"Ah!" said the woman Tison, "it is a flower, a carnation; it must have fallen from the hand of the Citizeness Dixmer, when Marie Antoinette took one from her bouquet."
"The woman Capet took a flower from the Citizen Dixmer's bouquet?" said Simon.
"Yes; and it was I who gave her the bouquet," said Maurice, in a loud and menacing tone, who had been for some moments listening to this colloquy, and whose patience was nearly exhausted.
"It is all very well, it is all very well; one sees what one sees, and one knows what one says," growled Simon,who still held in his hand the carnation crushed by his huge foot.
"And I also know one thing," replied Maurice, "which I am now going to tell you; it is that you have nothing whatever to do in this keep, and that your honorable post of hangman is down there with the little Capet, whom I would, for your own sake, recommend you not to chastise to-day, as I am here to defend him."
"Do you threaten me? Do you call me hangman?" cried Simon, crushing the flower in his hand. "Ah! we shall see if it is permitted these aristocrats—why, what is this?"
"What?" asked Maurice.
"That I feel in this carnation? Ah! ah!"
The eyes of Maurice were transfixed with astonishment as Simon drew from the calyx of the flower a small paper, rolled with the most exquisite care, which had been artistically introduced into the centre of the clustering leaves.
"My God!" said Maurice, "what can this mean?"
"We shall know, we shall very soon know," said Simon, approaching the window. "Ah! you and your friend Lorin told me I did not know how to read. Well! you shall see."
Lorin had calumniated Simon; he could read all kinds of print, and manuscript also when sufficiently large. But the writing in the little billet was so minute that Simon was obliged to have recourse to his spectacles. He consequently placed it on the window, while he proceeded to take an inventory of the contents of his pockets; but while thus engaged, the Citizen Agricola opened the door of the antechamber exactly facing the little window, thereby causing a current of air which blew away the little paper, light as a feather from a bird's wing, so thatwhen Simon, after a moment's exploration, had discovered his spectacles, placed them on his nose, and turned himself round, his labor was lost,—the paper had disappeared.
"There was a paper here," roared Simon, crimson with rage and disappointment,—"there was a paper here. Look to yourself, Citizen Municipal, for it must and shall be found."
And he descended precipitately, leaving Maurice in a state of stupefaction.
Ten minutes afterward three members of the Commune entered the keep. The queen was still upon the platform, and strict orders had been issued that she should be kept in total ignorance of all that had just occurred. The members of the Commune desired to be conducted to her presence.
The first object which met their view was the crimson carnation, which she still held in her hand. They regarded her with surprise, and approaching her,—
"Give us this flower," said the president of the deputation. The queen, who had not expected this intrusion, started and hesitated.
"Surrender your flower, Madame," said Maurice, in a sort of alarm, "I entreat you."
The queen tendered them the carnation. The president took it and retired, followed by his colleagues, into a neighboring apartment to make an examination, and draw up theprocès-verbal.
They opened the flower—it was empty.
Maurice breathed afresh.
"Wait a moment," said one of the members, "the heart of the carnation has been removed. The calyx is empty, it is true, but in this calyx most unquestionably a letter has been concealed."
"I am quite ready and willing," said Maurice, "to furnish all necessary explanation; but first of all, I request to be arrested."
"We shall make a minute of your proposal, but shall not act upon it," said the president. "You are known as a stanch patriot, Citizen Lindey."
"And I will answer with my life for the friends I had the imprudence to bring with me."
"Answer for no one," replied the procurator.
A tremendous hubbub was now heard in the court. It was Simon, who having long and vainly sought for the little billet wafted away by the wind, went to Santerre and informed him that an attempt had been made to carry off the queen, with all the accessories which the powers of his excited imagination could lend to such an event. Santerre was in great haste; he investigated the Temple, and changed the guard, to the great disgust of Lorin, who stoutly protested against this offence offered to his battalion.
"Ah! vile cobbler," said he to Simon, menacing him with his sabre, "I have you to thank for this pleasantry; but only wait a little, and I will pay you back in your own coin."
"I think rather that the entire nation will pay you," said the shoemaker, rubbing his hands.
"Citizen Maurice," said Santerre, "hold yourself at the disposal of the Commune, who will examine you."
"I await your orders, Commandant; but I have already said that I desire to be arrested, and I repeat my request."
"Wait, wait," murmured Simon, with a malicious smile; "since you are so bent upon it, we shall try to settle that little matter for you," and he went to find the woman Tison.
CHAPTER XXIII.
ARTHÉMISE.
Theysearched during the whole day in the court, in the garden and its environs, for the little billet which had caused all this tumult, and which they no longer doubted contained the whole plot.
They interrogated the queen, after having separated her from her daughter and sister, but elicited nothing more from her than that she had, on the staircase, encountered a young woman carrying a bouquet, and had drawn a single flower from the centre.
Moreover, she would not have plucked this flower had she not first obtained the consent of the Municipal Maurice.
She had nothing more to tell. This was the truth in all its force and simplicity.
This was all reported to Maurice when his turn came to be questioned, and he declared that the deposition of the queen was quite correct.
"But," said the president, "there was then a plot."
"Impossible," said Maurice; "I was dining at Madame Dixmer's, and proposed that she should see the prisoners, hearing her remark she had never done so; but neither the day nor the manner of so doing was arranged."
"But the flowers were purchased," said the president; "the bouquet had been made beforehand."
"Not at all; I myself purchased these flowers from a flower-girl, who offered them to us at the corner of the Rue des Vieilles-Audriettes."
"But at least this flower-girl presented the bouquet to you?"
"No, Citizen; I selected it myself from ten or twelve others. Certainly, I purchased the most beautiful."
"But was there a possibility of secreting this billet on your road to the tower?"
"Impossible, Citizen. I never left Madame Dixmer's side for a moment, and to perform the operation named on each flower,—for remark that every flower, according to Simon's account, must have contained a like billet,—would at least occupy half a day or more."
"But, in short, could not two prepared billets have been placed in the flowers?"
"The prisoner in my presence took one at random, after having declined the rest."
"Then, in your opinion, Citizen Lindey, there was not a plot at all?"
"Oh, there must have been a plot!" replied Maurice, "and I am the first not only to believe but to affirm it; my friends, however, were not concerned in it. Nevertheless, as the nation must necessarily be alarmed, I offer security by surrendering myself prisoner."
"Not at all," said Santerre; "should we act thus with tried friends like you? If you surrender yourself prisoner to answer for your friends, I surrender myself prisoner to answer for you. The thing is simple. There is no positive accusation. No one will know what has passed. Let us henceforth act with redoubled vigilance,—you especially,—and we shall succeed in probing this matter to the bottom, and at the same time avoid publicity."
"Thanks, Commandant," said Maurice; "but I shall answer as you would answer were you in my place. We must not stop here; we must discover the flower-girl."
"The flower-girl is far away, but be perfectly easy on that point; she shall be sought for. As for you, watch your friends, while I will guard the prison correspondence."
No one had thought of Simon, but he had formed his own project.
He arrived toward the conclusion of the sitting, and learned the decision of the Commune.
"Ah! then all that is needed is a formal accusation," said he, "to make sure work. Wait five minutes and I will lay one before you."
"What is it?" said the president.
"It is," said Simon, "the courageous Citizeness Tison who accuses of secret practices that partisan of the aristocracy, Maurice, and denounces the intrigues of another equally false patriot, one of his friends named Lorin."
"Take care, take care, Simon; your zeal for the nation perhaps misleads you. Maurice and Lorin are tried patriots."
"That will be seen at the tribunal," replied Simon.
"Consider well, Simon; this will be a disgraceful proceeding in the sight of all true patriots."
"Disgraceful or not, what is that to me? Do I dread disgrace? We shall at least learn the whole truth about traitors."
"Then you persist in lodging an accusation in the name of the woman Tison?"
"I will accuse them myself this very night to the Cordeliers, and you too, Citizen President, if you do not at once command the arrest of that traitor Maurice."
"Well, so be it," said the president, who, after the manner of those wretched times, trembled before those who clamored the loudest; "he shall be arrested."
While this decision was forming against him, Maurice had returned to the Temple, where the following billet awaited him,—
Our guard being violently broken up, I shall not be able, in all probability, to see you before to-morrow morning. Come then and breakfast with me; during that meal you shall give me a true and particular account of the plots and conspiracies discovered by Simon.A pink the culprit was,—So honest Simon does depose;But I shall information seekThis morning from a lovely rose.And to-morrow, in my turn, I shall lay before you all Arthémise's answers to my questions.Yours faithfully,Lorin.
Our guard being violently broken up, I shall not be able, in all probability, to see you before to-morrow morning. Come then and breakfast with me; during that meal you shall give me a true and particular account of the plots and conspiracies discovered by Simon.
A pink the culprit was,—So honest Simon does depose;But I shall information seekThis morning from a lovely rose.
And to-morrow, in my turn, I shall lay before you all Arthémise's answers to my questions.
Yours faithfully,Lorin.
Maurice replied,—
There is nothing new; so sleep in peace to-night, and breakfast without me to-morrow, as, on reviewing the incidents of the day, I find I shall not, in all probability, be able to leave till noon.I should like to be a zephyr to waft a kiss to the rose of which you speak.I give you leave to whistle at my prose as much as I do at your verse.Yours faithfully,Maurice.P.S. For the rest, I believe the conspiracy was only a false alarm, after all.
There is nothing new; so sleep in peace to-night, and breakfast without me to-morrow, as, on reviewing the incidents of the day, I find I shall not, in all probability, be able to leave till noon.
I should like to be a zephyr to waft a kiss to the rose of which you speak.
I give you leave to whistle at my prose as much as I do at your verse.
Yours faithfully,Maurice.
P.S. For the rest, I believe the conspiracy was only a false alarm, after all.
Lorin had indeed left at one o'clock with the whole of his battalion, thanks to the brutal conduct of the shoemaker; he however consoled himself with a quatrain, and went to visit Arthémise.
Arthémise was delighted to see Lorin. The weather, as we have said, was magnificent; she therefore proposed a walk along the quay, to which Lorin of course assented. They had walked some distance, discoursing on politics, Lorin recounting his expulsion from the Temple and vainly endeavoring to divine the cause, when, on reaching the vicinity of Rue des Barres, they perceived a flower-girl, who, like themselves, was walking up the right bank of the Seine.
"Ah, Citizen Lorin!" said Arthémise, "I hope you are going to present me with a bouquet?"
"Two, if you wish it," said Lorin; and they both redoubled their speed to overtake the flower-girl, who walked at a rapid pace.
On arriving at the Bridge Marie, the young girl stopped, and leaning over the parapet, emptied the contents of her basket into the river.
The flowers separated, whirled round for an instant in the air, while the bouquets, dragged down by their weight, fell more quickly, till at last both flowers and bouquets floated upon the surface, following the course of the water.
"Stop!" said Arthémise, regarding the flower-girl thus strangely occupied; "it is said—but yes—but no—but if—ah! this is strange."
The flower-girl placed her finger on her lips, as if to entreat Arthémise to be silent, and disappeared.
"Who is this, then?" said Lorin; "do you know this mortal, goddess?"
"No; I fancied at first—but certainly I am deceived."
"She, however, made a sign to you," persisted Lorin.
"But why is she a flower-girl this morning?" said Arthémise to herself.
"You acknowledge, then, that you know her, Arthémise?" asked Lorin.
"Yes," replied Arthémise; "she is a flower-girl I sometimes deal with."
"At all events," said Lorin, "she has a strange method of disposing of her merchandise."
And both, after having looked for the last time at the flowers, which had already reached the wooden bridge and received a fresh impetus from the arm of the river passing under its arches, continued their route toward the Rapée, where they anticipated diningtête-à-tête.
This incident was forgotten for the moment; but as it was at least singular, and of rather a mysterious character, it vividly impressed Lorin's poetic imagination.
In the mean time, the accusation brought by Tison's wife against Maurice and Lorin caused a great tumult at the club of the Jacobins; and Maurice was informed at the Temple by the Commune that his safety was endangered by the public indignation. This was a recommendation to the young municipal to conceal himself if he were guilty; but with conscious rectitude Maurice remained at the Temple, where he was found at his post when they came to arrest him, and at the same time to interrogate him.
Remaining firm in his resolution not to endanger the safety of his friends, in whom he felt the most implicit confidence, Maurice was not the man to sacrifice himself by a ridiculous silence worthy of a hero of romance, and therefore demanded that the flower-girl should be arrested.
It was five o'clock in the evening when Lorin returned home, and heard, at the same moment, of the arrest of Maurice, and also of the demand made by him.
The flower-girl of the Bridge Marie instantly recurred to him like a sudden revelation. This singular individual casting her flowers into the Seine; the coincidence of place; the half admission of Arthémise,—all these facts combined convinced him that this was the solution of the mystery demanded by Maurice.
He bounded from his chamber, flew rather than ran down four flights of stairs, and precipitated himself into the presence of the Goddess Reason, who was engaged in embroidering golden stars on a robe of blue gauze. It was her robe of divinity.
"A truce to the stars, sweetheart," said Lorin; "they have arrested Maurice this morning, and, in all human probability, this evening I shall share the same fate."
"Maurice arrested!"
"By Heaven, he is! In these times nothing is more common than the occurrence of such troubles; but they excite little attention because they come in troops, that is all. Almost all important matters originate in trifles. Never neglect trifles. Who was that flower-girl we met this morning, sweetheart?"
Arthémise started.
"What flower-girl?"
"The one who so recklessly cast her flowers into the Seine."
"Ah, my goodness!" said Arthémise; "is this circumstance, then, so serious that you return to question me so urgently about it?"
"So serious, sweetheart, that I entreat you to answer my question without loss of time."
"Dear Lorin, I cannot do so."
"Goddess, with you nothing is impossible."
"I am in honor bound to keep silence."
"And I am bound in honor to make you speak."
"But why do you insist upon it thus?"
"Why? Zounds! that Maurice may not have his throat cut!"
"Merciful Heavens! Maurice guillotined!" cried the young woman, much alarmed.
"Without speaking of myself; for to tell you the truth my head feels by no means secure upon my shoulders."
"Ah! No, no!" said Arthémise, "to speak would be the poor girl's utter ruin."
At this moment Lorin's official rushed into the apartment.
"Ah! Citizen," cried he, "save yourself! save yourself!"
"And why?" demanded Lorin.
"Because the gendarmes have arrived; and while they were forcing an entrance, I gained the next house by the roof, and hastened to prevent your return."
Arthémise uttered a heart-rending cry, for she truly loved Lorin.
"Arthémise," said Lorin, "do you really place the life of a flower-girl in comparison with that of Maurice and that of your lover? If so, I declare to you that I no longer regard you as the Goddess Reason, but shall proclaim you the Goddess Folly."
"Poor Héloïse!" exclaimed the ex-dancer of the Opera; "if I betray you, it is not my fault."
"Well done, my darling!" said Lorin, presenting a paper to Arthémise, "you have already favored me with her Christian name, oblige me now with her surname and address."
"Oh, write it! never, never!" cried Arthémise; "I would rather tell you."
"Tell me, then, and rest assured I shall not forget."
And Arthémise, in an agitated voice, gave the name and address of the pretended flower-girl to Lorin.
"She is called Héloïse Tison, and lives, Rue des Nonandières, No. 24."
At this name, Lorin uttered an exclamation, and fled. He had not reached the corner of the street when a letter was delivered to Arthémise. It only contained three lines,—
Not a word concerning me, dear friend; the revelation of my name would infallibly ruin me. Wait till to-morrow. I quit Paris to-night.Thine,Héloïse.
Not a word concerning me, dear friend; the revelation of my name would infallibly ruin me. Wait till to-morrow. I quit Paris to-night.
Thine,Héloïse.
"Oh, my God!" cried the future goddess, "if I could only have divined this I should have waited till to-morrow," and she rushed to the window to recall Lorin, if there was yet time; but he had disappeared.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
Wehave already said that in a few hours the news of this event had circulated through Paris. In short, there were at this epoch various indiscretions easy to comprehend on the part of a government of which the political schemes were made and unmade in the street.
The rumor gradually gained ground, till it at length reached the old Rue Saint Jacques, and two hours after the arrest of Maurice they heard of his detention.
Thanks to the activity of Simon, the details of the plot were quickly reported beyond the Temple; but as every one embellished the original according to his fancy, the truth was somewhat altered by the time it reached the master-tanner's. One said a poisoned flower had been conveyed to the queen, by means of which the Austrian would stupefy her guards, and thus be enabled to escape from the Temple; it was also said that certain suspicions were entertained of the fidelity of the battalion dismissed by Santerre on the preceding evening,—so that already several victims were consigned to the hatred of the people.
But the inhabitants of the old Rue Saint Jacques were not, of course, deceived as to the real nature of the event; and Morand on one side, and Dixmer on the other, went out immediately, leaving Geneviève a victim to the most violent despair.
If this misfortune had befallen Maurice, it was she who had been the sole cause of it. It was her hand that had conducted the young man blindfold to the entrance of the dungeon which now enclosed him, and which, in all human probability, he would quit only for the scaffold.
But under any circumstances Maurice should not lose his head on account of his devotion to her wishes. If Maurice were condemned, she would accuse herself before the tribunal, and would confess all. She would take all the responsibility upon herself, and at the expense of her life would save Maurice. And Geneviève, instead of feeling any fear of death, experienced, on the contrary, a melancholy happiness at the idea of dying for Maurice.
She loved the young man, she loved him more than was right in a woman who belonged not to herself; and to die would be for her the means of giving back to God her soul, pure and unspotted as she had received it from him.
On quitting the house, Dixmer and Morand separated, the former took the road to the Rue de la Corderie, the latter hastened to the Rue des Nonandières. Arriving at the end of the Bridge Marie, Morand perceived that crowd of idlers and common people which in Paris during or after the occurrence of anything remarkable collects at the place, as crows assemble on the field of battle.
At this sight Morand stopped short, a universal tremor shook his frame, and he leaned for support against the parapet.
At length, after a few seconds, he regained the almost miraculous power which under trying circumstances he exercised over his feelings, and mingling with the various groups, commenced his inquiries, and learned that a short time before they had taken from the Rue des Nonandières,No. 24, a young woman, most certainly guilty of the crime of which she stood then accused, as they surprised her in the act of making these packets. Morand inquired before what club the poor girl would be interrogated, and found they had conducted her to the section Mère, where he immediately followed her.
The club was thronged, but by making free use of his elbows and fists, he succeeded in forcing an entrance. The first sight he encountered was the tall and noble figure of Maurice, standing haughtily in the place of the accused, and annihilating Simon by his looks.
"Yes, Citizens," cried Simon, who was concluding his accusation; "the Citizen Tison accuses the Citizen Lindey and the Citizen Lorin. The Citizen Lindey mentions a flower-girl, upon whom he endeavors to cast all the blame; but, as I told you before, the flower-girl will not be found, and that it is a vile plot formed by a body of aristocrats who toss back the ball from one to the other, like cowards as they are. You have seen, besides, that the Citizen Lorin had decamped when his presence was required; and he will return no more than the flower-girl."
"Then you have lied, Simon," cried a furious voice; "he will return, for he is here."
And Lorin strode into the hall.
"Room for me!" said he, pushing aside the spectators. "Room for me!" And he placed himself near Maurice.
The entrance of Lorin, so natural, and without affectation, yet combining all the freedom and strength inherent in the character of the young man, produced an immense effect upon the Tribunes, who instantly greeted him with cries of applause.
Maurice contented himself by smiling and holding out his hand to his friend,—the friend concerning whom hehad said to himself, "I shall not long stand alone at the bench of the accused."
The spectators gazed with visible interest on these two handsome young men whom the foul shoemaker of the Temple, like a demon envious of their youth and beauty, had accused.
He soon perceived the unfavorable impression he had made, and determined to strike the last blow.
"Citizens!" roared he; "I demand that the generous Citizen Tison should be heard; let her speak, and bring forward her accusation."
"Citizens," said Lorin, "I demand that the flower-girl who has just been arrested, and who no doubt will be brought before you, may be first heard."
"No, no," said Simon; "it is just some false evidence,—some partisan of the aristocrats. Besides, the woman Tison is most impatient to forward the means of justice."
Meanwhile Lorin took the opportunity to whisper to Maurice.
"Yes," cried the Tribunes; "the deposition of the woman Tison; let her testify!"
"Is the woman Tison in the hall?" demanded the president.
"Without doubt she is here," cried Simon. "Citizen Tison, answer for yourself."
"I am here, President; but if I depose, will they give me back my daughter?" said the female jailer.
"Your daughter has nothing at all to do with the affair with which we are at present engaged," said the president. "Make your deposition first, and then appeal to the Commune to restore your child."
"Do you hear?" said Simon; "the citizen president commands you to make your deposition. Do so at once!"
"A moment," said the president, turning toward Maurice, astonished at the calmness of a man generally so impetuous. "One moment. Citizen Municipal, have you nothing to say first?"
"No, Citizen President,—except that before Simon attached the words 'traitor and coward' to a man like myself, it would have been better to have waited till he was more correctly informed."
"You say that? you say that?" replied Simon, with the sneering accent peculiar to the plebeian Parisian.
"I say, Simon," replied Maurice, with more of sorrow than anger, "that you will be most cruelly punished immediately, when you see what is about to happen."
"What is about to happen, I should like to know?" demanded Simon.
"Citizen President," said Maurice, without deigning to notice the question of his hideous accuser, "I unite with my friend Lorin in demanding that the young girl who has just been arrested may be heard before this poor woman is compelled to speak, who, no doubt, has been prompted to this deposition."
"Listen, Citizeness!" said Simon; "listen! They say down there that you are a false witness?"
"I a false witness!" cried the woman Tison. "You shall see; you shall see! Wait!"
"Citizen," said Maurice, "in pity desire this woman to remain silent."
"Ah! you are afraid," said Simon,—"you are afraid! Citizen President, I require the deposition of the woman Tison."
"Yes! yes! the deposition!" cried the Tribunes.
"Silence!" cried the president; "the Commune returns."
At this moment the sound of a carriage was heard outside, amid the noise of shouts and arms.
Simon turned uneasily toward the door.
"Quit the box," said the president to him; "you have nothing more to tell." Simon descended.
At this moment some gendarmes entered, with a crowd of curious idlers, which was soon driven back, and a woman was pushed toward the judgment-hall.
"Is it she?" whispered Lorin to Maurice.
"It is," replied Maurice. "Miserable woman, she is lost!"
"The flower-girl! the flower-girl!" murmured the Tribunes, whose curiosity was raised to the highest pitch. "Is this the flower-girl?"
"I demand, before everything else," roared Simon, "the deposition of the woman Tison. You commanded her to testify, President, and she has not yet done so."
The woman was recalled, and entered upon a dreadful and circumstantial deposition. The flower-girl, it was true, was alone criminal; but Maurice and Lorin were her accomplices.
This denunciation produced an incredible effect upon the public mind; and now, indeed, Simon was in the ascendant.
"Gendarmes," said the president, "bring forward the flower-girl."
"Oh, this is frightful!" said Maurice, concealing his face in his hands.
The flower-girl was called, and placed before the Tribune, exactly opposite to Tison's wife, whose testimony had convicted her of a capital crime.
She raised her veil.
"Héloïse!" cried the woman Tison; "my child. You here!"
"Yes, mother," replied the young woman, gently.
"And why do you enter between two gendarmes?"
"Because I am accused, mother."
"You! Accused, and by whom?" cried the woman, in anguish.
"By you, mother."
A frightful silence, like the precursor of death, fell suddenly upon the noisy assemblage, while the painful feeling excited by this horrible scene oppressed every heart.
"Her daughter," was whispered, as if by voices in the distance,—"her daughter! Unhappy woman!"
Maurice and Lorin regarded both the accuser and the accused with sentiments of deep commiseration, mingled with respectful pity for their unhappy fate.
Simon, anxious to witness the conclusion of this tragedy, in which he hoped both Maurice and Lorin would remain actors, endeavored to withdraw from the attention of the woman Tison, who gazed wildly around.
"What is your name, Citizeness?" said the president to the young girl, himself affected at the scene.
"Héloïse Tison, Citizen."
"What is your age?"
"Nineteen years."
"Where do you reside?"
"Rue des Nonandières, No. 24."
"Did you sell the Citizen Lindey, whom you now see in the dock, a bouquet of carnations this morning?"
The young girl turned round and looked at Maurice.
"Yes, Citizen, I did," said she.
The mother herself gazed at her daughter, her eyes dilated with terror.
"Are you aware that every carnation contained a billet addressed to the widow Capet?"
"I know it," replied the accused.
A movement of horror and admiration spread itself through the hall.
"Why did you offer these carnations to the Citizen Maurice?"
"Because I perceived that he wore the scarf of a municipal, and I imagined he was going to the Temple."
"Who are your accomplices?"
"I have none."
"What! have you then concocted this plot alone?"
"If it is a plot, I alone am concerned in it."
"But did the Citizen Maurice know—"
"That the flowers contained the billets?"
"Yes."
"The Citizen Maurice is a municipal; the Citizen Maurice could converse with the queen at any hour of the day or the night. The Citizen Maurice, if he had wished to say anything to the queen, had no occasion to write; he could speak."
"And you do not know the Citizen Maurice Lindey?"
"I had sometimes seen him come to the Temple while I was there with my poor mother, but I only know him by sight."
"Do you see, miserable wretch," said Lorin, shaking his fist at Simon, who, dismayed at the turn of affairs, with his head lowered, was attempting to sneak away unperceived,—"do you see what you have done?"
Every one regarded Simon with looks of deep indignation.
The president continued.
"Since you made up these bouquets, you of course are aware that each flower contained a paper, and therefore must know also what was written upon that paper?"
"Of course I do."
"Well, then, tell us what it was?"
"Citizen," said the young girl, with firmness, "I have told all I either can, or will, tell."
"Then you refuse to answer this question?"
"Yes."
"Do you know to what you expose yourself?"
"Yes."
"You trust perhaps to your youth and beauty?"
"I trust in God."
"Citizen Maurice Lindey, Citizen Hyacinthe Lorin," said the president, "you are free. The Commune recognizes your innocence, and admires your loyal spirit. Gendarmes, conduct the Citizeness Héloïse to the prison of the section."
At these words the woman Tison seemed to awake, and uttering a piercing cry, attempted to rush forward once more to embrace her daughter, but was withheld by the guards.
"I forgive you, mother," said the young girl, as they led her away.
The woman Tison uttered a savage roar, and fell down as if dead.
"Noble girl!" murmured Morand, filled at once with grief and admiration.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE CONSPIRACY.
Immediatelyfollowing the events we have just narrated, a last scene came to fill up the complement of the drama which was unfolding its sombre turns of fortune.
The woman Tison, struck as by a thunderbolt at what had occurred, and totally abandoned by those who had escorted her,—for there is something revolting even in an involuntary crime, and it certainly amounts to a great crime when a mother condemns her own daughter to an ignominious death, were it even from excess of zealous patriotism,—the woman, we say, after remaining for some time in a state of insensibility, at length raised her head, looked wildly around, and finding herself deserted and alone, uttered a loud cry, and rushed toward the door.
At this door a few idlers more curious than the rest still remained congregated together, who dispersed when they beheld her, and pointing with their fingers, said one to another,—
"Do you see that woman? It is she who denounced her daughter."
The wretched woman uttered a cry of despair, and rushed toward the Temple. But when she was a third of the way through Rue Michel le Comte, a man placed himself in front of her, impeding her progress, and concealing his face in his mantle.
"Are you content," said he, "now you have killed your child?"
"Killed my child!" cried the poor mother,—"killed my child! no, no, it is not possible!"
"It is so, notwithstanding, for your daughter has been arrested."
"And where have they taken her?"
"To the Conciergerie; from there she will be sent to the Revolutionary Tribunal, and you know what becomes of those who are sent there."
"Stand aside," said the woman Tison, "and let me pass."
"Where are you going?"
"To the Conciergerie."
"What are you going there for?"
"To see her again."
"They will not allow you to enter."
"They will permit me to lie at the door, to live there, to sleep there. I will remain there till she comes out, and then at least I shall see her once more."
"Suppose some one promised to restore you your child?"
"What do you say?"
"I ask you, supposing a man were to promise to give you back your child, would you do what that man required of you in return?"
"Anything for my child! anything for my Héloïse!" cried the woman, wringing her hands in despair,—"Anything! anything! anything!"
"Listen," said the unknown. "It is God who now punishes you."
"And for what?"
"For the tortures you have inflicted so mercilessly on a poor mother as unhappy as yourself."
"Of whom do you speak! What do you mean?"
"You have often driven the unhappy prisoner to thevery verge of that despair where you are yourself at this moment, by your revelations and brutalities. God now punishes you for all this by conducting this daughter, whom you love so much, to the scaffold."
"You said there was some man who could save her. Where is that man; what does he want; what does he demand?"
"This man requires that you cease to persecute the queen; that you ask her pardon for the outrages already committed against her; and that if at any time you perceive that this woman, who is also a weeping, despairing mother, by any unforeseen circumstance, or by some miracle from Heaven, is upon the point of saving herself, instead of opposing her flight, you do all in your power to aid and abet it."
"Listen, Citizen," said the woman Tison. "You are the man,—is it not so?"
"Well."
"It is you who promise to save my child?"
The unknown remained silent.
"Will you engage to do it? Will you promise; will you swear it? Answer me."
"All that a man can do to save a woman, I will do to save your daughter."
"He cannot save her!" cried the woman, uttering piercing cries,—"he cannot save her! When he promised me he lied."
"Do what you can for the queen, and I will do all in my power for your daughter."
"What care I for the queen? She is a mother who has a daughter. But if they come to cutting off heads, it will not be her daughter's they will cut off, but her own. They may cut my throat so that they spare my child. They may lead me to the guillotine, so that theydo not harm a hair of her head, and I will go there singing,—
"Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,Les aristocrates à la lanterne...."
And she commenced singing in a frightful voice, then suddenly stopped short, and burst into a fit of frenzied laughter.
The man in the mantle himself appeared alarmed at this burst of madness, and retreated a step or two from her.
"Ah! you shall not escape me thus," said the woman Tison, in despair, and retaining her hold of his mantle; "you shall not at one moment come and say to a mother, 'Do this, and I will rescue your child,' and afterward say, 'Perhaps.' Will you save her?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"The day she is conducted from the Conciergerie to the scaffold."
"But why wait—why not to-night? this evening—this moment, even?"
"Because I cannot do so."
"Ah! you know you cannot; you well know you cannot!" cried the woman Tison; "but as for me, I can."
"What can you do?"
"I can persecute the prisoner, as you call her; I can watch the queen, as you term her, aristocrat that you are! and I can enter the prison any hour of the day or night. All this will I do. And as to her escaping, we shall see. Yes, we shall very well see—since they will not save my daughter—if that woman will escape. Head for head. Do you like that? Madame Veto has been queen; that I know. Héloïse Tison is only a poor girl; that I know. But under the guillotine we are all equal."
"Well, be it so," said the man in the mantle. "But you perform your part, and I will fulfil mine."
"Swear!"
"I swear it."
"By what do you swear?"
"Anything you choose."
"Have you a daughter?"
"No."
"Well, then," said the woman, in a disappointed tone, "by what then will you swear?"
"Listen. I swear by God."
"Bah!" exclaimed the woman Tison, "you know very well they have demolished the old one, and have not yet decided on the new."
"I swear by the tomb of my father."
"Swear not by a tomb, for that is prophetic of evil. Oh, my God! my God! When I think that perhaps in three days I may swear by the tomb of my child also! My daughter! My poor Héloïse!" cried the woman Tison, frantically, till at the sound of her voice, raised to a shrill scream, several windows were opened.
At sight of the opened windows, another man, who seemed to detach himself from the wall, advanced toward the first.
"Nothing can be done with this woman," said the first; "she is mad."
"No; she is a mother," replied the other, and dragged his companion away.
When she saw them leaving her, the woman Tison seemed to come back to herself.
"Where are you going?" cried she. "Are you going to rescue Héloïse? Wait for me then; I will go with you. Wait for me; do wait for me!"
And the poor wretch followed them, screaming, till atthe corner of the nearest street, she lost sight of them altogether; and not knowing which way to turn, she remained for an instant undecided, looking on every side, when seeing in the silence and darkness of the night only a double symbol of death, she uttered a cry of horror and fell on the pavement without sense or motion.
The clock struck ten.
During this time, and while the same hour was resounding from the Temple clock, the queen as usual sat in her chamber, between her daughter and her sister, near a smoky lamp. She was concealed from the sight of the municipals by Madame Royale, who, pretending to embrace her, was reading over again a small billet written on the smallest piece of paper imaginable, and in characters so minute that her eyes, already nearly blinded by her scalding tears, scarcely retained strength to decipher it.
The billet contained the following lines,—
"To-morrow, Tuesday, ask permission to walk in the garden; this will be accorded without objection, as an order has been issued to grant you this favor whenever you think proper to solicit it. After two or three turns, feign to feel fatigued, approach the cabin, and ask the Widow Plumeau to allow you to sit down. Then, in a moment, pretend to feel worse, and faint away. They will then close all the doors that they may be able to render you assistance, and you will remain with Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale. Immediately the trap-door of the cellar will open. Precipitate yourself, your sister, and daughter through this aperture, and you are all three saved."
"To-morrow, Tuesday, ask permission to walk in the garden; this will be accorded without objection, as an order has been issued to grant you this favor whenever you think proper to solicit it. After two or three turns, feign to feel fatigued, approach the cabin, and ask the Widow Plumeau to allow you to sit down. Then, in a moment, pretend to feel worse, and faint away. They will then close all the doors that they may be able to render you assistance, and you will remain with Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale. Immediately the trap-door of the cellar will open. Precipitate yourself, your sister, and daughter through this aperture, and you are all three saved."
"Mon Dieu!" said Madame Royale, "does our evil destiny tire in the pursuit?"
"If this billet should prove only a trap," said Madame Elizabeth.
"No, no," said the queen; "these characters have always indicated to me the presence of a mysterious but equally brave and faithful friend."
"Is it the Chevalier?" demanded Madame Royale.
"He himself," replied the queen.
Madame Elizabeth clasped her hands.
"Let us each read the billet again very softly," replied the queen, "so that if one of us forget any particular, another will remember."
They all three re-read the letter, and had just finished so doing, when they heard the door of their chamber turn slowly on its hinges. The two princesses turned round; the queen alone remained stationary, except that by an almost imperceptible movement she raised her hand to her hair and hid the billet in her head-dress. It was a municipal who opened the door.
"What is your business, Monsieur?" demanded Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale, at the same moment.
"Hum!" said the municipal, "it appears to me that you retire very late to-night?"
"Is there, then," said the queen, with her usual dignity, "a new decree from the Commune, stating the hour at which I am to go to bed?"
"No, Citizen," said the municipal; "but if necessary they will make one."
"In the mean time, Monsieur," said Marie Antoinette, "respect, I do not say the chamber of a queen, but that of a woman."
"Truly," growled the municipal, "these aristocrats always speak as if they were something—"
But in the mean time, subdued by that dignity, haughty in her prosperity, but which three years of suffering had calmed down, he withdrew.
An instant afterward the lamp was extinguished, and the three females retired in darkness, as usual.
The next morning at nine o'clock, the queen, having re-read the letter before she arose, in order that she might not misconstrue any of the instructions contained there, tore it into almost invisible fragments. She then hastily finished her toilet, awoke her sister, and entered the chamber of the princess.
A minute afterward she came out, and called the municipals on guard.
"What do you want, Citizeness?" said one of them, appearing at the door, while the other did not even discontinue his breakfast to answer the royal appeal.
"Sir," said Marie Antoinette, "I have just left my daughter's chamber, and find her very ill. Her limbs are pained and swollen for want of exercise; and you know, sir, it is I who have doomed her to this life of inaction. I received permission to walk in the garden, but in descending I had necessarily to pass before the door of the room occupied by my husband in his lifetime. When I made the attempt my heart failed me, and I had not courage to do so, and have since limited my walks to the platform. Now, however, I find this exercise insufficient for my poor child. I therefore entreat you, Citizen Municipal, to request of General Santerre, in my name, the renewal of this privilege."
The queen had pronounced these words in a manner at once so mild, yet dignified; had so strenuously avoided all allusions to anything that could wound the feelings of the Republican,—that he who had entered her presence with his head covered, as for the most part was the custom of these men, gradually raised his red cap, and when she had finished, said, bowing respectfully,—
"Rest assured, Madame, your request shall be laid before the citizen general."
Then on retiring, as if to convince himself he had yielded to justice rather than weakness. "It is just," said he, "after all; it is only right."
"What is just?" demanded the other municipal.
"That this woman should be permitted to walk in the garden with her child, who is an invalid."
"Bah!" said the other, "when she asks to be allowed to walk from the Temple to the Place de la Révolution, that will be permitted her fast enough."
The queen heard these words, and grew pale, but still drew from them fresh courage for the great attempt she meditated.
The municipal finished his breakfast, and descended. The queen requested permission to take hers in her daughter's room, which was granted.
Madame Royale, to confirm the statement concerning her ill-health, did not quit her bed; the queen and Madame Elizabeth remained near her.
At eleven o'clock Santerre arrived. His coming was, as usual, announced by the drums beating the march, and by the entrance of a fresh battalion and other municipals, who came in their turn to relieve those on guard.
When Santerre had fully reviewed the battalion leaving, and the one about to take its place, and had paraded his large heavy-limbed horse round the court of the Temple, he stood still for a moment. This was for the purpose of receiving any claims, denunciations, or requests.
The municipal, availing himself of this halt, approached him.
"Well, what do you want?" said Santerre, bruskly.
"Citizen," said the municipal, "I come to entreat on the part of the queen—"
"Who is the queen?" interrupted Santerre.
"True!" said the municipal, astonished at his own mistake. "What have I said—I must be mad! I came to speak on the part of Madame Veto—"
"All in good time," said Santerre. "Now I understand you, what have you to say to me?"
"The young Veto is ill, it appears, from want of proper air and exercise."
"Well, is it necessary again to bring this before the public? The nation granted her permission to walk in the garden, and she refused it. Good-morning."
"That is exactly it. She regrets this now, and requests you will permit her to do so."
"There is no difficulty about that. You all hear," said Santerre, "that Capet's wife will come down to walk in the garden. Now," addressing the whole battalion, "take care she does not abuse this favor granted her by the nation, by making her escape over the wall; for if that happens I will cut off every one of your heads." A roar of laughter followed this pleasantry of the citizen general. "Now that is settled," said Santerre, "adieu. I am going to the Commune. It appears that they have reunited Roland and Barbaroux, and the question under debate is to deliver them a passport to another world."
It was this intelligence that had put the citizen general in such good humor.
He then galloped away.
The battalion who were removing the guard followed him; then the municipals also gave place to those who had received Santerre's instructions respecting the queen.
One of the municipals went up to Marie Antoinetteand informed her that the general had granted her request.
"Oh!" thought she, looking through the window toward heaven, "does thy wrath abate, Lord? and does thy terrible right hand grow weary of pressing so heavily upon us?"
"Thanks, Monsieur," said she to the municipal, with that fascinating smile which had proved the ruin of Barnave, and turned the heads of so many of his fellowmen,—"thanks!"
Then turning round to her little dog, who leaped after her, walking on his hind-legs, for he well understood from the looks of his mistress that something unusual was about to take place,—
"Come, Jet," said she, "we are going for a walk."
The little animal began to yelp and jump, and after looking at the municipal attentively, comprehending, no doubt, that from this man originated the intelligence which had made his mistress so happy, ran toward him, and wagging his long and silky tail, ventured even to caress him.
This man, who perhaps might be insensible to the prayers of a queen, could not resist the caresses of a little dog.
"If only on account of this little beast, you should go out more frequently, Citizeness Capet. Humanity commands us to take care of every creature."
"At what hour shall we go out, sir?" asked the queen. "Do you not think the sun would do us good?"
"You may go out when you please," said the municipal; "there has been no restriction on the subject. If you like to go out at mid-day, as that is the time they change the sentinels, there will be less bustle in the court."
"Then let it be at mid-day," said the queen, pressing her hand to her side to still the beating of her heart.
And she looked at this man, who appeared to her less stern than his associates, and who, perhaps, for kindly yielding to the wishes of the prisoner might fall a sacrifice to the conspiracy which they meditated.
But at the moment when compassion was stealing over the heart of the woman, the soul of the queen was aroused. She thought of the 10th of August and of the corpses of her faithful friends strewed upon the floors of the palace; she recalled to memory the 2d of September, and the head of the Princess Lamballe carried on a pike before her windows; she remembered the 21st of January when her husband died upon the scaffold, the noise of drums drowning his feeble voice; finally, she thought of her son, poor child! whose cries of distress had more than once reached her ears when she had no power to render him help,—and her heart became hardened.
"Alas!" cried she, "misfortune is like the blood of the ancient Hydras,—it teems with crops of future evils!"
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LITTLE DOG JET.
Themunicipal left to call his colleagues and to read theprocès-verballeft by the former municipals.
The queen remained alone with her sister and child. They all three looked at one another. Then Madame Royale threw her arms round the queen, and warmly embraced her. Madame Elizabeth approached her sister, and held out her hand.
"Let us offer up our prayers to God," said the queen, "but in such a manner that no one can hear us."
There are fatal epochs when prayer, that natural hymn of praise which God has implanted in every human heart, becomes suspicious in the eyes of men, since prayer is an act of praise and acknowledgment for mercies received. But in the ideas of her keepers hope and gratitude afforded subject for inquietude; since the queen could hope only for flight, and could thank God only for affording her the means of effecting it.
This mental prayer concluded, all three remained without uttering a word.
Eleven o'clock struck, then twelve. At the moment when the last stroke resounded from the bronze bell, the noise of arms was heard on the spiral staircase ascending to the queen.
"They are relieving sentinels," said she; "they come for us."
She saw her sister and daughter turn very pale.
"Courage!" said she, trembling herself with emotion.
"It is noon," cried a voice from below. "Bring down the prisoners."
"We are here, gentlemen," replied the queen, who, with a sentiment almost of regret, took a parting glance at the black walls and the rude appurtenances which had been more or less the companions of her captivity.
The first wicket opened, they gained the corridor, which, being dark, enabled the three captives to conceal their emotions. Before them frolicked little Jet; but when they arrived at the second,—that is to say the door from which Marie Antoinette endeavored to turn her eyes,—the faithful little animal first placed his nose to the ground, then laid his head upon his paws, and gave utterance to a succession of plaintive cries which terminated in a prolonged howl.
The queen passed on quickly, not having strength sufficient to recall her dog, and supported herself against the wall.
After advancing a few steps, her limbs refused their office, and she felt herself compelled to stop. Her sister and daughter approached her, and for a few moments the three females remained motionless, forming a melancholy group, the mother resting her face upon the head of her daughter, when little Jet rejoined them.
"Well!" cried the voice, "is she coming down or not?"
"We are coming," said the municipal, who had remained standing, respecting the queen's grief, so great in its simplicity.
"Come," said the queen, and again continued to descend.
When the prisoners had reached the bottom of the winding stair opposite the last door, under which thesun shed his rays of bright gold, the rolling of the drum was heard summoning the guard; then a profound silence, the effect of curiosity, ensued, and the massive door opened, revolving slowly upon its creaking hinges.
A woman was seated on the ground, or rather on the corner of the stone contiguous to this door. It was the woman Tison, whom the queen had not seen for four and twenty hours, and whose absence at supper the preceding evening and at their morning's meal had excited her surprise.
The queen already saw the light, the trees, the garden, and beyond the barrier which enclosed the garden her eyes eagerly sought the little hut of the canteen, where her friends doubtless awaited her; when, at the sound of footsteps, the woman Tison removed her hands, and the queen beheld a pale and care-worn face beneath a mass of gray dishevelled locks.
The change wrought in these few hours was so great that the queen stood overwhelmed with astonishment.
Then, with the deliberation peculiar to those deficient in reason, the woman Tison knelt down before the door, impeding the passage of Marie Antoinette.
"What do you want, my good woman?" demanded the queen.
"He said it was necessary that you should pardon me."
"Who said so?" demanded the queen.
"The man in the mantle," replied the woman Tison.
The queen looked at Madame Elizabeth and her daughter, surprised at this appeal.
"Go along, go!" said the municipal; "let the Widow Capet pass; she has permission to walk in the garden."
"I know it," said the old woman; "that is why Icame to wait for her here, since they will not allow me to go up; and as I had to ask her forgiveness, I was obliged to wait for her coming out, to see her."
"But why then are you not permitted to go up?" demanded the queen.
The woman began to laugh.
"Because they pretend that I am mad," said she.
The queen looked at her and saw indeed that the wild eyes of the unhappy being reflected a strange light,—that vague light denoting aberration of intellect.
"Good Heaven!" said she. "Poor woman! what has happened to you?"
"Happened! Do you not know?" said the woman; "but if—You know very well, since it was on your account she was condemned."
"Who?"
"Héloïse."
"Your daughter?"
"Yes, she, my poor child!"
"Condemned! by whom; how; why?"
"Because she sold a bouquet."
"What bouquet?"
"A bouquet of carnations. She is not a flower-girl, though," continued the old woman, as if endeavoring to collect her thoughts; "then how could she sell the bouquet?"
The queen shuddered; an invisible link connected this scene with her present situation. She understood that the time must not be lost in useless conversation.
"My good woman," said she, "allow me to pass, I entreat you; you can tell me all this by-and-by."
"No, now; you must pardon me, and I must assist you to escape, that he may save my daughter."
The queen turned as pale as death.
"My God!" murmured she, raising her eyes to heaven, then turning toward the municipal,—
"Sir," said she, "have the kindness to remove this woman; you see that she is mad."
"Come, come, mother," said the municipal; "decamp!"
But the woman clung to the wall, still reiterating,—
"She must pardon me, that he may save my daughter."
"But who is he?"
"The man in the mantle."
"Sister," said Madame Elizabeth, "try to console her."
"Oh, willingly," said the queen; "I believe, indeed, that will be the shortest way;" then turning toward the mad woman,—
"What do you desire, good woman?" said she.
"I wish you to pardon me all the suffering I have caused you by my unjust behavior; all the accusations I have made against you; and trust that when you see the man in the mantle, you will command him to save my daughter; for he will do all that you desire."
"I do not know whom you mean by the man in the mantle," said the queen; "but if all that is necessary to your peace of mind is to obtain my pardon for the offences you imagine you have committed against me, I freely forgive you, my poor woman, from the depths of my heart, and trust only that any one I may have offended will as sincerely pardon me."
"Oh!" cried the woman Tison, with an indescribable accent of joy, "he will save my child, since you have forgiven me. Your hand, Madame! your hand—"
The queen astonished, and at a loss to comprehend the meaning, presented her hand to the woman, who seized it, and ardently pressed it to her lips.
At this moment the hoarse voice of a hawker was heard in the Rue de Temple.
"Here," cried he, "is the judgment and decree condemning Héloïse Tison to the penalty of death for the crime of conspiracy!"
Scarcely had these words reached the ears of the woman Tison, than rising from her knees, with an air of dogged resolution, she extended her arms to impede the passage of the queen.
"O God!" cried the queen, who had not lost one word of the hawker's terrible cry.
"Condemned to death!" cried the mother; "my child condemned!—my Héloïse lost! He has not then saved her, and now he cannot save her! Too late! too late!"