Александр Дюма
The Royal Life Guard; or, the flight of the royal family.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE SQUEEZED LEMON
On the day after the Constituent Assembly dissolved, that is, the second of October, at Barnave's usual hour for seeing the Queen, he was ushered into the Grand Study.
On the day of the King taking the oath to the Constitution, Lafayette's aids and soldiers had been withdrawn from the palace and the King had become less hampered if not more powerful.
It was slender satisfaction for the humiliations they had lately undergone. In the street, when out for carriage exercise, as some voices shouted "Long live the King!" a roughly dressed man, walking beside the coach and laying his unwashed hand on the window ledge, kept repeating in a loud voice:
"Do not believe them. The only cry is, 'The Nation Forever!'"
The Queen had been applauded at the Opera where the "house was packed," but the same precaution could not be adopted at the Italians, where the pit was taken in advance. When the hirelings in the gallery hailed the Queen, they were hushed by the pit.
Looking into the pit to see who these were who so detested her, the Queen saw that the leader was the Arch-Revolutionist, Cagliostro, the man who had pursued from her youth. Once her eyes were fastened on his, she could not turn hers aloof, for he exercised the fascination of the serpent on the bird.
The play commenced and she managed to tear her gaze aloof for a time, but ever and anon it had to go back again, from the potent magnetism. It was fatal possession, as by a nightmare.
Besides, the house was full of electricity; two clouds surcharged were floating about, restless to thunder at each other: a spark would send forth the double flame.
Madam Dugazon had a song to sing with the tenor in this opera of Gretry, "Unforeseen Events." She had the line to sing:
"Oh, how I love my mistress!"
The Queen divined that the storm was to burst, and involuntarily she glanced towards the man controlling her. It seemed to her that he gave a signal to the audience, and from all sides was hurled the cry:
"No more mistresses – no more masters! away with kings and queens!"
She screamed and hid her eyes, unable to look longer on this demon of destruction who ruled the disorder. Pursued by the roar: "No more masters, no more kings and queens!" she was borne fainting to her carriage.
She received the orator standing, though she knew the respect he cherished for her and saw that he was paler and sadder than ever.
"Well," she said, "I suppose you are satisfied, since the King has followed your advice and sworn to the Constitution?"
"You are very kind to say my advice has been followed," returned Barnave, bowing, "but if it had not been the same as that from Emperor Leopold and Prince von Kaunitz, perhaps his Majesty would have put greater hesitation in doing the act, though the only one to save the King if the King – "
"Can be saved, do you imply?" questioned she, taking the dilemma by the horns with the courage, or rashness peculiar to her.
"Lord preserve me from being the prophet of such miseries! And yet I do not want to dispirit your Majesty too much or leave too many deceptions as I depart from Paris to dwell afar from the throne."
"Going away from town and me?"
"The work of the Assembly of which I am a member has terminated, and I have no motive to stay here."
"Not even to be useful to us?"
"Not even that." He smiled sadly. "For indeed I cannot be useful to you in any way now. My strength lay in my influence over the House and at the Jacobin club, in my painfully acquired popularity, in short; but the House is dissolved, the Jacobins are broke up, and my popularity is lost."
He smiled more mournfully than before.
She looked at him with a strange glare which resembled the glow of triumph.
"You see, sir, that popularity may be lost," she said.
By his sigh, she felt that she had perpetrated one of those pieces of petty cruelty which were habitual to her.
Indeed, if he had lost it in a month, was it not for her, the angel of death, like Mary Stuart, to those who tried to serve her?
"But you will not go?" she said.
"If ordered to remain by the Queen, I will stay, like a soldier who has his furlough but remains for the battle; but if I do so, I become more than weak, a traitor."
"Explain: I do not understand," she said, slightly hurt.
"Perhaps the Queen takes the dissolved Assembly as her enemy?"
"Let us define matters; in that body were friends of mine. You will not deny that the majority were hostile."
"It never passed but one bill really an act of hostility to your Majesty and the King; that was the decree that none of its members could belong to the Legislative. That snatched the buckler from your friends' arms."
"But also the sword from our foemen's hand, methinks."
"Alas, you are wrong. The blow comes from Robespierre and is dreadful like all from that man. As things were we knew whom we had to meet; with all uncertainty we strike in the fog. Robespierre wishes to force France to take the rulers from the class above us or beneath. Above us there is nothing, the aristocracy having fled; but anyway the electors would not seek representatives among the noble. The people will choose deputies from below us and the next House will be democratic, with slight variations."
The Queen began to be alarmed from following this statement.
"I have studied the new-comers: particularly those from the South," went on Barnave; "they are nameless men eager to acquire fame, the more as they are all young. They are to be feared as their orders are to make war on the priests and nobles; nothing is said as to the King, but if he will be merely the executive, he may be forgiven the past."
"How? they will forgive him? I thought it lay in the King to pardon?" exclaimed insulted majesty.
"There it is – we shall never agree. These new-comers, as you will unhappily have the proof, will not handle the matter in gloves. For them the King is an enemy, the nucleus, willingly or otherwise, of all the external and internal foes. They think they have made a discovery though, alas! they are only saying aloud what your ardent adversaries have whispered all the time."
"But, the King the enemy of the people?" repeated the lady.
"Oh, M. Barnave, this is something you will never induce me to admit, for I cannot understand it."
"Still it is the fact. Did not the King accept the Constitution the other day? well, he flew into a passion when he returned within the palace and wrote that night to the Emperor."
"How can you expect us to bear such humiliations?"
"Ah, you see, madam! he is the born enemy and so by his character. He was brought up by the chief of the Jesuits, and his heart is always in the hands of the priests, those opponents of free government, involuntarily but inevitably counter to Revolution. Without his quitting Paris he is with the princes at Coblentz, with the clergy in Lavendee, with his allies in Vienna and Prussia. I admit that the King does nothing, but his name cloaks the plots; in the cabin, the pulpit and the castle, the poor, good, saintly King is prated about, so that the revolution of pity is opposed to that of Freedom."
"Is it really you who cast this up, M. Barnave, when you were the first to be sorry for us."
"I am sorry for you still, lady; but there is this difference, that I was sorry in order to save you while these others want to ruin you."
"But, in short, have these new-comers, who have vowed a war of extermination on us, any settled plan?"
"No, madam, I can only catch a few vague ideas: to suppress the title of Majesty in the opening address, and set a plain arm-chair beside the Speaker's instead of throne-chair. The dreadful thing is that Bailly and Lafayette will be done away with."
"I shall not regret that," quickly said the Queen.
"You are wrong, madam, for they are your friends – "
She smiled bitterly.
"Your last friends, perhaps. Cherish them, and use what power they have: their popularity will fly, like mine."
"This amounts to your leading me to the brink of the crater and making me measure the depth without telling me I may avoid the eruption."
"Oh, that you had not been stopped on the road to Montmedy!" sighed Barnave after being mute for a spell.
"Here we have M. Barnave approving of the flight to Varennes!"
"I do not approve of it: but the present state is its natural consequence, and so I deplore its not having succeeded – not as the member of the House, but as Barnave your humble servant, ready to give his life, which is all he possesses."
"Thank you," replied the Queen: "your tone proves you are the man to hold to your word, but I hope no such sacrifice will be required of you."
"So much the worse for me, for if I must fall, I would wish it were in a death-struggle. The end will overtake me in my retreat. Your friends are sure to be hunted out; I will be taken, imprisoned and condemned: yet perhaps my obscure death will be unheard of by you. But should the news reach you, I shall have been so little a support to you that you will have forgotten the few hours of my use."
"M. Barnave," said Marie Antoinette with dignity, "I am completely ignorant what fate the future reserves to the King, and myself, but I do know that the names of those to whom we are beholden are written on our memory, and nothing ill or good that may befall them will cease to interest us. Meanwhile, is there anything we can do for you?"
"Only, give me your hand to kiss."
A tear stood in her dry eyes as she extended to the young man the cold white hand which had at a year's interval been kissed by the two leaders, Mirabeau and Barnave.
"Madam," said he, rising, "I cannot say, 'I save the monarchy!' but he who has this favor will say 'If lost, he went down with it.'"
She sighed as he went forth, but her words were:
"Poor squeezed lemon, they did not take much time to leave nothing of you but the peel!"
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE FIELD OF BLOOD
Lugubrious was the scene which met the eye of a young man who trod the Champ de Mars, after the tragedy of which Bailly and Lafayette were the principal actors.
It was illumined by the moon two-thirds full, rolling among huge black clouds in which it was lost now and then.
It had the semblance of a battle field, covered with maimed and dead, amid which wandered like shades the men charged to throw the lifeless into the River Seine and load up the wounded to be transported to the Groscaillou Hospital.
The young man was dressed like a captain of the National Guards. He paused on the way over the Field, and muttered as he clasped his hands with unaffected terror:
"Lord help us, the matter is worse than they gave me to understand."
After looking for a while on the weird work in operation, he approached two men who were carrying a corpse towards the water, and asked:
"Citizens, do you mind telling me what you are going to do with that man?"
"Follow us, and you will know all about it," replied one.
He followed them. On reaching the wooden bridge, they swung the body between them as they counted: "One, two, three, and it's off!" and slung it into the tide.
The young officer uttered a cry of terror.
"Why, what are you about, citizens?" he demanded.
"Can't you see, officer," replied one, "we are clearing up the ground."
"And you have orders to act thus?"
"It looks so, does it not?"
"From whom?"
"From the Municipality."
"Oh," ejaculated the young man, stupefied. "Have you cast many bodies into the stream?" he inquired, after a little pause during which they had returned upon the place.
"Half a dozen or so," was the man's answer.
"I beg your pardon, citizens," went on the captain, "but I have a great interest in the question I am about to put. Among those bodies did you notice one of a man of forty-five or so, six feet high but looking less from his being strongly built; he would have the appearance of a countryman."
"Faith, we have only one thing to notice," said the man, "it is whether the men are alive or dead: if dead, we just fling them over board; if alive, we send them on to the hospital."
"Ah," said the captain: "the fact is that one of my friends, not having come home and having gone out here, as I learnt, I am greatly afeared that he may be among the hurt or killed."
"If he came here," said one of the undertakers, shaking a body while his mate held up a lantern, "he is likely to be here still; if he has not gone home, the chances are he has gone to his last long one." Redoubling the shaking, to the body lying at his feet, he shouted: "Hey, you! are you dead or alive? if you are not dead, make haste to tell us."
"Oh, he is stiff enough," rejoined his associate; "he has a bullet clean through him."
"In that case, into the river with him."
They lifted the body and retook the way to the bridge.
"Citizens," said the young officer, "you don't need your lamp to throw the man into the water; so be kind enough to lend it me for a minute: while you are on your errand, I will seek my friend."
The carriers of the dead consented to this request; and the lantern passed into the young man's hands, whereupon he commenced his search with care and an expression denoting that he had not entitled the lost one his friend merely from the lips but out of his heart.
Ten or more persons, supplied like him with lights, were engaged likewise in the ghastly scrutiny. From time to time, in the midst of stillness – for the awful solemnity of the picture seemed to hush the voice of the living amid the dead – a name spoken in a loud tone, would cross the space.
Sometimes a cry, a moan, or groan would reply to the call; but most often, the answer was gruesome silence.
After having hesitated for a time as though his voice was chained by awe, the young officer imitated the example set him, and three times called out:
"Farmer Billet!"
No voice responded.
"For sure he is dead," groaned he, wiping with his sleeve the tears flowing from his eyes: "Poor Farmer Billet!"
At this moment, two men came along, bearing a corpse towards the river.
"Mild, I fancy our stiff one gave a sigh," said the one who held the upper part of the body and was consequently nearer the head.
"Pooh," laughed the other: "if we were to listen to all these fellows say, there would not be one dead!"
"Citizens, for mercy's sake," interrupted the young officer, "let me see the man you are carrying."
"Oh, willingly, officer," said the men.
They placed the dead in a sitting posture for him to examine it. Bringing the lantern to it, he uttered a cry. In spite of the terrible wound disfiguring the face, he believed it was the man he was seeking.
But was he alive or dead?
This wretch who had gone half way to the watery grave, had his skull cloven by a sword stroke. The wound was dreadful, as stated: it had severed the left whisker and left the cheekbone bare; the temporal artery had been cut, so that the skull and body were flooded with gore. On the wounded side the unfortunate man was unrecognizable.
The lantern-bearer swung the light round to the other side.
"Oh, citizens," he cried, "it is he, the man I seek: Farmer Billet."
"The deuce it is – he seems to have his billet for the other world – ha, ha, ha!" said one of the men. "He is pretty badly hammered."
"Did you not say he heaved a sigh?"
"I think so, anyhow."
"Then do me a kindness," and he fumbled in his pocket for a silver coin.
"What is it?" asked the porter full of willingness on seeing the money.
"Run to the river and bring me some water."
"In a jiffy."
While the fellow ran to the river the officer took his place and held up the wounded one.
In five minutes he had returned.
"Throw the water in his face," said the captain.
The man obeyed by dipping his hand in his hat, which was his pitcher, and sprinkling the slashed face.
"He shivered," exclaimed the young man holding the dying one: "he is not dead. Oh, dear M. Billet, what a blessing I came here."
"In faith, it is a blessing," said the two men; "another twenty paces and your friend would have come to his senses in the nets at St. Cloud."
"Throw some more on him."
Renewing the operation, the wounded man shuddered and uttered a sigh.
"Come, come, he certainly ain't dead," said the man.
"Well, what shall we do with him?" inquired his companion.
"Help me to carry him to St. Honore Street, to Dr. Gilbert's house, if you would like good reward," said the young captain.
"We cannot do that. Our orders are to heave the dead over, or to hand the hurt to the carriers for the hospital. Since this chap makes out he is not dead, why, he must be taken to the hospital."
"Well, carry him there," said the young man, "and as soon as possible. Where is the hospital?" he asked, looking round.
"Close to the Military Academy, about three hundred paces."
"Then it is over yonder?"
"You have it right."
"The whole of the place to cross?"
"And the long way too."
"Have you not a hand-barrow?"
"Well, if it comes to that, such a thing can be found, like the water, if a crownpiece or two – "
"Quite right," said the captain; "you shall not lose by your kindness. Here is more money – only, get the litter."
Ten minutes after the litter was found.
The wounded man was laid on a pallet; the two fellows took up the shafts and the mournful party proceeded towards the military hospital escorted by the young officer, the lantern in hand, by the disfigured head.
A dreadful thing was this night marching over the blood-stained ground, among the stiffened and motionless remains, against which one stumbled at every step, or wounded wretches who rose only to fall anew and called for succor.
In a quarter of an hour they crossed the hospital threshold.
CHAPTER XXIX.
IN THE HOSPITAL
Gilbert had obeyed Cagliostro's injunction to go to the Groscaillou Hospital to attend to a patient.
At this period hospitals were far from being organized as at present, particularly military ones like this which was receiving the injured in the massacre, while the dead were bundled into the river to save burial expenses and hide the extent of the crime of Lafayette and Bailly.
Gilbert was welcomed by the overworked surgeons amid the disorder which opposed their desires being fulfilled.
Suddenly in the maze, he heard a voice which he knew but had not expected there.
"Ange Pitou," he exclaimed, seeing the peasant in National Guards uniform by a bed; "what about Billet?"
"He is here," was the answer, as he showed a motionless body. "His head is split to the jaw."
"It is a serious wound," said Gilbert, examining the hurt. "You must find me a private room; this is a friend of mine," he added to the male nurses.
There were no private rooms but they gave up the laundry to Dr. Gilbert's special patient. Billet groaned as they carried him thither.
"Ah," said the doctor, "never did an exclamation of pleasure give me such joy as that wrung by pain; he lives – that is the main point."
It was not till he had finished the dressing that he asked the news of Pitou.
The matter was simple. Since the disappearance of Catherine, whom Isidore Charny had had transported to Paris with her babe, and the departure of Billet to town also, Mother Billet, whom we have never presented as a strong-minded woman, fell into an increasing state of idiocy. Dr. Raynal said that nothing would rouse her from this torpor but the sight of her daughter.
Without waiting for the cue, Pitou started to Paris. He seemed predestined to arrive there at great events.
The first time, he was in time to take a hand in the storming of the Bastile; the next, to help the Federation of 1790; and now he arrived for the Massacre of the Champ de Mars. He heard that it had all come about over a petition drawn up by Dr. Gilbert and presented by Billet to the signers.
Pitou learnt at the doctor's house that he had come home, but there were no tidings of the farmer.
On going to the scene of blood, Pitou happened on the nearly lifeless body which would have been hurled in the river but for his interposition.
It was thus that Pitou hailed the doctor in the hospital and the wounded man had his chances improved by being in such skillful hands as his friend Gilbert's.
As Billet could not be taken to his wife's bedside, Catherine was more than ever to be desired there. Where was she? The only way to reach her would be through the Charny family.
Happily Ange had been so warmly greeted by her when he took Sebastian to her house that he did not hesitate to call again.
He went there with the doctor in the latter's carriage; but the house was dark and dismal. The count and countess had gone to their country seat at Boursonnes.
"Excuse me, my friend," said the doctor to the janitor who had received the National Guards captain with no friendliness, "but can you not give me a piece of information in your master's absence?"
"I beg pardon, sir," said the porter recognizing the tone of a superior in this blandness and politeness.
He opened the door and in his nightcap and undress came to take the orders of the carriage-gentleman.
"My friend, do you know anything about a young woman from the country in whom the count and countess are taking interest?"
"Miss Catherine?" asked the porter.
"The same," replied Gilbert.
"Yes, sir; my lord and my lady sent me twice to see her and learn if she stood in need of anything, but the poor girl, whom I do not believe to be well off, no more than her dear little child, said she wanted for nothing."
Pitou sighed heavily at the mention of the dear little child.
"Well, my friend," continued the doctor, "poor Catherine's father was wounded on the Field of Mars, and her mother, Mrs. Billet, is dying out at Villers Cotterets, which sad news we want to break to her. Will you kindly give us her address?"
"Oh, poor girl, may heaven assist her. She was unhappy enough before. She is living at Villedavray, your honor, in the main street. I cannot give you the number, but it is in front of the public well."
"That is straight enough," said Pitou; "I can find it."
"Thanks, my friend," said Gilbert, slipping a silver piece into the man's hand.
"There was no need of that, sir, for Christians ought to do a good turn amongst themselves," said the janitor, doffing his nightcap and returning indoors.
"I am off for Villedavray," said Pitou.
He was always ready to go anywhere on a kind errand.
"Do you know the way?"
"No; but somebody will tell me."
"You have a golden heart and steel muscles," said the doctor laughing; "but you want rest and had better start to-morrow."
"But it is a pressing matter – "
"On neither side is there urgency," corrected the doctor; "Billet's state is serious but not mortal unless by mischance. Mother Billet may linger ten days yet."
"She don't look it, but, of course, you know best."
"We may as well leave poor Catherine another night of repose and ignorance; a night's rest is of importance to the unfortunate, Pitou."
"Then, where are we going, doctor?" asked the peasant, yielding to the argument.
"I shall give you a room you have slept in before; and to-morrow at six, my horses shall be put to the carriage to take you to Villedavray."
"Lord, is it fifty leagues off?"
"Nay, it is only two or three."
"Then I can cover it in an hour or two – I can lick it up like an egg."
"Yes, but Catherine can lick up like an egg the distance from Villedavray to Paris and the eighteen leagues from Paris to Villers Cotterets?"
"True: excuse me, doctor, for being a fool. Talking of fools – no, I mean the other way about – how is Sebastian?"
"Wonderfully well, you shall see him to-morrow."
"Still at college? I shall be downright glad."
"And so shall he, for he loves you with all his heart."
At six, he started in the carriage and by seven was at Catherine's door. She opened it and shrieked on seeing Pitou:
"I know – my mother is dead!"
She turned pale and leaned against the wall.
"No; but you will have to hasten to see her before she goes," replied the messenger.
This brief exchange of words said so much in little that Catherine was at once placed face to face with her affliction.
"That is not all," added the peasant.
"What's the other misfortune?" queried Catherine, in the sharp tone of one who has exhausted the measure of human ails and has no fear of an overflow.
"Master Billet was dangerously wounded on the parade-grounds."
"Ah," said she, much less affected by this news than the other.
"So I says to myself, and Dr. Gilbert bears me out: 'Miss Catherine will pay a visit to her father at the hospital on the way down to her mother's.'"
"But you, Pitou?" queried the girl.
"While you go by stage-coach to help Mother Billet to make her long journey, I will stay by the farmer. You understand that I must stick to him who has never a soul to look after him, see?"
Pitou spoke the words with that angelic simplicity of his, with no idea that he was painting his whole devoted nature.
"You have a kind heart, Ange," said she, giving him her hand. "Come and kiss my little Isidore."
She walked into the house, prettier than ever, though she was clad in black, which drew another sigh from Pitou.
She had one little room, overlooking the garden, its furniture a bed for the mother and a cradle for the infant. It was sleeping.
She pulled a muslin curtain aside for him to see it.
"Oh, the sweet little angel!" exclaimed Pitou.
He knelt as it were to an angel, and kissed the tiny hand. He was speedily rewarded for his devotion for he felt Catherine's tresses on his head and her lips on his forehead. The mother was returning the caress given her son.
"Thank you, good Pitou," she said; "since the last kiss he had from his father, I alone have fondled the pet."
"Oh, Miss Catherine!" muttered Pitou, dazzled and thrilled by the kiss as by an electrical shock.
And yet it was purely what a mother's caress may contain of the holy and grateful.
Ten minutes afterwards, Catherine, little Isidore and Pitou were rolling in the doctor's carriage towards the hospital, where she handed the child to the peasant with as much or more trust as she would have had in a brother, and walked in at the door.
Dr. Gilbert was by his patient's side. Little change had taken place. Despite the beginning of fever, the face was still deadly pale from the great loss of blood and one eye and the left cheek were swelling.
Catherine dropped on her knees by the bedside, and said as she raised her hands to heaven,
"O my God, Thou knowest that my utmost wish has been for my father's life to be spared."
This was as much as could be expected from the girl whose lover's life had been attempted by her father.
The patient shuddered at this voice, and his breathing was more hurried; he opened his eyes and his glance, wandering for a space over the room, was fixed on the woman. His hand made a move to repulse this figure which he doubtless took to be a vision. Their glances met, and Gilbert was horrified to see the hatred which shot towards each, rather than affection.
She rose and went to find Pitou by the door. He was on all fours, playing with the babe.
She caught up her boy with a roughness more like a lioness than a woman, and pressed it to her bosom, crying,
"My child, oh, my child!"
In the outburst were all the mother's anguish, the widow's wails, and the woman's pangs.
Pitou proposed seeing her to the stage, but she repulsed him, saying:
"Your place is here."
Pitou knew nothing but to obey when Catherine commanded.
