiable and unhappy man in your kingdom, while now I am the happiest and most enviable.”
The queen made no answer, but she put both her arms around the animal’s neck and kissed him.
“Henceforth,” said she, “then I will ride only Hector, and when he is old and unfit for service--” “He shall be tended and cared for in the stud of Countess Catharine Seymour!” interrupted Thomas Seymour, as he held the queen’s stirrup and assisted her into the saddle.
The two rode in silence toward the sound of the voices and horns, both too much occupied by their own thoughts to interrupt them by trifling words.
“He loves me!” thought Catharine. “I am a happy, enviable woman, for Thomas Seymour loves me.”
“She loves me!” thought he, with a proud, triumphant smile. “I shall, therefore, one day become Regent of England.”
Just then they came out on the large level meadow, through which they had previously ridden, and over which now came, scattered here and there in motley confusion, the entire royal suite, Princess Elizabeth at the head.
“One thing more!” whispered Catharine. “If you ever need a messenger to me, apply to John Heywood. He is a friend whom we can trust.”
And she sprang forward to meet the princess, to recount to her all the particulars of her adventure, and her happy rescue by the master of horse.
Elizabeth, however, listened to her with glowing looks and thoughts distracted, and as the queen then turned to the rest of her suite, and, surrounded by her ladies and lords, received their congratulations, a slight sign from the princess called Thomas Seymour to her side.
She allowed her horse to curvet some paces forward, by which she and the earl found themselves separated a little from the rest, and were sure of being overheard by no one.
“My lord,” said she, in a vehement, almost threatening voice, “you have often and in vain besought me to grant you an interview. I have denied you. You intimated that you had many things to say to me, for which we must be alone, and which must reach no listener’s ear. Well, now, to-day I grant you an interview, and I am at last inclined to listen to you.”
She paused and waited for a reply. But the earl remained silent. He only made a deep and respectful bow, bending to the very neck of his horse. “Well and good; I will go to this rendezvous were it but to blind Elizabeth’s eyes, that she may not see what she never ought to see. That was all.”
The young princess cast on him an angry look, and a dark scowl gathered on her brow. “You understand well how to control your joy,” said she; “and any one to see you just now would think--” “That Thomas Seymour is discreet enough not to let even his rapture be read in his countenance at this dangerous court,” interrupted the earl in a low murmur. “When, princess, may I see you and where?”
“Wait for the message that John Heywood will bring you to-day,” whispered Elizabeth, as she sprang forward and again drew near the queen.
“John Heywood, again!” muttered the earl. “The confidant of both, and so my hangman, if he wishes to be!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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13
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“LE ROI S’ENNUIT.”
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King Henry was alone in his study. He had spent a few hours in writing on a devout and edifying book, which he was preparing for his subjects, and which, in virtue of his dignity as supreme lord of the Church, he designed to commend to their reading instead of the Bible.
He now laid down his pen, and, with infinite complacency, looked over the written sheets, which were to be to his people a new proof of his paternal love and care, and so convince them that Henry the Eighth was not only the noblest and most virtuous of kings, but also the wisest.
But this reflection failed to make the king more cheerful to-day; perhaps because he had already indulged in it too frequently. To be alone, annoyed and disturbed him--there were in his breast so many secret and hidden voices, whose whispers he dreaded, and which, therefore, he sought to drown--there were so many recollections of blood, which ever and again rose before him, however often he tried to wash them out in fresh blood, and which the king was afraid of, though he assumed the appearance of never repenting, never feeling disquietude.
With hasty hand he touched the gold bell standing by him, and his face brightened as he saw the door open immediately, and Earl Douglas make his appearance on the threshold.
“Oh, at length!” said the lord, who had very well understood the expression of Henry’s features; “at length, the king condescends to be gracious to his people.”
“I gracious?” asked the king, utterly astonished. “Well, how am I so?”
“By your majesty’s resting at length from his exertions, and giving a little thought to his valuable and needful health. When you remember, sire, that England’s weal depends solely and alone on the weal of her king, and that you must be and remain healthy, that your people, likewise may be healthy.”
The king smiled with satisfaction. It never came into his head to doubt the earl’s words. It seemed to him perfectly natural that the weal of his people depended on his person; but yet it was always a lofty and beautiful song, and he loved to have his courtiers repeat it.
The king, as we have said, smiled, but there was something unusual in that smile, which did not escape the earl.
“He is in the condition of a hungry anaconda,” said Earl Douglas to himself. “He is on the watch for prey, and he will be bright and lively again just as soon as he has tasted a little human flesh and blood. Ah, luckily we are well supplied in that way. Therefore, we will render unto the king what is the king’s. But we must be cautious and go to work warily.”
He approached the king and imprinted a kiss on his hand.
“I kiss this hand,” said he, “which has been to-day the fountain through which the wisdom of the head has been poured forth on this blessed paper. I kiss this paper, which will announce and explain to happy England God’s pure and unadulterated word; but yet I say let this suffice for the present, my king; take rest; remember awhile that you are not only a sage, but also a man.”
“Yes and truly a weak and decrepit one!” sighed the king, as with difficulty he essayed to rise, and in so doing leaned so heavily and the earl’s arm that he almost broke down under the monstrous load.
“Decrepit!” said Earl Douglas, reproachfully. “Your majesty moves to-day with as much ease and freedom as a youth, and my arm was by no means needed to help you up.”
“Nevertheless, we are growing old!” said the king, who, from his weariness, was unusually sentimental and low-spirited to-day.
“Old!” repeated Earl Douglas. “Old, with those eyes darting fire, and that lofty brow, and that face, in every feature so noble! No, your majesty, kings have this in common with the gods--they never grow old.”
“And therein they resemble parrots to a hair!” said John Heywood, who just then entered the room. “I own a parrot which my great-grandfather inherited from his great-grandfather, who was hair-dresser to Henry the Fourth, and which to-day still sings with the same volubility as he did a hundred years ago: ‘Long live the king! long live this paragon of virtue, sweetness, beauty, and mercy! Long live the king!’ He has cried this for hundreds of years, and he has repeated it for Henry the Fifth and Henry the Sixth, for Henry the Seventh and Henry the Eighth! And wonderful, the kings have changed, but the song of praise has always been appropriate, and has ever been only the simple truth! Just like yours, my Lord Douglas! Your majesty may depend upon it, he speaks the truth, for he is near akin to my parrot, which always calls him ‘My cousin,’ and has taught him his immortal song of praise to kings.”
The king laughed, while Earl Douglas cast at John Heywood a sharp, spiteful look.
“He is an impudent imp, is he not, Douglas?” said the king.
“He is a fool!” replied he, with a shrug.
“Exactly, and therefore I just now told you the truth. For you know children and fools speak the truth. And I became a fool just on this account, that the king, whom you all deceive by your lies, may have about him some creature, besides his looking-glass, to tell him the truth.”
“Well, and what truth will you serve up for me today?”
“It is already served, your majesty. So lay aside for a little your regal crown and your high priesthood, and conclude to be for awhile a carnivorous beast. It is very easy to become a king. For that, nothing more is necessary than to be born of a queen under a canopy. But it is very difficult to be a man who has a good digestion. It requires a healthy stomach and a light conscience. Come, King Henry, and let us see whether you are not merely a king, but also a man that has a good stomach.” And with a merry laugh he took the king’s other arm and led him with the earl into the dining-room.
The king, who was an extraordinary eater, silently beckoned his suite to take their places at the table, after he had seated himself in his gilded chair. With grave and solemn air he then received from the hands of the master of ceremonies the ivory tablet on which was the bill of fare for the day. The king’s dinner was a solemn and important affair. A multitude of post-wagons and couriers were ever on the way to bring from the remotest ends of the earth dainties for the royal table. The bill of fare, therefore, to-day, as ever, exhibited the choicest and rarest dishes; and always when the king found one of his favorite ones written down he made an assenting and approving motion of the head, which always lighted up the face of the master of ceremonies like a sunbeam. There were birds’ nests brought from the East Indies by a fast-sailing vessel, built specially for the purpose. There were hens from Calcutta and truffles from Languedoc, which the poet-king, Francis the First of France, had the day before sent to his royal brother as a special token of affection. There was the sparkling wine of Champagne, and the fiery wine of the Island of Cyprus, which the Republic of Venice had sent to the king as a mark of respect. There were the heavy wines of the Rhine, which looked like liquid gold, and diffused the fragrance of a whole bouquet of flowers, and with which the Protestant princes of Northern Germany hoped to fuddle the king, whom they would have gladly placed at the head of their league. There, too, were the monstrous, gigantic partridge pastries, which the Duke of Burgundy had sent, and the glorious fruits of the south, from the Spanish coast, with which the Emperor Charles the Fifth supplied the King of England’s table. For it was well known that, in order to make the King of England propitious, it was necessary first to satiate him; that his palate must first be tickled, in order to gain his head or his heart.
But to-day all these things seemed insufficient to give the king the blissful pleasure which, at other times, was wont to be with him when he sat at table. He heard John Heywood’s jests and biting epigrams with a melancholy smile, and a cloud was on his brow.
To be in cheerful humor, the king absolutely needed the presence of ladies. He needed them as the hunter needs the roe to enjoy the pleasure of the chase--that pleasure which consists in killing the defenceless and in declaring war against the innocent and peaceful.
The crafty courtier, Earl Douglas, readily divined Henry’s dissatisfaction, and understood the secret meaning of his frowns and sighs. He hoped much from them, and was firmly resolved to draw some advantage therefrom, to the benefit of his daughter, and the harm of the queen.
“Your majesty,” said he, “I am just on the point of turning traitor, and accusing my king of an injustice.”
The king turned his flashing eyes upon him, and put his hand, sparkling with jewelled rings, to the golden goblet filled with Rhenish wine.
“Of an injustice--me--your king?” asked he, with stammering tongue.
“Yes, of an injustice, inasmuch as you are for me God’s visible representative on earth. I would blame God if He withdrew from us for a day the brightness of the sun, the gorgeousness and perfume of His flowers, for since we children of men are accustomed to enjoy these glories, we have in a certain measure gained a right to them. So I accuse you because you have withdrawn from us the embodied flowers and the incarnate suns; because you have been so cruel, sire, as to send the queen to Epping Forest.”
“Not so; the queen wanted to ride,” said Henry, peevishly. “The spring weather attracted her, and since I, alas! do not possess God’s exalted attribute of ubiquity, I was, no doubt, obliged to come to the resolution of being deprived of her presence. There is no horse capable of carrying the King of England.”
“There is Pegasus, however, and in masterly manner you know how to manage him. But how, your majesty! the queen wanted to ride, though she was deprived of your presence thereby? She wanted to ride, though this pleasure-ride was at the same time a separation from you? Oh how cold and selfish are women’s hearts! Were I a woman, I would never depart from your side, I would covert no greater happiness than to be near you, and to listen to that high and exalted wisdom which pours from your inspired lips. Were I a woman--” “Earl, I opine that your wish is perfectly fulfilled,” said John Heywood seriously. “You make in all respects the impression of an old woman!”
All laughed. But the king did not laugh; he remained serious and looked gloomily before him.
“It is true,” muttered he, “she seemed excited with joy about this excursion, and in her eyes shone a fire I have seldom seen there. There must be some peculiar circumstance connected with this ride. Who accompanied the queen?”
“Princess Elizabeth,” said John Heywood, who had heard everything, and saw clearly the arrow that the earl had shot at the queen. “Princess Elizabeth, her true and dear friend, who never leaves her side. Besides, her maids of honor, who, like the dragon in the fable, keep watch over the beautiful princess.”
“Who else is in the queen’s company?” inquired Henry, sullenly.
“The master of horse, Earl of Sudley,” said Douglas, “and--” “That is an observation in the highest degree superfluous,” interrupted John Heywood; “it is perfectly well understood by itself that the master of horse accompanies the queen. That is just as much his office as it is yours to sing the song of your cousin, my parrot.”
“He is right,” said the king quickly. “Thomas Seymour must accompany her, and it is my will also. Thomas Seymour is a faithful servant, and this he has inherited from his sister Jane, my much loved queen, now at rest with God, that he is devoted to his king in steadfast affection.”
“The time has not yet come when one may assail the Seymours,” thought the earl. “The king is yet attached to them; so he will feel hostile toward the foes of the Seymours. Let us then begin our attack on Henry Howard--that is to say, on the queen.”
“Who accompanied the queen besides?” inquired Henry the Eighth, emptying the golden beaker at a draught, as though he would thereby cool the fire which already began to blaze within him. But the fiery Rhenish wine instead of cooling only heated him yet more; it drove, like a tempest, the fire kindled in his jealous heart in bright flames to his head, and made his brain glow like his heart.
“Who else accompanied her beside these?” asked Earl Douglas carelessly. “Well, I think, the lord chamberlain, Earl of Surrey.”
A dark scowl gathered on the king’s brow. The lion had scented his prey.
“The lord chamberlain is not in the queen’s train!” said John Heywood earnestly.
“No,” exclaimed Earl Douglas. “The poor earl. That will make him very sad.”
“And why think you that will make him sad?” asked the king in a voice very like the roll of distant thunder.
“Because the Earl of Surrey is accustomed to live in the sunshine of royal favor, sire; because he resembles that flower which always turns its head to the sun, and receives from it vigor, color, and brilliancy.”
“Let him take care that the sun does not scorch him,” muttered the king.
“Earl,” said John Heywood, “you must put on your spectacles so that you can see better. This time you have confounded the sun with one of its satellites. Earl Surrey is far too prudent a man to be so foolish as to gaze at the sun, and thereby blind his eyes and parch his brain. And so he is satisfied to worship one of the planets that circle round the sun.”
“What does the fool intend to say by that?” asked the earl contemptuously.
“The wise will thereby give you to understand that you have this time mistaken your daughter for the queen,” said John Heywood, emphasizing sharply every word, “and that it has happened to you, as to many a great astrologer, you have taken a planet for a sun.”
Earl Douglas cast a dark, spiteful look at John Heywood, who answered it with one equally piercing and furious.
Their eyes were firmly fixed on each other’s, and in those eyes they both read all the hatred and all the bitterness which were working in the depths of their souls. Both knew that they had from that hour sworn to each other an enmity burning and full of danger.
The king had noticed nothing of this dumb but significant scene. He was looking down, brooding over his gloomy thoughts, and the storm-clouds rolling around his brow gathered darker and darker.
With an impetuous movement he arose from his seat, and this time he needed no helping hand to stand up. Wrath was the mighty lever that threw him up.
The courtiers arose from their seats in silence, and nobody besides John Heywood observed the look of understanding which Earl Douglas exchanged with Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, and Wriothesley, the lord chancellor.
“Ah, why is not Cranmer here?” said John Heywood to himself. “I see the three tiger-cats prowling, so there must be prey to devour somewhere. Well, I will at any rate keep my ears open wide enough to hear their roaring.”
“The dinner is over, gentlemen!” said the king hastily; and the courtiers and gentlemen in waiting silently withdrew to the anteroom.
Only Earl Douglas, Gardiner, and Wriothesley, remained in the hall, while John Heywood crept softly into the king’s cabinet and concealed himself behind the hanging of gold brocade which covered the door leading from the king’s study to the outer anteroom.
“My lords,” said the king, “follow me into my cabinet. As we are dull, the most advisable thing for us to do is to divert ourselves while we occupy ourselves with the weal of our beloved subjects, and consult concerning their happiness and what is conducive to their welfare. Follow me then, and we will hold a general consultation.”
“Earl Douglas, your arm!” and as the king leaned on it and walked slowly toward the cabinet, at the entrance of which the lord chancellor and the Bishop of Winchester were waiting for him, he asked in a low voice: “You say that Henry Howard dares ever intrude himself into the queen’s presence?”
“Sire, I did not say that; I meant only that he is constantly to be seen in the queen’s presence.”
“Oh, you mean that she perhaps authorizes him to do so,” said the king, grinding his teeth.
“Sire, I hold the queen to be a noble and dutiful wife.”
“I should be quite inclined to lay your head at your feet if you did not!” said the king, in whose face the first lightning of the bursting cloud of wrath began to flash.
“My head belongs to the king!” said Earl Douglas respectfully. “Let him do with it as he pleases.”
“But Howard--you mean, then, that Howard loves the queen?”
“Yes, sire, I dare affirm that.”
“Now, by the Mother of God, I will tread the serpent under my feet, as I did his sister!” exclaimed Henry, fiercely. “The Howards are an ambitious, dangerous, and hypocritical race.”
“A race that never forgets that a daughter of their house has sat on your throne.”
“But they shall forget it,” cried the king, “and I must wash these proud and haughty thoughts out of their brain with their own blood. They have not then learned, from the example of their sister, how I punish disloyalty. This insolent race needs another fresh example. Well, they shall have it. Only put the means in my hand, Douglas, only a little hook that I can strike into the flesh of these Howards, and I tell you, with that little hook I will drag them to the scaffold. Give me proof of the earl’s criminal love, and I promise you that for this I will grant you what you ask.”
“Sire, I will give you this proof.”
“When?”
“In four days, sire! At the great contest of the poets, which you have ordered to take place on the queen’s birthday.”
“I thank you, Douglas, I thank you,” said the king with an expression almost of joy. “In four days you will have rid me of the troublesome race of Howards.”
“But, sire, if I cannot give the proof you demand without accusing one other person?”
The king, who was just about to pass the door of his cabinet, stood still, and looked steadily into the earl’s eyes. “Then,” said he, in a tone peculiarly awful, “you mean the queen? Well, if she is guilty, I will punish her. God has placed the sword in my hand that I may bear it to His honor and to the terror of mankind. If the queen has sinned, she will be punished. Furnish me the proof of Howard’s guilt, and do not trouble yourself if we thereby discover the guilt of others. We shall not timidly shrink back, but let justice take its course.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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14
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THE QUEEN’S FRIEND.
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Earl Douglas, Gardiner, and Wriothesley, had accompanied the king into his cabinet.
At last the great blow was to be struck, and the plan of the three enemies of the queen, so long matured and well-considered, was to be at length put in execution. Therefore, as they followed the king, who with unwonted activity preceded them, they exchanged with each other one more look of mutual understanding.
By that look Earl Douglas said, “The hour has come. Be ready!”
And the looks of his friends responded, “We are ready!”
John Heywood, who, hidden behind the hangings, saw and observed everything, could not forbear a slight shudder at the sight of these four men, whose dark and hard features seemed incapable of being touched by any ray of pity or mercy.
There was first the king, that man with the Protean countenance, across which storm and sunshine, God and the devil traced each minute new lines; who could be now an inspired enthusiast, and now a bloodthirsty tyrant; now a sentimental wit, and anon a wanton reveler; the king, on whose constancy nobody, not even himself, could rely; ever ready, as it suited his caprice or his interest, to betray his most faithful friend, and to send to the scaffold to-day those whom but yesterday he had caressed and assured of his unchanging affection; the king, who considered himself privileged to indulge with impunity his low appetites, his revengeful impulses, his bloodthirsty inclinations; who was devout from vanity, because devotion afforded him an opportunity of identifying himself with God, and of regarding himself in some sort the patron of Deity.
There was Earl Douglas, the crafty courtier with ever-smiling face, who seemed to love everybody, while in fact he hated all; who assumed the appearance of perfect harmlessness, and seemed to be indifferent to everything but pleasure, while nevertheless secretly he held in his hand all the strings of that great net which encompassed alike court and king--Earl Douglas, whom the king loved for this alone, because he generally gave him the title of grand and wise high-priest of the Church, and who was, notwithstanding this, Loyola’s vicegerent, and a true and faithful adherent of that pope who had damned the king as a degenerate son and given him over to the wrath of God.
Lastly, there were the two men with dark, malignant looks, with inflexible, stony faces, which u ere never lighted up by a smile, or a gleam of joy; who always condemned, always punished, and whose countenances never brightened save when the dying shriek of the condemned, or the groans of some poor wretch upon the rack, fell upon their ears; who were the tormentors of humanity, while they called themselves the ministers and servants of God.
“Sire,” said Gardiner, when the king had slowly taken his seat upon the ottoman--“sire, let us first ask the blessing of the Lord our God on this hour of conference. May God, who is love, but who is wrath also, may He enlighten and bless us!”
The king devoutly folded his hands, but it was only a prayer of wrath that animated his soul.
“Grant, O God, that I may punish Thine enemies, and everywhere dash in pieces the guilty!”
“Amen!” said Gardiner, as he repeated with solemn earnestness the king’s words.
“Send us the thunderbolt of Thy wrath,” prayed Wriothesley, “that we may teach the world to recognize Thy power and glory!”
Earl Douglas took care not to pray aloud. What he had to request of God was not allowed to reach the ear of the king.
“Grant, O God,” prayed he in his heart, “grant that my work may prosper, and that this dangerous queen may ascend the scaffold, to make room for my daughter, who is destined to bring back into the arms of our holy mother, the Church--guilty and faithless king.”
“Now my lords,” said the king, fetching a long breath, “now tell me how stand matters in my kingdom, and at my court?”
“Badly,” said Gardiner. “Unbelief again lifts up its head. It is a hydra. If you strike off one of its heads, two others immediately spring up in its place. This cursed sect of reformists and atheists multiplies day by day, and our prisons are no longer sufficient to contain them; and when we drag them to the stake, their joyful and courageous death always makes fresh proselytes and fresh apostates.”
“Yes, matters are bad,” said the Lord Chancellor Wriothesley; “in vain have we promised pardon and forgiveness to all those who would return penitent and contrite; they laugh to scorn our offers of pardon, and prefer a death of torture to the royal clemency. What avails it that we have burnt to death Miles Coverdale, who had the hardihood to translate the Bible? His death appears to have been only the tocsin that aroused other fanatics, and, without our being able to divine or suspect where all these books come from, they have overflowed and deluged the whole land; and we now already have more than four translations of the Bible. The people read them with eagerness; and the corrupt seek of mental illumination and free-thinking waxes daily more powerful and more pernicious.”
“And now you, Earl Douglas?” asked the king, when the lord chancellor ceased. “These noble lords have told me how matters stand in my kingdom. You will advise me what is the aspect of things at my court.”
“Sire,” said Earl Douglas, slowly and solemnly--for he wished each word to sink into the king’s breast like a poisoned arrow--“sire, the people but follow the example which the court sets them. How can you require faith of the people, when under their own eyes the court turns faith to ridicule, and when infidels find at court aid and protection?”
“You accuse, but give no names,” said the king, impatiently. “Who dares at my court be a protector of heretics?”
“Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury!” said the three men, as with one mouth. The signal-word was spoken, the standard of a bloody struggle set up.
“Cranmer?” repeated the king thoughtfully. “He has, however, always been a faithful servant and an attentive friend to me. It was he who delivered me from the unholy bond with Catharine of Aragon: it was he too who warned me of Catharine Howard, and furnished me with proofs of her guilt. Of what misdemeanor do you accuse him?”
“He denies the six articles,” said Gardiner, whose malicious face now glowed with bitter hatred. “He reprobates auricular confession, and believes not that the voluntarily taken vows of celibacy are binding.”
“If he does that, then he is a traitor!” cried the king, who was fond of always throwing a reverence for chastity and modesty, as a kind of holy mantle, over his own profligate and lewd life; and whom nothing more embittered than to encounter another on that path of vice which he himself, by virtue of his royal prerogative, and his crown by the grace of God, could travel in perfect safety.
“If he does that, then he is a traitor! My arm of vengeance will smite him!” repeated the king again. “It was I who gave my people the six articles, as a sacred and authoritative declaration of faith; and I will not suffer this only true and right doctrine to be assailed and obscured. But you are mistaken, my lords. I am acquainted with Cranmer, and I know that he is loyal and faithful.”
“And yet it is he,” said Gardiner, “who confirms these heretics in their obduracy and stiff-neckedness. He is the cause why these lost wretches do not, from the fear of divine wrath at least, return to you, their sovereign and high-priest. For he preaches to them that God is love and mercy; he teaches them that Christ came into the world in order to bring to the world love and the forgiveness of sins, and that they alone are Christ’s true disciples and servants who emulate His love. Do you not see then, sire, that this is a covert and indirect accusation against yourself, and that while he praises pardoning love, he at the same time condemns and accuses your righteous and punitory wrath?”
The king did not answer immediately, but sat with his eyes fixed, grave and pondering. The fanatical priest had gone too far; and, without being aware of it, it was he himself who was that very instant accusing the king.
Earl Douglas felt this. He read in the king’s face that he was just then in one of those moments of contrition which sometimes came over him when his soul held involuntary intercourse with itself. It was necessary to arouse the sleeping tiger and point out to him some prey, so as to make him again bloodthirsty.
“It would be proper if Cranmer preached only Christian love,” said he. “Then would he be only a faithful servant of his Lord, and a follower of his king. But he gives to the world an abominable example of a disobedient and perfidious servant; he denies the truth of the six articles, not in words, but in deeds. You have ordered that the priests of the Church remain single. Now, then, the Archbishop of Canterbury is married!”
“Married!” cried the king, his visage glowing with rage. “Ah, I will chastise him, this transgressor of my holy laws! A minister of the Church, a priest, whose whole life should be naught but an exhibition of holiness, an endless communion with God, and whose high calling it is to renounce fleshly lusts and earthly desires! And he is married! I will make him feel the whole weight of my royal anger! He shall learn from his own experience that the king’s justice is inexorable, and that in every case he smites the head of the sinner, be he who he may!”
“Your majesty is the embodiment of wisdom and justice,” said Douglas, “and your faithful servants well know, if the royal justice is sometimes tardy in smiting guilty offenders, this happens not through your will, but through your servants who venture to stay the arm of justice.”
“When and where has this happened?” asked Henry; and his face flushed with rage and excitement. “Where is the offender whom I have not punished? Where in my realm lives a being who has sinned against God or his king, and whom I have not dashed to atoms?”
“Sire,” said Gardiner solemnly, “Anne Askew is yet alive.”
“She lives to mock at your wisdom and to scoff at your holy creed!” cried Wriothesley.
“She lives, because Bishop Cranmer wills that she should not die,” said Douglas, shrugging his shoulders. The king broke out into a short, dry laugh. “Ah, Cranmer wills not that Anne Askew die!” said he, sneering. “He wills not that this girl, who has so fearfully offended against her king, and against God, should be punished!”
“Yes, she has offended fearfully, and yet two years have passed away since her offence,” cried Gardiner--“two years which she has spent in deriding God and mocking the king!”
“Ah,” said the king, “we have still hoped to turn this young, misguided creature from the ways of sin and error to the path of wisdom and repentance. We wished for once to give our people a shining example of our willingness to forgive those who repent and renounce their heresy, and to restore them to a participation of our royal favor. Therefore it was that we commissioned you, my lord bishop, by virtue of your prayers and your forcible and convincing words, to pluck this poor child from the claws of the devil, who has charmed her ear.”
“But she is unbending,” said Gardiner, grinding his teeth. “In vain have I depicted to her the pains of hell, which await her if she return not to the faith; in vain have I subjected her to every variety of torture and penance; in vain have I sent to her in prison other converts, and had them pray with her night and day incessantly; she remains unyielding, hard as stone, and neither the fear of punishment nor the prospect of freedom and happiness has the power to soften that marble heart.”
“There is one means yet untried,” said Wriothesley--“a means, moreover, which is a more effective preacher of repentance than the most enthusiastic orators and the most fervent prayers, and which I have to thank for bringing back to God and the faith many of the most hardened heretics.”
“And this means is--” “The rack, your majesty.”
“Ah, the rack!” replied the king, with an involuntary shudder.
“All means are good that lead to the holy end!” said Gardiner, devoutly folding his hands.
“The soul must be saved, though the body be pierced with wounds!” cried Wriothesley.
“The people must be convinced,” said Douglas, “that the lofty spirit of the king spares not even those who are under the protection of influential and might personages. The people murmur that this time justice is not permitted to prevail, because Archbishop Cranmer protects Anne Askew, and the queen is her friend.”
“The queen is never the friend of a criminal!” said Henry, vehemently.
“Perchance she does not consider Anne Askew a criminal,” responded Karl Douglas, with a slight smile. “It is known, indeed, that the queen is a great friend of the Reformation; and the people, who dare not call her a heretic--the people call her ‘the Protestant. ’” “Is it, then, really believed that it is Catharine who protects Anne Askew, and keeps her from the stake?” inquired the king, thoughtfully.
“It is so thought, your majesty.”
“They shall soon see that they are mistaken, and that Henry the Eighth well deserves to be called the Defender of the Faith and the Head of his Church!” cried the king, with burning rage. “For when have I shown myself so long-suffering and weak in punishing, that people believe me inclined to pardon and deal gently? Have I not sent to the scaffold even Thomas More and Cromwell, two renowned and in a certain respect noble and high-minded men, because they dared defy my supremacy and oppose the doctrine and ordinance which I commanded them to believe? Have I not sent to the block two of my queens--two beautiful young women, in whom my heart was well pleased, even when I punished them--because they had provoked my wrath? Who, after such brilliant examples of our annihilating justice, who dare accuse us of forbearance?”
“But at that time, sire,” said Douglas, in his soft, insinuating voice, “but at that time no queen as yet stood at your side who called heretics true believers, and favored traitors with her friendship.”
The king frowned, and his wrathful look encountered the friendly and submissive countenance of the earl. “You know I hate these covert attacks,” said he. “If you can tax the queen with any crime, well now, do so. If you cannot, hold your peace!”
“The queen is a noble and virtuous lady,” said the earl, “only she sometimes permits herself to be led away by her magnanimous spirit. Or how, your majesty, can it possibly be with your permission that my lady the queen maintains a correspondence with Anne Askew?”
“What say you? The queen in correspondence with Anne Askew?” cried the king in a voice of thunder. “That is a lie, a shameless lie, hatched up to ruin the queen; for it is very well known that the poor king, who has been so often deceived, so often imposed upon, believes himself to have at last found in this woman a being whom he can trust, and in whom he can put faith. And they grudge him that. They wish to strip him of this last hope also, that his heart may harden entirely to stone, and no emotion of pity evermore find access to him. Ah, Douglas, Douglas, beware of my wrath, if you cannot prove what you say!”
“Sire, I can prove it! For Lady Jane herself, no longer ago than yesterday, was made to give up a note from Anne Askew to the queen.”
The king remained silent for a while, and gazed fixedly on the ground. His three confidants observed him with breathless, trembling expectation.
At length the king raised his head again, and turned his gaze, which was now grave and steady, upon the lord chancellor. “My Lord Chancellor Wriothesley,” said he, “I empower you to conduct Anne Askew to the torture-room, and try whether the torments which are prepared for the body are perchance able to bring this erring soul to an acknowledgment of her faults. My Lord Bishop Gardiner, I promise my word that I will give attention to your accusation against the Archbishop of Canterbury, and that, if it be well founded, he shall not escape punishment. My Lord Douglas, I will give my people and all the world proof that I am still God’s righteous and avenging vice-gerent on earth, and that no consideration can restrain my wrath, no after-thought stay my arm, whenever it is ready to fall and smite the head of the guilty. And now, my lords, let us declare this session at an end. Let us breathe a little from these exertions, and seek some recreation for one brief hour.
“My Lords Gardiner and Wriothesley, you are now at liberty. You, Douglas, will accompany me into the small reception-room. I want to see bright and laughing faces around me. Call John Heywood, and if you meet any ladies in the palace, of course I beg them to shed on us a little of that sunshine which you say is peculiarly woman’s.”
He laughed, and, leaning on the earl’s arm, left the cabinet.
Gardiner and Wriothesley stood there in silence, watching the king, who slowly and heavily traversed the adjacent hall, and whose cheery and laughing voice came ringing back to them.
“He is a weathercock, turning every moment from side to side,” said Gardiner, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
“He calls himself God’s sword of vengeance, but he is nothing more than a weak tool, which we bend and use at our will,” muttered Wriothesley, with a hoarse laugh. “Poor, pitiful fool, deeming himself so mighty and sturdy; imagining himself a free king, ruling by his sovereign will alone, and yet he is but our servant and drudge! Our great work is approaching its end, and we shall one day triumph. Anne Askew’s death is the sign of a new covenant, which will deliver England and trample the heretics like dust beneath our feet. And when at length we shall have put down Cranmer, and brought Catharine Parr to the scaffold, then will we give King Henry a queen who will reconcile him with God and the Church, out of which is no salvation.”
“Amen, so be it!” said Gardiner; and arm in arm they both left the cabinet.
Deep stillness now reigned in that little spot, and nobody saw John Heywood as he now came from behind the hanging, and, completely worn out and faint, slipped for a moment into a chair.
“Now I know, so far at least, the plan of these blood-thirsty tiger-cats,” muttered he. “They wish to give Henry a popish queen; and so Cranmer must be overthrown, that, when they have deprived the queen of this powerful prop, they may destroy her also and tread her in the dust. But as God liveth, they shall not succeed in this! God is just, and He will at last punish these evil-doers. And supposing there is no God, then will we try a little with the devil himself. No, they shall not destroy the noble Cranmer and this beautiful, high-minded queen. I forbid it--I, John Heywood, the king’s fool. I will see everything, observe everything, hear everything. They shall find me everywhere on their path; and when they poison the king’s ear with their diabolical whisperings, I will heal it again with my merry deviltries. The king’s fool will be the guardian angel of the queen.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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15
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JOHN HEYWOOD.
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After so much care and excitement, the king needed an hour of recreation and amusement. Since the fair young queen was seeking these far away in the chase, and amid the beauties of Nature, Henry must, no doubt, be content to seek them for himself, and in a way different from the queen’s. His unwieldiness and his load of flesh prevented him from pursuing the joys of life beyond his own halls; so the lords and ladies of his court had to bring them hither to him, and station the flitting goddess of Joy, with her wings fettered, in front of the king’s trundle-chair.
The gout had that day again overcome that mighty king of earth; and a heavy, grotesque mass it was which sat there in the elbow-chair.
But the courtiers still called him a fine-looking and fascinating man; and the ladies still smiled on him and said, by their sighs and by their looks, that they loved him; that he was ever to them the same handsome and captivating man that he was twenty years before, when yet young, fine-looking, and slim. How they smile upon him, and ogle him! How Lady Jane, the maiden otherwise so haughty and so chaste, does wish to ensnare him with her bright eyes as with a net! How bewitchingly does the Duchess of Richmond, that fair and voluptuous woman, laugh at the king’s merry jests and double entendres!
Poor king! whose corpulency forbids him to dance as he once had done with so much pleasure and so much dexterity! Poor king! whose age forbids him to sing as once he had done to the delight both of the court and himself!
But there are yet, however, pleasant, precious, joyous hours, when the man revives some little in the king; when even youth once more again awakes within him, and smiles in a few dear, blessed pleasures. The king still has at least eyes to perceive beauty, and a heart to feel it.
How beautiful Lady Jane is, this white lily with the dark, star-like eyes! How beautiful Lady Richmond, this full-blown red rose with the pearl-white teeth!
And they both smile at him; and when the king swears he loves them, they bashfully cast down their eyes and sigh.
“Do you sigh, Jane, because you love me?”
“Oh, sire, you mock me. It would be a sin for me to love you, for Queen Catharine is living.”
“Yes, she is living!” muttered the king; and his brow darkened; and for a moment the smile disappeared from his lips.
Lady Jane had committed a mistake. She had reminded the king of his wife when it was yet too soon to ask for her death.
John Heywood read this in the countenance of his royal master, and resolved to take advantage of it. He wished to divert the attention of the king, and to draw it away from the beautiful, captivating women who were juggling him with their bewitching charms.
“Yes, the queen lives!” said he, joyfully, “and God be praised for it! For how tedious and dull it would be at this court had we not our fair queen, who is as wise as Methuselah, and innocent and good as a new-born babe! Do you not, Lady Jane, say with me, God be praised that Queen Catharine is living?”
“I say so with you!” said Jane, with ill-concealed vexation.
“And you, King Henry, do you not say it too?”
“Of course, fool!”
“Ah, why am I not King Henry?” sighed John Heywood. “King, I envy you, not your crown, or your royal mantle; not your attendants or your money. I envy you only this, that you can say, ‘God be praised that my wife is still alive!’ while I never know but one phrase, ‘God have pity, my wife is still alive!’ Ah, it is very seldom, king, that I have heard a married man speak otherwise! You are in that too, as in all things else, an exception, King Henry; and your people have never loved you more warmly and purely than when you say, ‘I thank God that my consort is alive!’ Believe me, you are perhaps the only man at your court who speaks after this manner, however ready they may be to be your parrots, and re-echo what the lord high-priest says.”
“The only man that loves his wife?” said Lady Richmond. “Behold now the rude babbler! Do you not believe, then, that we women deserve to be loved?”
“I am convinced that you do not.”
“And for what do you take us, then?”
“For cats, which God, since He had no more cat-skin, stuck into a smooth hide!”
“Take care, John, that we do not show you our claws!” cried the duchess, laughing.
“Do it anyhow, my lady! I will then make a cross, and ye will disappear. For devils, you well know, cannot endure the sight of the holy cross, and ye are devils.”
John Heywood, who was a remarkably fine singer, seized the mandolin, which lay near him, and began to sing.
It was a song, possible only in those days, and at Henry’s voluptuous and at the same time canting court--a song full of the most wanton allusions, of the most cutting jests against both monks and women; a song which made Henry laugh, and the ladies blush; and in which John Heywood had poured forth in glowing dithyrambics all his secret indignation against Gardiner, the sneaking hypocrite of a priest, and against Lady Jane, the queen’s false and treacherous friend.
But the ladies laughed not. They darted flashing glances at John Heywood; and Lady Richmond earnestly and resolutely demanded the punishment of the perfidious wretch who dared to defame women. The king laughed still harder. The rage of the ladies was so exceedingly amusing.
“Sire,” said the beautiful Richmond, “he has insulted not us, but the whole sex; and in the name of our sex, I demand revenge for the affront.”
“Yes, revenge!” cried Lady Jane, hotly.
“Revenge!” repeated the rest of the ladies.
“See, now, what pious and gentle-hearted doves ye are!” cried John Heywood.
The king said, laughingly: “Well, now, you shall have your will--you shall chastise him.”
“Yes, yes, scourge me with rods, as they once scourged the Messiah, because He told the Pharisees the truth. See here! I am already putting on the crown of thorns.”
He took the king’s velvet cap with solemn air, and put it on.
“Yes, whip him, whip him!” cried the king, laughing, as he pointed to the gigantic vases of Chinese porcelain, containing enormous bunches of roses, on whose long stems arose a real forest of formidable-looking thorns.
“Pull the large bouquets to pieces; take the roses in your hand, and whip him with the stems!” said the king, and his eyes glistened with inhuman delight, for the scene promised to be quite interesting. The rose-stems were long and hard, and the thorns on them pointed and sharp as daggers. How nicely they would pierce the flesh, and how he would yell and screw his face, the good-natured fool!
“Yes, yes, let him take off his coat, and we will whip him!” cried the Duchess of Richmond; and the women, all joining in the cry, rushed like furies upon John Heywood, and forced him to lay aside his silk upper garment. Then they hurried to the vases, snatched out the bouquets, and with busy hands picked out the longest and stoutest stems. And loud were their exclamations of satisfaction, if the thorns were right and sharp, such as would penetrate the flesh of the offender right deeply. The king’s laughter and shouts of approval animated them more and more, and made them more excited and furious. Their cheeks glowed, their eyes glared; they resembled Bacchantes circling the god of riotous joviality with their shouts of “Evoe! evoe!”
“Not yet! do not strike yet!” cried the king. “You must first strengthen yourselves for the exertion, and fire your arms for a powerful blow!”
He took the large golden beaker which stood before him and, tasting it, presented it to Lady Jane.
“Drink, my lady, drink, that your arm may be strong!”
And they all drank, and with animated smiles pressed their lips on the spot which the king’s mouth had touched. And now their eyes had a brighter flame, and their cheeks a more fiery glow.
A strange and exciting sight it was, to see those beautiful women burning with malicious joy and thirst for vengeance, who for the moment had laid aside all their elegant attitudes, their lofty and haughty airs, to transform themselves into wanton Bacchantes, bent on chastising the offender, who had so often and so bitterly lashed them all with his tongue.
“Ah, I would a painter were here!” said the king. “He should paint us a picture of the chaste nymphs of Diana pursuing Actaeon. You are Actaeon, John!”
“But they are not the chaste nymphs, king; no, far from it,” cried Heywood; laughing, “and between these fair women and Diana I find no resemblance, but only a difference.”
“And in what consists the difference, John?”
“Herein, sire, that Diana carried her horn at her side; but these fair ladies make their husbands wear their horns on the forehead!”
A loud peal of laughter from the gentlemen, a yell of rage from the ladies, was the reply of this new epigram of John Heywood. They arranged themselves in two rows, and thus formed a lane through which John Heywood had to pass.
“Come, John Heywood, come and receive your punishment;” and they raised their thorny rods threateningly, and flourished them with angry gestures high above their heads.
The scene was becoming to John in all respects very piquant, for these rods had very sharp thorns, and only a thin linen shirt covered his back.
With bold step, however, he approached the fatal passage through which he was to pass.
Already he beheld the rods drawn back; and it seemed to him as if the thorns were even now piercing his back.
He halted, and turned with a laugh to the king. “Sire, since you have condemned me to die by the hands of these nymphs, I claim the right of every condemned criminal--a last favor.”
“The which we grant you, John.”
“I demand that I may put on these fair women one condition--one condition on which they may whip me. Does your majesty grant me this?”
“I grant it!”
“And you solemnly pledge me the word of a king that this condition shall be faithfully kept and fulfilled?”
“My solemn, kingly word for it!”
“Now, then,” said John Heywood, as he entered the passage, “now, then, my ladies, my condition is this: that one of you who has had the most lovers, and has oftenest decked her husband’s head with horns, let her lay the first stroke on my back.” [Footnote: Flogel’s “Geschichte der Hofnarren,” p.899] A deep silence followed. The raised arms of the fair women sank. The roses fell from their hands and dropped to the ground. Just before so bloodthirsty and revengeful, they seemed now to have become the softest and gentlest of beings.
But could their looks have killed, their fire certainly would have consumed poor John Heywood, who now gazed at them with an insolent sneer, and advanced into the very midst of their lines.
“Now, my ladies, you strike him not?” asked the king.
“No, your majesty, we despise him too much even to wish to chastise him,” said the Duchess of Richmond.
“Shall your enemy who has injured you go thus unpunished?” asked the king. “No, no, my ladies; it shall not be said that there is a man in my kingdom whom I have let escape when so richly deserving punishment. We will, therefore, impose some other punishment on him. He calls himself a poet, and has often boasted that he could make his pen fly as fast as his tongue! Now, then, John, show us in this manner that you are no liar! I command you to write, for the great court festival which takes place in a few days, a new interlude; and one indeed, hear you, John, which is calculated to make the greatest growler merry, and over which these ladies will be forced to laugh so heartily, that they will forget all their ire!”
“Oh,” said John dolefully, “what an equivocal and lewd poem it must be to please these ladies and make them laugh! My king, we must, then, to please these dear ladies, forget a little our chastity, modesty, and maiden bashfulness, and speak in the spirit of the ladies--that is to say, as lasciviously as possible.”
“You are a wretch!” said Lady Jane; “a vulgar hypocritical fool.”
“Earl Douglas, your daughter is speaking to you,” said John Heywood, calmly. “She flatters you much, your tender daughter.”
“Now then, John, you have heard my orders, and will you obey them? In four days will this festival begin; I give you two days more. In six days, then, you have to write a new interlude. And if he fails to do it, my ladies, you shall whip him until you bring the blood; and that without any condition.” Just then was heard without a flourish of trumpets and the clatter of horse-hoofs.
“The queen has returned,” said John Heywood, with a countenance beaming with joy, as he fixed his smiling gaze full of mischievous satisfaction on Lady Jane.
“Nothing further now remains for you to do, but dutifully to meet your mistress upon the great staircase, for, as you so wisely said before, the queen still lives.”
Without waiting for an answer, John Heywood ran out and rushed through the anteroom and down the steps to meet the queen. Lady Jane watched him with a dark, angry look; and as she turned slowly to the door to go and meet the queen, she muttered low between her closely-pressed lips: “The fool must die, for he is the queen’s friend!”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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16
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THE CONFIDANT.
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The queen was just ascending the steps of the great public staircase, and she greeted John Heywood with a friendly smile.
“My lady,” said he aloud, “I have a few words in private to say to you, in the name of his majesty.”
“Words in private!” repeated Catharine, as she stopped upon the terrace of the palace. “Well, then, fall back, my lords and ladies; we wish to receive his majesty’s mysterious message.”
The royal train silently and respectfully withdrew into the large anteroom of the palace, while the queen remained alone with John Heywood on the terrace.
“Now, speak, John.”
“Queen, heed well my words, and grave them deep on your memory! A conspiracy is forged against you, and in a few days, at the great festival, it will be ripe for execution. Guard well, therefore, every word you utter, ay, even your very thoughts. Beware of every dangerous step, for you may be certain that a listener stands behind you! And if you need a confidant, confide in no one but me! I tell you, a great danger lies before you, and only by prudence and presence of mind will you be able to avoid it.”
This time the queen did not laugh at her friend’s warning voice. She was serious; she even trembled.
She had lost her proud sense of security and her serene confidence--she was no longer guiltless--she had a dangerous secret to keep, consequently she felt a dread of discovery; and she trembled not merely for herself, but also for him whom she loved.
“And in what consists this plot?” asked she, with agitation.
“I do not yet understand it; I only know that it exists. But I will search it out, and if your enemies lurk about you with watchful eyes, well, then, I will have spying eyes to observe them.”
“And is it I alone that they threaten?”
“No, queen, your friend also.”
Catharine trembled. “What friend, John?”
“Archbishop Cranmer.”
“Ah, the archbishop!” replied she, drawing a deep breath.
“And is he all, John? Does their enmity pursue only me and him?”
“Only you two!” said John Heywood, sadly, for he had fully understood the queen’s sigh of relief, and he knew that she had trembled for another. “But remember, queen, that Cranmer’s destruction would be likewise your own; and that as you protect the archbishop, he also will protect you with the king--you, queen, and your FRIENDS.”
Catharine gave a slight start, and the crimson on her cheek grew deeper. “I shall always be mindful of that, and ever be a true and real friend to him and to you; for you two are my only friends: is it not so?”
“No, your majesty, I spoke to you of yet a third, of Thomas Seymour.”
“Oh, he!” cried she with a sweet smile. Then she said suddenly, and in a low quick voice: “You say I must trust no one here but you. Now, then, I will give you a proof of my confidence. Await me in the green summer-house at twelve o’clock to-night. You must be my attendant on a dangerous excursion. Have you courage, John?”
“Courage to lay down my life for you, queen!”
“Come, then, but bring your weapon with you.”
“At your command! and is that your only order for to-day?”
“That is all, John! only,” added she, with hesitation and a slight blush, “only, if you perchance meet Earl Sudley, you may say to him that I charged you to greet him in my name.”
“Oh!” sighed John Hey wood, sadly.
“He has to-day saved my life, John,” said she, as if excusing herself. “It becomes me well, then, to be grateful to him.”
And giving him a friendly nod, she stepped into the porch of the castle.
“Now let anybody say again, that chance is not the most mischievous and spiteful of all devils!” muttered John Heywood. “This devil, chance, throws in the queen’s way the very person she ought most to avoid; and she must be, as in duty bound, very grateful to a lover. Oh, oh, so he has saved her life? But who knows whether he may not be one day the cause of her losing it!”
He dropped his head gloomily upon his breast, when suddenly he heard behind him a low voice calling his name; and as he turned, he saw the young Princess Elizabeth hastening toward him with a hurried step. She was at that moment very beautiful. Her eyes gleamed with the fire of passion; her cheeks glowed; and about her crimson lips there played a gentle, happy smile. She wore, according to the fashion of the time, a close-fitting high-necked dress, which showed off to perfection the delicate lines of her slender and youthful form, while the wide standing collar concealed the somewhat too great length of her neck, and made her ruddy, as yet almost childish face stand out as it were from a pedestal. On either side of her high, thoughtful brow, fell, in luxurious profusion, light flaxen curls; her head was covered with a black velvet cap, from which a white feather drooped to her shoulders.
She was altogether a charming and lovely apparition, full of nobleness and grace, full of fire and energy; and yet, in spite of her youthfulness, not wanting in a certain grandeur and dignity. Elizabeth, though still almost a child, and frequently bowed and humbled by misfortune, yet ever remained her father’s own daughter. And though Henry had declared her a bastard and excluded her from the succession to the throne, yet she bore the stamp of her royal blood in her high, haughty brow; in her keen, flashing eye.
As she now stood before John Heywood, she was not, however, the haughty, imperious princess, but merely the shy, blushing maiden, who feared to trust her first girlish secret to another’s ear, and ventured only with trembling hand to draw aside the veil which concealed her heart.
“John Heywood,” said she, “you have often told me that you loved me; and I know that my poor unfortunate mother trusted you, and summoned you as a witness of her innocence. You could not at that time save the mother, but will you now serve Anne Boleyn’s daughter, and be her faithful friend?”
“I will,” said Heywood, solemnly, “and as true as there is a God above us, you shall never find me a traitor.”
“I believe you, John; I know that I may trust you. Listen then, I will now tell you my secret--a secret which no one but God knows, and the betrayal of which might bring me to the scaffold. Will you then swear to me, that you will never, under any pretext, and from any motive whatsoever, betray to anybody, so much as a single word of what I am now about to tell you? Will you swear to me, never to intrust this secret to any one, even on your death-bed, and not to betray it even in the confessional?”
“Now as regards that, princess,” said John, with a laugh, “you are perfectly safe. I never go to confession, for confession is a highly-spiced dish of popery on which I long since spoilt my stomach; and as concerns my deathbed, one cannot, under the blessed and pious reign of Henry the Eighth, altogether know whether he will be really a participant of any kind, or whether he may not make a far more speedy and convenient trip into eternity by the aid of the hangman.”
“Oh, be serious, John--do, I pray you! Let the fool’s mask, under which you hide your sober and honest face, not hide it from me also. Be serious, John, and swear to me that you will keep my secret.”
“Well, then, I swear, princess; I swear by your mother’s spirit to betray not a word of what you are going to tell me.”
“I thank you, John. Now lean this way nearer to me, lest the breeze may catch a single word of mine and bear it farther. John, I love!”
She saw the half-surprised, half-incredulous smile which played around John Heywood’s lips. “Oh,” continued she, passionately, “you believe me not. You consider my fourteen years, and you think the child knows nothing yet of a maiden’s feelings. But remember, John, that those girls who live under a warm sun are early ripened by his glowing rays, and are already wives and mothers when they should still be dreaming children. Well, now, I too am the daughter of a torrid zone, only mine has not been the sun of prosperity, and it has been sorrow and misfortune which have matured my heart. Believe me, John, I love! A glowing, consuming fire rages within me; it is at once my delight and my misery, my happiness and my future.
“The king has robbed me of a brilliant and glorious future; let them not, then, grudge me a happy one, at least. Since I am never to be a queen, I will at least be a happy and beloved wife. If I am condemned to live in obscurity and lowliness, at the very least, I must not be prohibited from adorning this obscure and inglorious existence with flowers, which thrive not at the foot of the throne, and to illuminate it with stars more sparkling than the refulgence of the most radiant kingly crown.”
“Oh, you are mistaken about your own self!” said John Heywood, sorrowfully. “You choose the one only because the other is denied. You would love only because you cannot rule; and since your heart, which thirsts for fame and honor, can find no other satisfaction, you would quench its thirst with some other draught, and would administer love as an opiate to lull to rest its burning pains. Believe me, princess, you do not yet know yourself! You were not born to be merely a loving wife, and your brow is much too high and haughty to wear only a crown of myrtle. Therefore, consider well what you do, princess! Be not carried away by your father’s passionate blood, which boils in your veins also. Think well before you act. Your foot is yet on one of the steps to the throne. Draw it not back voluntarily. Maintain your position; then, the next step brings you again one stair higher up. Do not voluntarily renounce your just claim, but abide in patience the coming of the day of retribution and justice. Only do not yourself make it impossible, that there may then be a full and glorious reparation. PRINCESS Elizabeth may yet one day be queen, provided she has not exchanged her name for one less glorious and noble.”
“John Heywood,” said she, with a bewitching smile, “I have told you I love him.”
“Well, love him as much as you please, but do it in silence, and tell him not of it; but teach your love resignation.”
“John, he knows it already.”
“Ah, poor princess! you are still but a child, that sticks its hands in the fire with smiling bravery and scorches them, because it knows not that fire burns.”
“Let it burn, John, burn! and let the flames curl over my head! Better be consumed in fire than perish slowly and horribly with a deadly chill! I love him, I tell you, and he already knows it!”
“Well, then, love him, but, at least, do not marry him!” cried John Heywood, surlily.
“Marry!” cried she, with astonishment. “Marry! I had never thought of it.”
She dropped her head upon her breast, and stood there, silent and thoughtful.
“I am much afraid I made a blunder, then!” muttered John Heywood. “I have suggested a new thought to her. Ah, ah, King Henry has done well in appointing me his fool! Just when we deem ourselves the wisest, we are the greatest fools!”
“John,” said Elizabeth, as she raised her head again and smiled to him in a glow of excitement, “John, you are entirely right; if we love, we must marry.”
“But I said just the contrary, princess!”
“All right!” said she, resolutely. “All this belongs to the future; we will busy ourselves with the present. I have promised my lover an interview.”
“An interview!” cried John Heywood, in amazement. “You will not be so foolhardy as to keep your promise?”
“John Heywood,” said she, with an air of approaching solemnity, “King Henry’s daughter will never make a promise without fulfilling it. For better or for worse, I will always keep my plighted word, even if the greatest misery and ruin were the result!”
John Heywood ventured to offer no further opposition. There was at this moment something peculiarly lofty, proud, and truly royal in her air, which impressed him with awe, and before which he bowed.
“I have granted him an interview because he wished it,” said Elizabeth; “and, John, I will confess it to you, my own heart longed for it. Seek not, then, to shake my resolution; it is as firm as a rock. But if you are not willing to stand by me, say so, and I will then look about me for another friend, who loves me enough to impose silence on his thoughts.”
“But who, perhaps, will go and betray you. No, no, it has been once resolved upon, and unalterably; so no one but I must be your confidant. Tell me, then, what I am to do, and I will obey you.”
“You know, John, that my apartments are situated in yonder wing, overlooking the garden. Well, in my dressing-room, behind one of the large wall pictures, I have discovered a door leading into a lonely, dark corridor. From this corridor there is a passage up into yonder tower. It is unoccupied and deserted. Nobody ever thinks of entering that part of the castle, and the quiet of the grave reigns throughout those apartments, which nevertheless are furnished with a magnificence truly regal. There will I receive him.”
“But how shall he make his way thither?”
“Oh, do not be concerned; I have thought over that many days since; and while I was refusing my lover the interview for which he again and again implored me, I was quietly preparing everything so as to be able one day to grant it to him. Today this object is attained, and today have I fulfilled his wish, voluntarily and unasked; for I saw he had no more courage to ask again. Listen, then. From the tower, a spiral staircase leads down to a small door, through which you gain entrance into the garden. I have a key to this door. Here it is. Once in possession of this key, he has nothing further to do but remain behind in the park this evening, instead of leaving the castle; and by means of this he will come to me, for I will wait for him in the tower, in the large room directly opposite the staircase landing. Here, take the key; give it to him, and repeat to him all that I have said.”
“Well, princess, there remains for you now only to appoint the hour at which you will receive him there.”
“The hour,” said she, as she turned away her blushing face. “You understand, John, that it is not feasible to receive him there by day, because there is by day not a single moment in which I am not watched.”
“You will then receive him by night!” said John Heywood, sadly. “At what hour?”
“At midnight! And now you know all; and I beg you, John, hasten and carry him my message; for, look, the sun is setting, and it will soon be night.”
She nodded to him with a smile, and turned to go.
“Princess, you have forgotten the most important point. You have not yet told me his name.”
“My God! and you do not guess it? John Heywood, who has such sharp eyes, sees not that there is at this court but a single one that deserves to be loved by a daughter of the king!”
“And the name of this single one is--” “Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley!” whispered Elizabeth, as she turned away quickly and entered the castle.
“Oh, Thomas Seymour!” said John Heywood, utterly astounded. As if paralyzed with horror, he stood there motionless, staring up at the sky and repealing over and over, “Thomas Seymour! Thomas Seymour! So he is a sorcerer who administers a love-potion to all the women, and befools them with his handsome, saucy face. Thomas Seymour! The queen loves him; the princess loves him; and then there is this Duchess of Richmond, who will by all means be his wife! This much, however, is certain, he is a traitor who deceives both, because to both he has made the same confession of love. And there again is that imp, chance, which compels me to be the confidant of both these women. But I will be well on my guard against executing both my commissions to this sorcerer. Let him at any rate become the husband of the princess; perhaps this would be the surest means of freeing the queen from her unfortunate love.”
He was silent, and still gazed up thoughtfully at the sky. “Yes,” said he then, quite cheerfully, “thus shall it be. I will combat the one love with the other. For the queen to love him, is dangerous. I will therefore so conduct matters that she must hate him. I will remain her confidant. I will receive her letters and her commissions, but I will burn her letters and not execute her commissions. I am not at liberty to tell her that the faithless Thomas Seymour is false to her, for I have solemnly pledged my word to the princess never to breathe her secret to any one; and I will and must keep my word. Smile and love, then; dream on thy sweet dream of love, queen; I wake for thee; I will cause the dark cloud resting on thee to pass by. It may, perhaps, touch thine heart; but thy noble and beautiful head--that at least it shall not be allowed to crush; that--” “Now, then, what are you staring up at the sky for, as if you read there a new epigram with which to make the king laugh, and the parsons rave?” asked a voice near him; and a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder.
John Heywood did not look round at all; he remained in the same attitude, gazing up steadily at the sky. He had very readily recognized the voice of him who had addressed him; he knew very well that he who stood near him was no other than the bold sorcerer whom he was just then cursing at the bottom of his heart; no other than Thomas Seymour, Earl of Sudley.
“Say, John, is it really an epigram?” asked Thomas Seymour again. “An epigram on the hypocritical, lustful, and sanctimonious priestly rabble, that with blasphemous hypocrisy fawn about the king, and are ever watchful how they can set a trap for one of us honorable and brave men? Is that what Heaven is now revealing to you?”
“No, my lord, I am only looking at a hawk which hovers about there in the clouds. I saw him mount, earl, and only think of the wonder--he had in each talon a dove! Two doves for one hawk. Is not that too much--wholly contrary to law and nature?”
The earl cast on him a penetrating and distrustful look. But John Heywood, remaining perfectly calm and unembarrassed, continued looking at the clouds.
“How stupid such a brute is, and how much to his disadvantage will his very greediness be! For since he holds a dove in each claw, he will not be able to enjoy either of them; because he has no claw at liberty with which to tear them. Soon as he wishes to enjoy the one, the other will escape; when he grabs after that, the other flies away; and so at last he will have nothing at all, because he was too rapacious and wanted more than he could use.”
“And you are looking after this hawk in the skies? But you are perhaps mistaken, and he whom you seek is not above there at all, but here below, and perchance quite close to you?” asked Thomas Seymour significantly.
But John Heywood would not understand him.
“Nay,” said he, “he still flies, but it will not last long. For verily I saw the owner of the dovecot from which the hawk has stolen the two doves. He had a weapon; and he, be ye sure of it--he will kill this hawk, because he has robbed him of his pet doves.”
“Enough, enough!” cried the earl, impatiently. “You would give me a lesson, but you must know I take no counsel from a fool, even were he the wisest.”
“In that you are right, my lord, for only fools are so foolish as to hearken to the voice of wisdom. Besides, each man forges his own fortune. And now, wise sir, I will give you a key, which you yourself have forged, and behind which lies your fortune. There, take this key; and if you at midnight slip through the garden to the tower over yonder, this key will open to you the door of the same, and you can then without hesitation mount the spiral staircase and open the door which is opposite the staircase. Behind that you will find the fortune which you have forged for yourself, sir blacksmith, and which will bid you welcome with warm lips and soft arms. And so commending you to God, I must hasten home to think over the comedy which the king has commanded me to write.”
“But you do not so much as tell me from whom this message comes?” said Earl Sudley, retaining him. “You invite me to a meeting and give me a key, and I know not who will await me there in that tower.”
“Oh, you do not know? There is then more than one who might await you there? Well, then, it is the youngest and smallest of the two doves who sends you the key.”
“Princess Elizabeth?”
“You have named her, not I!” said John Heywood, as he disengaged himself from the earl’s grasp and hurried across the courtyard to betake himself to his lodgings.
Thomas Seymour watched him with a scowl, and then slowly directed his eyes to the key that Heywood had given him.
“The princess then awaits me,” whispered he, softly. “Ah, who can read it in the stars? who can know whither the crown will roll when it tumbles from King Henry’s head? I love Catharine, but I love ambition still more; and if it is demanded, to ambition must I sacrifice my heart.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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17
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GAMMER GUETON’S NEEDLE.
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Slowly and lost in gloomy thought, John Heywood walked toward his lodgings. These lodgings were situated in the second or inner court of the vast palace of Whitehall, in that wing of the castle which contained the apartments of all the higher officers of the royal household, and so those of the court-jesters also; for the king’s fool was at that period a very important and respectable personage, who occupied a rank equal to that of a gentleman of the royal bed-chamber.
John Heywood had just crossed this second courtyard, when all at once loud, wrangling voices, and the clear, peculiar ring of a box on the ear, startled him out of his meditations. He stopped and listened. His face, before so serious, had now reassumed its usual merry and shrewd expression; his large eyes again glittered with humor and mischief. “There again verily is my sweet, charming housekeeper, Gammer Gurton,” said John Heywood, laughing; “and she no doubt is quarrelling again with my excellent servant, that poor, long-legged, blear-eyed Hodge. Ah! ha! Yesterday I surprised her as she applied a kiss to him, at which he made as doleful a face as if a bee had stung him. To-day I hear how she is boxing his ears. He is perhaps now laughing at it, and thinks it is a rose-leaf which cools his cheek. That Hodge is such a queer bird! But we will at once see what there is to-day, and what farce is being performed now.”
He crept softly up-stairs, and, opening the door of his room, closed it again behind him quickly and gently. Gammer Gurton, who was in the room adjoining, had heard nothing, seen nothing; and had the heavens come tumbling down at that moment, she would have scarcely noticed it; for she had eyes and sense only for this long, lank lackey who stood before her shaking with fear, and staring at her out of his great bluish-white eyes. Her whole soul lay in her tongue; and her tongue ran as fast as a will-wheel, and with the force of thunder. How, then, could Gammer Gurton well have time and ears to hear her master, who had softly entered his chamber and slyly crept to the door, only half closed, which separated his room from that of the housekeeper? “How!” screamed Gammer Gurtoh, “you silly raga muffin, you wish to make me believe that it was the cat that ran away with my sewing-needle, as if my sewing-needle were a mouse and smelt of bacon, you stupid, blear-eyed fool!”
“Ah, you call me a fool,” cried Hodge, with a laugh, which caused his mouth to describe a graceful line across his face from ear to ear; “you call me a fool, and that is a great honor for me, for then I am a servant worthy of my master. And as to being blear-eyed, that must be caused by the simple fact that I have nothing all day long before my eyes but you, Gammer Gurton--you, with your face like a full moon--you, sailing through the room like a frigate, and with your grappling-irons, your hands, smashing to pieces everything except your own looking-glass.”
“You shall pay me for that, you double-faced, thread-bare lout!” screamed Gammer Gurton, as she rushed on Hodge with clenched fist.
But John Heywood’s cunning servant had anticipated this; he had already slipped under the large table which stood in the middle of the room. As the housekeeper now made a plunge to drag him out of his extemporary fortress, he gave her such a hearty pinch on the leg, that she sprang back with a scream, and sank, wholly overcome by the pain, into the huge, leather-covered elbow-chair which was near her workstand at the window.
“You are a monster, Hodge,” groaned she, exhausted--“a heartless, horrible monster. You have stolen my sewing-needle--you only. For you knew very well that it was my last one, and that, if I have not that, I must go at once to the shopkeeper to buy some needles. And that is just what you want, you weathercock, you. You only want me to go out, that you may have an opportunity to play with Tib.”
“Tib? Who is Tib?” asked Hodge as he stretched out his long neck from under the table, and stared at Gammer Gurton with well-assumed astonishment.
“Now this otter wants me yet to tell him who Tib is!” screamed the exasperated dame. “Well, then, I will tell you. Tib is the cook for the major-domo over there--a black-eyed, false, coquettish little devil, who is bad and mean enough to troll away the lover of an honest and virtuous woman, as I am; a lover who is such a pitiful little thing that one would think no one but myself could find him out and see him; nor could I have done it had I not for forty years trained my eyes to the search, and for forty years looked around for the man who was at length to marry me, and make me a respectable mistress. Since my eyes then were at last steadily fixed on this phantom of man, and I found nothing there, I finally discovered you, you cobweb of a man!”
“What! you call me a cobweb?” screamed Hodge, as he crept from under the table, and, drawing himself up to his full height, placed himself threateningly in front of Gammer Gurton’s elbow-chair. “You call me a cobweb? Now, I swear to you that you shall henceforth never more be the spider that dwells in that web! For you are a garden-spider, an abominable, dumpy, old garden-spider, for whom a web, such as Hodge is, is much too fine and much too elegant. Be quiet, therefore, old spider, and spin your net elsewhere! You shall not live in my net, but Tib--for, yes, I do know Tib. She is a lovely, charming child of fourteen, as quick and nimble as a kid, with lips red as the coral which you wear on your fat pudding of a neck, with eyes which shine yet brighter than your nose, and with a figure so slender and graceful that she might have been carved out of one of your fingers. Yes, yes, I know Tib. She is an affectionate, good child, who would never be so hard-hearted as to abuse the man she loves, and could not be so mean and pitiful, even in thought, as to wish to marry the man she did not love. Just because he is a man. Yes, I know Tib, and now I will go straight to her and ask her if she will marry a good, honest lad, who, to be sure, is somewhat lean, but who doubtless will become fatter if he has any other fare than the meagre, abominable stuff on which Gammer Gurton feeds him; a lad who, to be sure, is blear-eyed, but will soon get over that disease when he no more sees Gammer Gurton, who acts on his eyes like a stinking onion, and makes them always red and running water. Good-by, old onion! I am going to Tib.”
But Gammer Gurton whirled up out of her elbow-chair like a top, and was upon Hodge, whom she held by the coat-tail, and brought him to a stand.
“You dare go to Tib again! You dare pass that door and you shall see that the gentle, peaceable, and patient Gammer Gurton is changed into a lioness, when any one tries to tear from her that most sacred and dearest of treasures, her husband. For you are my husband, inasmuch as I have your word that you will marry me.”
“But I have not told you when and where I will do it, Gammer Gurton; and so you can wait to all eternity, for only in heaven will I be your husband.”
“That is an abominable, malicious lie!” screamed Gammer Gurton. “A good-for-nothing lie, say I! For did you not long ago snivel and beg till I was forced to promise you to make a will, and in it declare Hodge, my beloved husband, sole heir of all my goods and chattels, and bequeath to him everything I have scraped together in my virtuous and industrious life?”
“But you did not make it--the will. You broke your word; and, therefore, I will do the same.”
“Yes, I have made it, you greyhound. I have made it; and this very day I was going with you to a justice of the peace and have it signed, and then to-morrow we would have got married.”
“You have made the will, you round world of love?” said Hodge tenderly, as with his long, withered, spindling arms he tried to clasp the gigantic waist of his beloved. “You have made the will and declared me your heir? Come, then, Gammer Gurton, come, let us go to the justice of the peace!”
“But do you not see, then,” said Gammer Gurton, with a tender, cat-like purr, “do you not see, then, that you rumple my frill when you hug me so? Let me go, then, and help me find my needle quickly, for without the needle we cannot go to the justice of the peace.”
“What, without the needle not go to the justice of the peace?”
“No; for only see this hole which Gib, the cat, tore in my prettiest cap awhile ago, as I took the cap out of the box and laid it on the table. Indeed I cannot go to the justice of the peace with such a hole in my cap! Search then, Hodge, search, so that I can mend my cap, and go with you to the justice of the peace!”
“Lord God, where in the world can it be, the unlucky needle? I must have it, I must find it, so that Gammer Gurton may take her will to the justice of the peace!”
And in frantic desperation, Hodge searched all about on the floor for the lost needle, and Gammer Gurton stuck her large spectacles on her flaming red nose and peered about on the table. So eager was she in the search, that she even let her tongue rest a little, and deep silence reigned in the room.
Suddenly this silence was broken by a voice; which seemed to come from the courtyard. It was a soft, sweet voice that cried: “Hodge, dear Hodge, are you there? Come to me in the court, only for a few minutes! I want to have a bit of a laugh with you!”
It was as though an electric shock had passed through the room with that voice, and struck at the same time both Gammer Gurton and Hodge.
Both startled, and discontinuing the search, stood there wholly immovable, as if petrified. Hodge especially, poor Hodge, was as if struck by lightning. His great bluish-white eyes appeared to be coming out of their sockets; his long arms hung down, flapping and dangling about like a flail; his knees, half bent, seemed already to be giving way in expectation of the approaching storm.
This storm did not in fact make him wait long. “That is Tib!” screamed Gammer Gurton, springing like a lioness upon Hodge and seizing him by the shoulders with both her hands. “That is Tib, you thread-like, pitiful greyhound! Well, was I not right, now, when I called you a faithless, good-for-nothing scamp, that spares not innocence, and breaks the hearts of the women as he would a cracker, which he swallows at his pleasure? Was I not right, in saying that you were only watching for me to go out in order to go and sport with Tib?”
“Hodge, my dear, darling Hodge,” cried the voice beneath there, and this time louder and more tender than before, “Hodge, oh come, do now, come with me in the court, as you promised me; come and get the kiss for which you begged me this morning!”
“I will be a damned otter, if I begged her for it, and if I understand a single word of what she says!” said Hodge, wholly dumfounded and quaking all over.
“Ah, you understand not a word of what she says?” screamed Gammer Gurton. “Well, but I understand it. I understand that everything between us is past and done with, and that I have nothing more to do with you, you Moloch, you! I understand that I shall not go and make my will, to become your wife and fret myself to death over this skeleton of a husband, that I may leave you to chuckle as my heir. No, no, it is past. I am not going to the justice of the peace, and I will tear up my will!”
“Oh, she is going to tear up her will!” howled Hodge; “and then I have tormented myself in vain; in vain have endured the horrible luck of being loved by this old owl! Oh, oh, she will not make her will, and Hodge will remain the same miserable dog he always was!”
Gammer Gurton laughed scornfully. “Ah, you are aware at last what a pitiable wretch you are, and how much a noble and handsome person, as I am, lowered herself when she made up her mind to pick up such a weed and make him her husband.”
“Yes, yes, I know it!” whined Hodge; “and I pray you pick me up and take me, and above all things make your will!”
“No, I will not take you, and I shall not make my will! It is all over with, I tell you; and now you can go as soon as you please to Tib, who has called you so lovingly. But first give me back my sewing-needle, you magpie, you! Give me here my sewing-needle, which you have stolen. It is of no use to you now, for it is not necessary for me to go out in order that you may go and see Tib. We have nothing more to do with each other, and you can go where you wish. My sewing-needle, say I--my needle, or I will hang you as a scarecrow in my pea-patch, to frighten the sparrows out of it. My sewing-needle, or--” She shook her clenched fist threateningly at Hodge, fully convinced that now, as always before, Hodge would retreat before this menacing weapon of his jealous and irritable lady-love, and seek safety under the bed or the table.
This time, however, she was mistaken. Hodge, who saw that all was lost, felt that his patience was at length exhausted; and his timidity was now changed to the madness of despair. The lamb was transformed into a tiger, and with a tiger’s rage he pounced upon Gammer Gurton, and, throwing aside her fist, he dealt her a good sound blow on the cheek.
The signal was given, and the battle began. It was waged by both sides with equal animosity and equal vigor; only Hodge’s bony hand made by far the most telling blows on Gammer Gurton’s mass of flesh, and was always certain, wherever he struck, to hit some spot of this huge mass; while Gammer Gurton’s soft hand seldom touched that thin, threadlike figure, which dexterously parried every blow.
“Stop, you fools!” suddenly shouted a stentorian voice. “See you not, you goblins, that your lord and master is here? Peace, peace then, you devils, and do not be hammering away at one another, but love each other.”
“It is the master!” exclaimed Gammer Gurton, lowering her fist in the utmost contrition.
“Do not turn me away, sir!” moaned Hodge; “do not dismiss me from your service because at last I have for once given the old hag a good bruising. She has deserved it a long time, and an angel himself must at last lose patience with her.”
“I turn you out of my service!” exclaimed John Heywood, as he wiped his eyes, wet with laughing. “No, Hodge, you are a real jewel, a mine of fun and merriment; and you two have, without knowing it, furnished me with the choicest materials for a piece which, by the king’s order, I have to write within six days. I owe you, then, many thanks, and will show my gratitude forthwith. Listen well to me, my amorous and tender pair of turtle-doves, and mark what I have to say to you. One cannot always tell the wolf by his hide, for he sometimes put on a sheep’s skin; and so, too, a man cannot always be recognized by his voice, for he sometimes borrows that of his neighbor. Thus, for example, I know a certain John Heywood, who can mimic exactly the voice of a certain little miss named Tib, and who knows how to warble as she herself: ‘Hodge, my dear Hodge! ’” And he repeated to them exactly, and with the same tone and expression, the words that the voice had previously cried.
“Ah, it was you, sir?” cried Hodge, with a broad grin--“that Tib in the court there, that Tib about whom we have been pummelling each other?”
“I was Tib, Hodge--I who was present during the whole of your quarrel, and found it hugely comical to send Tib’s voice thundering into the midst of our lovers’ quarrel, like a cannon-stroke! Ah, ha! Hodge, that was a fine bomb-shell, was it not? And as I said ‘Hodge, my dear Hodge,’ you tumbled about like a kernel of corn which a dung-beetle blows with his breath. No, no, my worthy and virtuous Gammer Gurton, it was not Tib who called the handsome Hodge, and more than that, I saw Tib, as your contest began, go out at the courtyard gate.”
“It was not Tib!” exclaimed Gammer Gurton, much moved, and happy as love could make her. “It was not Tib, and she was not in the court at all, and Hodge could not then go down to her, while I went to the shopkeeper’s to buy needles. Oh, Hodge, Hodge, will you forgive me for this; will you forget the hard words which I spoke in the fury of my anguish, and can you love me again?”
“I will try,” said Hodge, gravely; “and without doubt I shall succeed, provided you go to-day forthwith to the justice, and make your will.”
“I will make my will, and to-morrow we will go to the priest; shall it not be so, my angel?”
“Yes, we go to the priest to-morrow!” growled Hodge, as with a frightful grimace he scratched himself behind the ears.
“And now come, my angel, and give me a kiss of reconciliation!” She spread her arms out, and when Houge did not come to her, but remained immovable, and steadfast in his position, she went to Hodge and pressed him tenderly to her heart.
Suddenly she uttered a shriek, and let go of Hodge, She had felt a terrible pain in her breast. It seemed as though a small dagger had pierced her bosom.
And there it was, the lost needle, and Hodge then was innocent and pure as the early dawn.
He had not mischievously purloined the needle, so that Gammer Gurton would be compelled to leave her house in order to fetch some new needles from the shopkeeper’s; he had not intended to go to Tib, for Tib was not in the court, but had gone out.
“Oh Hodge, Hodge, good Hodge, you innocent dove, will you forgive me?”
“Come to the justice of the peace, Gammer Gurton, and I forgive you!”
They sank tenderly into each other’s arms, wholly forgetful of their master, who still stood near them, and looked on, laughing and nodding his head.
“Now, then, I have found the finest and most splendid materials for my piece,” said John Heywood, as he left the loving pair and betook himself to his own room. “Gammer Gurton has saved me, and King Henry will not have the satisfaction of seeing me whipped by those most virtuous and most lovely ladies of his court. To work, then, straightway to work!”
He seated himself at his writing-desk, and seized pen and paper.
“But how!” asked he, suddenly pausing. “That is certainly a rich subject for a composition; but I can never in the world get an interlude out of it! What shall I do with it? Abandon this subject altogether, and again jeer at the monks and ridicule the nuns? That is antiquated and worn out! I will write something new, something wholly new, and something which will make the king so merry, that he will not sign a death-warrant for a whole day. Yes, yes, a merry play shall it be, and then I will call it boldly and fearlessly a comedy!”
He seized his pen and wrote: “Gammer Gurton’s Needle, a right pithy, pleasant, and merry comedy.”
And thus originated the first English comedy, by John Heywood, fool to King Henry the Eighth. [Footnote: This comedy was first printed in the year 1661, but it was represented at Christ College fully a hundred years previously. Who was the author of it is not known with certainty; but it is possible that the writer of it was John Heywood, the epigrammatist and court-jester. --See Dramaturgic oder Theorie und Geschichte der dramatischen Kunst, von Theodore Mundt, vol i, p. 809. Flogel’s Geschichte der Hofnarren, p. 399.]
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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18
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LADY JANE.
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All was quiet in the palace of Whitehall. Even the servants on guard in the vestibule of the king’s bedchamber had been a long time slumbering, for the king had been snoring for several hours; and this majestical sound was, to the dwellers in the palace, the joyful announcement that for one fine night they were exempt from service, and might be free men.
The queen also had long since retired to her apartments, and dismissed her ladies at an unusually early hour. She felt, she said, wearied by the chase, and much needed rest. No one, therefore, was to disturb her, unless the king should order it.
But the king, as we have said, slept, and the queen had no reason to fear that her night’s rest would be disturbed.
Deep silence reigned in the palace. The corridors were empty and deserted, the apartments all silent.
Suddenly a figure tripped along softly and cautiously through the long feebly lighted corridor. She was wrapped in a black mantle; a veil concealed her face.
Scarcely touching the floor with her feet, she floated away, and glided down a little staircase. Now she stops and listens. There is nothing to hear; all is noiseless and still.
Then, on again. Now she wings her steps. For here she is sure of not being heard. It is the unoccupied wing of the castle of Whitehall. Nobody watches her here.
On, then, on, adown that corridor, descending those stairs. There she stops before a door leading into the summer-house. She puts her ear to the door, and listens. Then she claps her hands three times.
The sound is reechoed from the other side.
“Oh, he is there, he is there!” Forgotten now are her cares, forgotten her pains and tears. He is there. She has him again.
She throws open the door. It is dark indeed in the chamber, but she sees him, for the eye of love pierces the night; and if the sees him not, yet she feels his presence.
She rests on his heart; he presses her closely to his breast. Leaning on each other, they grope cautiously along through the dark, desolate chamber to the divan at the upper end, and there, both locked in a happy embrace, they sink upon the cushion.
“At last I have you again! and my arms again clasp this divine form, and again my lips press this crimson mouth! Oh, my beloved, what an eternity has this separation been! Six days! Six long nights of agony! Have you not felt how my soul cried out for you, and was filled with trepidation; how I stretched my arms out into the night, and let them fall again disconsolate and trembling with anguish, because they clasped nothing--naught but the cold, vacant night breeze! Did you not hear, my beloved, how I cried to you with sighs and tears, how in glowing dithyrambics I poured forth to you my longing, my love, my rapture? But you, cruel you, remained ever cold, ever smiling. Your eyes were ever flashing in all the pride and grandeur of a Juno. The roses on your cheeks were not one whit the paler. No, no, you have not longed for me; your heart has not felt this painful, blissful anguish. You are first and above all things the proud, cold queen, and next, next the loving woman.”
“How unjust and hard you are, my Henry!” whispered she softly. “I have indeed suffered; and perhaps my pains have been more cruel and bitter than yours, for I--I had to let them consume me within. You could pour them forth, you could stretch out your arms after me, you could utter lamentations and sighs. You were not, like me, condemned to laugh, and to jest, and to listen with apparently attentive ear to all those often heard and constantly repeated phrases of praise and adoration from those about me. You were at least free to suffer. I was not. It is true I smiled, but amidst the pains of death. It is true my cheeks did not blanch, but rouge was the veil with which I covered their paleness; and then, Henry, in the midst of my pains and longings, I had, too, a sweet consolation--your letters, your poems, which fell like the dew of heaven upon my sick soul, and restored it to health, for new torments and new hopes. Oh, how I love them--those poems, in whose noble and enchanting language your love and our sufferings are reechoed! How my whole soul flew forth to meet them when I received them, and how pressed I my lips thousands and thousands of times on the paper which seemed to me redolent with your breath and your sighs! How I love that good, faithful Jane, the silent messenger of our love! When I behold her entering my chamber, with the unsullied paper in hand, she is to me the dove with the olive-leaf, that brings me peace and happiness, and I rush to her, and press her to my bosom; and give her all the kisses I would give you, and feel how poor and powerless I am, because I cannot repay her all the happiness that she brings me. Ah, Henry, how many thanks do we owe to poor Jane!”
“Why do you call her poor, when she can be near you, always behold yon, always hear you?”
“I call her poor, because she is unhappy. For she loves, Henry--she loves to desperation, to madness, and she is not loved. She is pining away with grief and pain, and wrings her hands in boundless woe. Have you not noticed how pale she is, and how her eyes become daily more dim?”
“No, I have not seen it, for I see naught but you, and Lady Jane is to me a lifeless image, as are all other women. But what! You tremble; and your whole frame writhes in my arms, as if in a convulsion! And what is that? Are you weeping?”
“Oh, I weep, because I am so happy. I weep, because I was thinking how fearful the suffering must be, to give the whole heart away, and receive nothing in return, naught but death! Poor Jane!”
“What is she to us? We, we love each other. Come, dear one, let me kiss the tears from your eyes; let me drink this nectar, that it may inspire me, and transfigure me to a god! Weep no more--no, weep not; or, if you will do so, be it only in the excess of rapture, and because word and heart are too poor to hold all this bliss!”
“Yes, yes, let us shout for joy; let us be lost in blessedness!” exclaimed she passionately, as with frantic violence she threw herself on his bosom.
Both were now silent, mutely resting on each other’s heart.
Oh, how sweet this silence; how entrancing this noiseless, sacred night! How the trees without there murmur and rustle, as if they were singing a heavenly lullaby to the lovers! how inquisitively the pale crescent moon peeps through the window, as though she were seeking the twain whose blessed confidante she is!
But happiness is so swift-winged, and time flies so fast, when love is their companion!
Even now they must part again--now they must again say farewell. “Not yet, beloved, stay yet! See, the night is still dark; and hark, the castle clock is just striking two. No, go not yet.”
“I must, Henry, I must; the hours are past in which I can be happy.”
“Oh, you cold, proud soul! Does the head already long again for the crown; and can you wait no longer for the purple to again cover your shoulders? Come, let me kiss your shoulder; and think now, dear, that my crimson lips are also a purple robe.”
“And a purple robe for which I would gladly give my crown and my life!” cried she, with the utmost enthusiasm, as she folded him in her arms.
“Do you love me, then? Do you really love me?”
“Yes, I love you!”
“Can you swear to me that you love no one except me?”
“I can swear it, as true as there is a God above us, who hears my oath.”
“Bless you for it, you dear, you only one--oh, how shall I call you? --you whose name I may not utter! Oh, do you know that it is cruel never to name the name of the loved one? Withdraw that prohibition; grudge me not the painfully sweet pleasure of being able at least to call you by your name!”
“No,” said she, with a shudder; “for know you not that the sleep-walkers awake out of their dreams when they are called by name? I am a somnambulist, who, with smiling courage, moves along a dizzy height; call me by name, and I shall awake, and, shuddering, plunge into the abyss beneath. Ah, Henry, I hate my name, for it is pronounced by other lips than yours. For you I will not be named as other men call me. Baptize me, my Henry; give me another name--a name which is our secret, and which no one knows besides us.”
“I name you Geraldine; and as Geraldine I will praise and laud you before all the world. I will, in spite of all these spies and listeners, repeat again and again that I love you, and no one, not the king himself, shall be able to forbid me.”
“Hush!” said she, with a shudder, “speak not of him! Oh, I conjure you, my Henry, be cautious; think that you have sworn to me ever to think of the danger that threatens us, and will, without doubt, dash us in pieces if you, by only a sound, a look, or a smile, betray the sweet secret that unites us two. Are you still aware what you have sworn to me?”
“I am aware of it! But it is an unnatural Draconian law. What! even when I am alone with you, shall I never be allowed to address you otherwise than with that reverence and restrain which is due the queen? Even when no one can hear us, may I, by no syllable, by none, not the slightest intimation, remind you of our love?”
“No, no, do it not; for this castle has everywhere eyes and ears, and everywhere are spies and listeners behind the tapestry; behind the curtains; everywhere are they concealed and lurking, watching every feature, every smile, every word, whether it may not afford ground for suspicion. No, no, Henry; swear to me by our love that you will never, unless here in this room, address me otherwise than your queen. Swear to me that, beyond these walls, you will be to me only the respectful servant of your queen, and at the same time the proud earl and lord, of whom it is said that never has a woman been able to touch his heart. Swear to me that you will not, by a look, by a smile, by even the gentlest pressure of the hand, betray what beyond this room is a crime for both of us. Let this room be the temple of our love; but when we once pass its threshold, we will not profane the sweet mysteries of our happiness, by allowing unholy eyes to behold even a single ray of it. Shall it be so, my Henry?
“Yes, it shall be so!” said he, with a troubled voice; “although I must confess that this dreadful illusion often tortures me almost to death. Oh, Geraldine, when I meet you elsewhere, when I observe the eye so icy and immovable, with which you meet my look, I feel as it were my heart convulsed; and I say to myself: ‘This is not she, whom I love--not the tender, passionate woman, whom in the darkness of the night I sometimes lock in my arms. This is Catharine, the queen, but not my loved one. A woman cannot so disguise herself; art goes not so far as to falsify the entire nature, the innermost being and life of a person.’ Oh, there have been hours, awful, horrible hours, when it seemed to me as though all this were a delusion, a mystification--as though in some way an evil demon assumed the queen’s form by night to mock me, poor frenzied visionary, with a happiness that has no existence, but lives only in my imagination. When such thoughts come to me, I feel a frenzied fury, a crushing despair, and I could, regardless of my oath and even the danger that threatens you, rush to you, and, before all the courtly rabble and the king himself, ask: ‘Are you really what you seem? Are you, Catharine Parr, King Henry’s wife--nothing more, nothing else than that? Or are you, my beloved, the woman who is mine in her every thought, her every breath; who has vowed to me eternal love and unchanging truth; and whom I, in spite of the whole world, and the king, press to my heart as my own? ’” “Unhappy man, if you ever venture that, you doom us both to death!”
“Be it so, then! In death you will at least be mine, and no one would longer dare separate us, and your eyes would no longer look so cold and strangely upon me, as they often now do. Oh, I conjure you, gaze not upon me at all, if you cannot do it otherwise than with those cold, proud looks, that benumb my heart. Turn away your eyes, and speak to me with averted face.”
“Then, men will say that I hate you, Henry.”
“It is more agreeable to me for them to say you abhor me than for them to see that I am wholly indifferent to you; that I am to you nothing more than the Earl of Surrey, your lord chamberlain.”
“No, no, Henry. They shall see that you are more to me than merely that. Before the whole assembled court I will give you a token of my love. Will you then believe, you dear, foolish enthusiast, that I love you, and that it is no demon that rests here in your arms and swears that she loves nothing but you? Say, will you then believe me?”
“I will believe you! But no, there is no need of any sign, or any assurance. Nay, I know it; I feel indeed the sweet reality that cuddles to my side, warm, and filling me with happiness; and it is only the excess of happiness that makes me incredulous.”
“I will convince you thoroughly; and you shall doubt no more, not even in the intoxication of happiness. Listen, then. The king, as you know, is about to hold a great tournament and festival of the poets, and it will take place in a few days. Now, then, at this fete I will publicly, in the presence of the king and his court, give you a rosette that I wear on my shoulder, and in the silver fringe of which you will find a note from me. Will that satisfy you, my Henry?”
“And do you still question it, my dear? Do you question it, when you will make me proud and happy above all others of your court?”
He pressed her closely to his heart and kissed her. But suddenly she writhed in his arms, and started up in wild alarm.
“Day is breaking, day is breaking! See there! a red streak is spreading over the clouds. The sun is coming; day is coming, and already begins to dawn.”
He endeavored to detain her still; but she tore herself passionately away, and again enveloped her head in her veil.
“Yes,” said he, “day is breaking and it is growing light! Let me then, for a moment at least, see your face. My soul thirsts for it as the parched earth for the dew. Come, it is light here at the window. Let me see your eyes.”
She tore herself vehemently away. “No, no, you must be gone! Hark, it is already three o’clock. Soon everything will be astir in the castle. Did it not seem as if some person passed by the door here? Haste, haste, if you do not wish me to die of dread!” She threw his cloak over him; she drew his hat over his brow; then once more she threw her arms around his neck and pressed on his lips a burning kiss. “Farewell, my beloved! farewell, Henry Howard! When we see each other again to-day, you are the Earl of Surrey, and I, the queen--not your loved one--not the woman who loves you! Happiness is past, and suffering awakes anew. Farewell.”
She herself opened the glass door, and pushed her lover out.
“Farewell, Geraldine; good-night, my dear! Day comes, and I again greet you as my queen, and I shall have to endure again the torture of your cold looks and your haughty smiles.”
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{
"id": "3476"
}
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