"At Versailles, the 13th February, 1788."I should always be well disposed, sir, to oblige persons who, like Monsieur de Léry, might have aroused my interest; butit is impossible for me to become the accuser of anybody whatsoever.Such a maxim is absolutely opposed to all my principlesand to the invariable law which I have made for myself and from which I cannot depart. It is the place of the Prince de Poix to examine the candidates who present themselves for admission to the Bodyguard; that duty is entirely foreign to me. Be convinced of all the regret I feel in being unable, in this case, to do what would be agreeable to you, and accept fresh assurances of the sincere attachment with which I have the honour to be, sir,"Your very humble and obedient servant,"The Count De Vaudreuil."
"At Versailles, the 13th February, 1788.
"I should always be well disposed, sir, to oblige persons who, like Monsieur de Léry, might have aroused my interest; butit is impossible for me to become the accuser of anybody whatsoever.Such a maxim is absolutely opposed to all my principlesand to the invariable law which I have made for myself and from which I cannot depart. It is the place of the Prince de Poix to examine the candidates who present themselves for admission to the Bodyguard; that duty is entirely foreign to me. Be convinced of all the regret I feel in being unable, in this case, to do what would be agreeable to you, and accept fresh assurances of the sincere attachment with which I have the honour to be, sir,
"Your very humble and obedient servant,"The Count De Vaudreuil."
A worse blow followed, in a brief newspaper account conveying word of the total defeat of the accusations.
Great movements, he heard, had been aroused among the highest circles of Court, in Lecour's favour; the Prince de Poix had proved a broken reed, while the Bodyguards of both companies had clamoured for their de Lincy. The Marquis vented his rage upon de Villerai behind his back, but after a few days concluded it advantageous to make no further references to the son of the cantineer.
Germain's first action was to rush to Versailles and clasp in his arms the love of his life. She, her eyes brimming with the happiness, faith, and trustfulness of a pure young girl, rejoiced in the vindication of her insulted knight.
News of another addition to his possessions arrived, while it brought a grief. Events had been too much for the Chevalier de Bailleul. He died in the latter part of the month of February, and a letter from the intendant of his estates informed Germain both of the sad event and at the same time that the veteran had bequeathed him Eaux Tranquilles and his fortune. The intendant, a local attorney named Populus, quoted the clauses of the will, and asked instructions from his new master.
A HARD SEASON
The first few days by Germain and Cyrène, after the death of de Bailleul, were spent in genuine sorrow. Their thoughts were recalled to those dear and delicious weeks at Fontainebleau, and they decided that Germain should revisit Eaux Tranquilles and prepare it for their bridal. Wishing to do so undisturbed by business he sent no word to his intendant, but set out on the journey mounted on a good horse, along the road by Bicêtre and Corbeil. It was the beginning of March, the end of a winter so severe as to have surpassed the memory of living men. The Seine had been frozen over from Havre to Paris for the first time since 1709; and, added to the horrors of famine arising from destruction of the last summer's harvest by hail, the icy fields and gleaming river now had a terrible aspect to the shivering poor; and even to him, Canadian though he was, accustomed to think of winter as a time of merriment, for he thought of the misery of the people.
Towards evening he was forced by a hail storm to stop at the inn of Grelot, a hamlet which adjoined the park of Eaux Tranquilles.
In the morning he was roused by voices in the village street, and saw by the sunlight pouring in at the window that the day was well up and the storm over. The number of voices, though not many, seemed to him unusual for such a somnolent place at Grelot, so that he rose, took up his clothing, which had been dried over night by the host and thrust in at the door at daybreak, partly dressed himself, sat down at the window and looked out from behind the shutters.
On the opposite side of the road he saw, sitting under a spreading oak on a bench, the persons who were talking. The long boughs of the tree were gnarled and leafless, but they overspread most of the little three-cornered space which constituted the village green, and the sun upon their interlacing surfaces cheerfully suggested the coming of spring. Three famished peasants sat on the bench. The bones protruded on their hollow faces, and their eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. They were all over fifty; one was much older, and leaned feebly on a cudgel. Their dress was mean and patched; their battered sabots stuffed with straw and wool. One was whittling with a curved knife. He was a sabot-maker.
"It is not possible to live this way," he protested. "People will not buy sabots nor bucket-yokes."
"They need food before sabots," remarked the old man.
"But I too must have food. Are we never to have good bread again? Three years ago we had good bread."
"This barley, half eaten away, produces more bran than flour," said the old man, trembling with weakness. "To make bread of it, my woman is obliged to work it over several times, and each time there seems so little left that she weeps. We must soon die."
"Yet there is always a fight for it at the wickets, when it is distributed," said the third man.
"And one must fight to keep his share. I go to the wickets with my big knife out," the sabot-maker added fiercely.
"And when one eats it, it gives him inflammation and pains," continued the old man. "I have seen many years of famine, but never so little bread, and that so hard and stinking."
"As for me I have found a secret," gravely said the third man, whose hollow countenance displayed an unnatural pallor. "Over in the Seigneur's park, above the little spring of water, there is a ledge of rock. Below that ledge there lies plenty of white clay. That clay is good to eat. You are hungry no more when you have taken breakfast of that."
"My God! is our parish reduced to eating earth?" exclaimed the oldest of the men. "What is to become of France? Heaven is against us."
"I came here before my children woke, because it pierces my heart to listen to their crying," the sabot-maker said dejectedly.
"Yet everybody knows there is so much good grain in the barns of the new Seigneur," the earth-eater said in a whining voice.
"While Monsieur the Chevalier lived none starved, at least," the old man said, his head bowed in despair upon the top of his staff. "What is to become of us now?"
"It is the fault of the bad people about our King," remarked the earth-eater.
Every syllable sank into Germain's heart, forhewas the new Seigneur.
A loud clattering sound as of some person running rapidly up the street arrested the conversation of the trio. A countryman, a clumsy, frowsy fellow, in a terrible fright, stopped under Germain's window out of breath and turned at bay on his pursuer. The pursuer, likewise out of breath, was also clumsy, but rather from stoutness than stupidity; he was a short man of about forty, and his dress was that of one in the lower ranks of the law. Everybody in the place ran out of doors to see what the race was about.
"Monsieur Pioche—I—only—want—your—vote," the Attorney panted, closing up with his victim.
"Let me go, Master Populus," the peasant cried, clasping his hands and falling on his knees. "Faith of God! I can swear that I have none of that. I never saw one, I assure you, Monsieur. Search my person and see if you find one of those things. No, Monsieur Populus, I am only a poor little bit of a cottager, I have never broken the laws in my life. I assure you I have no such thing on me. I never saw one, Monsieur."
"My good Pioche—MonsieurPioche, citizen of the bailiwick of Grelot—do not go on your knees to one whose only aim is to be the servant of our citizens."
A suspicious, defensive look was the only expression on the rustic's face as he rose and peered furtively round to calculate his chances of escape. A little crowd was meanwhile closing up.
"Know, sir," continued Populus, "that the King, in the plentitude of his goodness, has learned of the misery of his people and desires to hear their grievances and set them right. He has ordained that the grievances of Grelot be set forth for him in due form, and I undertake, sir, to act in this operation as the humble mouthpiece of my native place. More particularly his Majesty decrees that the august people do declare its will upon the formation of a constitution and other grave matters, by appointing representatives of the Third Estate to the Assembly of the Estates-General."
"I don't understand anything about all that."
"My dear Monsieur Pioche, that does not matter in the slightest. It is the best of reasons why you should appoint me your representative."
"I do not understand," the rustic persisted stolidly.
"Mon Dieu!Monsieur Pioche," Master Populus continued, "it is very simple; promise me your vote. See what I can do for you. You pay the Seigneur twenty-six livres annual feudal rent of your holding."
"No, twenty-seven."
"Well, say twenty-seven. Now I am the intendant of this new young fool of a Seigneur, who is away all the time at Versailles. I have the sole control. Let us strike a bargain. Give me your vote and I will quietly let you off ten livres of rental. If I wish, I can find some reason for reporting you at seventeen."
Pioche's eyes assumed an uncertain light of cunning and greed.
"Don't do it, Pioche," cried a one-eyed cobbler. "Notary Mule offers to abolish all these Seigneur's rights if we electhimto the States-General."
"Shut up, you tan-smelling bow-legs!" the enraged Populus retorted at a shout. "Who is this Mule, that he should represent the majesty of the bailiwick of Grelot? A cur whose very name is enough to relegate him to limbo; whose deeds are atrocities in ink, whose——"
"Nevertheless he is going to lift our dues. Master Mule is the people's man," the cobbler returned valiantly.
"What, Mule!" cried Populus with still greater scorn. "Where has he the power? Am I not the intendant? Is it not I who alone control the dues in my own person? Yes, gentlemen, who will deny that I hold, so to speak, the keys of heaven and earth in Grelot, and whom I bind shall be bound and whom I loose shall be loosed, notwithstanding the impotent cajolery of all the long-eared Mules in the kingdom?"
The whole population of the village were by this time gaping around him.
"What, you clapper-jawed thief," a voice thundered from behind, "you venture to malign my name—the honourable appellation of a respectable family! Know, sir, that I spit upon you, I strike you, I say bah to your face!"
Maître Mule was a little round-faced man, forced by his physical inferiority to Populus to take out his valour by word of mouth.
The two went at it with recriminations, from which Germain learnt much of his own affairs. The noise of the pair shouting and threatening to fight together, and the riotous cries of the crowd, "No dues!" "Notary, give us bread!" grew at length so great that the innkeeper rushed out exclaiming, "Peace, Messieurs, peace. I have a gentleman from Paris sleeping upstairs. See, there is the baker's shop just open."
The word "baker" operated better than magic. The rioters rushed over to the wicket, which was fixed in the door of the shop, and fought and snarled with each other for their slender purchases of the bread of famine.
Such were the daily incidents which were leading men on to revolution.
BACK AT EAUX TRANQUILLES
Wrapping his cloak closely round him and lowering his hat to prevent recognition he mounted his horse in the courtyard of the inn and rode on.
He might have taken a path directly through his own park to the château, but he preferred the highway to Fontainebleau, and, passing the gates of Eaux Tranquilles, entered the great forest.
With what emotions did not the sight of that neighbourhood thrill him. He slacked rein to a walk, rode thoughtfully through the bare but smiling woods and picturesque openings, and stopped with deep feeling at the spring where he first met the generous benefactor of his life. It was now sparkling like crystal—its basin fringed with ice. Tears rose in his eyes and fell freely as he brought his steed into the same position as when the Chevalier had first addressed him, and he eagerly strained his sorrowful imagination to discern again the kindly features of the old man's face and look into his eyes once more.
"I was unworthy of you, my benefactor," he exclaimed. "Oh, may some path out of my misdoings be yet found which will satisfy your stainless standard!" Turning back he retraced his route and entered Eaux Tranquilles.
image: MARIE ANTOINETTE D'AUTRICHEMARIE ANTOINETTE D'AUTRICHEReine de France1755-1793
The gardens were deserted. He tied his horse to a seat and walked about. Amidst his emotions and reminiscences the beauty of the place, even in its wintry garb, gradually introduced into his thoughts a subdued, scarcely conscious strain of delight in its ownership. He came at last to the château, stood before it, and looked contemplatively along its façade. It was almost too grand to seem by any possibility his, yet in very truth he was lord of Eaux Tranquilles and all its manors.
Sounds of unseemly revelry within fell upon his ear. He listened a moment, and then stepping up to the great door struck the knocker. The butler himself opened. He was half drunk, and as he was a man who had been engaged from Paris since Germain's visit he did not know the latter.
"What do you want, disturbing gentlemen's diversions?" he exclaimed insolently. "Who told you to come to this estate?"
"Its master."
"You lie. Do you want me to set the dogs on you?"
"You will neither set the dogs on me nor tell me I lie," Germain said quietly, and stepped past him into the hall.
"What do you say?" the butler shouted, foaming at the mouth and trying to seize Germain, who foiled him by drawing his sword. "Jacques! Jovite! Constant! 'Lexandre! here; put acanaillepig out who defies me!"
The door of an adjoining chamber opened, showing a table covered with glasses and bottles of choice wines, and three or four footmen in disordered liveries rushed out with some of the bottles and glasses in their hands. At the sight of Germain's face one after another stood stock still and fell upon his knees.
The butler swore savagely. He saw what had happened.
"Who is this man?" asked Germain severely of the footmen.
"Cliquet, the butler, Monsieur," stammered Constant, the oldest. "He was not here when your lordship was."
"Take him out of the gates," replied the new master, "and send for my intendant."
Not long after Master Populus entered his presence, bowing and scraping, with a dozen smiles at once on his face.
"So you are the intendant?" said Germain.
"I have the honour, Monsieur le Chevalier—the greatest honour in seven parishes, Monsieur."
"Be good enough to pardon me—you have no honour at all, sir.'
"How? what?" gasped Populus.
"None whatever. You are a rascal; but as long as I can make you behave yourself you shall remain intendant. You misrepresent my rent-rolls."
"Not at all——"
"Listen to me. You bargain away my dues with mycensitaires."
"Nev——"
"You permit my butlers to drink out of my wine cellars. I warrant you have the pick of them at your own table."
The Attorney did not know whether he was standing on his head or his heels, for the hit was correct.
"Finally," Germain went on deliberately, "you 'hold the keys of heaven and earth in Grelot,' and snap your fingers at 'this new young fool of a Seigneur who is away all the time at Versailles.'"
Master Populus seemed powerless to move or speak as he stood fiery-faced in the middle of the floor, looking despairingly at Germain, who was seated, very coolly glancing him over.
"Well, Master Populus, what do you think?" he proceeded, smiling, after, pausing a moment. "Do you wish to continue the holding of the keys of heaven and earth? If so you must do it onmyterms. Andmyterms are these—no more lying, no more false accounts, no more stealing from my poor, no more liberties taken with the property and people in your charge. Do you agree?"
The boldness of the opponent of Master Mule had evaporated. Two meek and scarcely whispered words alone left his lips—
"Yes, sir."
"Another thing. Are you willing to choose my intendancy at a fair profit rather than election to the States-General and glory?"
A white wave passed over Populus' countenance. At length, however, he again whispered—
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, Monsieur Intendant, we can proceed to business. How much grain have I in the granaries? I have the books here."
"About four thousand bushels of wheat."
"In the book are entered two thousand."
"That is my mistake, sir."
"And of barley how much?"
"Seven thousand."
"You entered it four here. Another mistake, no doubt. See that there are no such mistakes in future. My instructions to you then, Monsieur Intendant, are to take the whole of this wheat and distribute it among our starving people under the instructions of the parish priests. Superintend this at once."
SELF-DEFENCE
Dominique made an incomparable butler. It boots not to tell how, under his military sway, the servants seemed almost to acquire the new Prussian drill; the stores and cellars were listed with the system of a commissariat, dust disappeared like magic from gildings and parquetry, and order and state surrounded "the young Chevalier" in all his movements.
But above all the newmaître d'hôtelenergetically carried out the immediate wish of his master, and soon everything was ready for an event to which Germain was looking forward with supreme delight—the coming of Cyrène to see her future home. The day arrived. The Canoness accompanied her. The ecstasy of the lovers as they clasped each other in the place of their first meeting may be left unwritten. Very often was the Canoness constrained to absorb herself in her little illuminated prayer-book.
Eight or nine days after the event, the time arrived when it was customary at Eaux Tranquilles for the tenants to pay their feudal dues, and Germain was alone in the office of the château, looking over the ancient titles of de Bailleul's inheritances, preparatory to receiving the "faith and homage" of his subjects.
"I must go no farther," he was saying to himself. "She must not marry me without knowing everything. The time has come for confession, and I must spare myself in nothing. What will she think of me when she knows how false I have been?"
At that point Dominique stepped in gravely and shut the door.
"They are at some mischief in Grelot," he said.
"Against me?"
"It looks that way."
"How? I saw nothing of it yesterday."
The day before being Sunday, Germain had gone over alone in his coach to attend High Mass in the parish church. The people standing about the front doors greeted him respectfully, and he passed up the aisle and took his seat in his raised and curtained pew. The priest, as was customary, had named him in the prayers as patron of the church, he was the first to be passed the blessed bread, and the congregation even received with subdued approbation a warm reference in the sermon to his distribution of wheat to the poor. His leaving was treated in as respectful a manner. How then, one day later, could the Grelotins be at mischief against him?
"It was that Mule and that trash of a Cliquet. They were haranguing the people after Mass—something about a thing Mule calls the Third Estate. Nobody knows what it is—but everybody thinks it belongs to himself and that the aristocrats want to take it from him. So everybody got into a rage against the aristocrats (save your honour), and Mule brought them over to the tavern hall, ordered everybody's fill of brandy, and read out something from the King. He told them the King was on their side, and for all to tell out their complaints against the Seigneur. So everybody began to think if he had complaints, and Master Mule wrote them into a copybook. When Mule read it out, the people groaned and cried that they never knew they had had so many miseries. Cliquet shouted that you were the cause of all these miseries; that you had grain while the peasants were starving, and that they ought to drive you out of the country and then would all be well."
They were startled by a musket-shot so near the house that Dominique hastened to the window to look. Germain sprang up too. The office faced at the rear, close to the old château and lake.
A rough fellow with a gun was coolly standing near the great dovecot and shooting at the pigeons. Dominique threw open the window and shouted. The answer was a gesture of derision.
Germain rang furiously for the lackeys. For answer Jovite and 'Lexandre ran up, pale, and out of their wits, reporting that "the brigands" were invading the front of the house.
"Go and find what is the matter, Dominique," Lecour said, and sprang up to seek for Cyrène, but checking himself, crossed the corridor and went to a front window.
He saw a multitude trooping down the gardens from the gates and walls, over which in the distance he could descry them swarming, and forming a sort of semicircle around the entrance door. The vanguard were led by a drum and a violin. The expressions on the faces of the men were wild and haggard, most wore greasy bonnets of wool, some huge wooden shoes, some hobnailed ones, and over their shoulders or in their hands protruded their weapons—pitchforks, scythes, flails, knives, clubs, and rusty guns. All must have been several thousand, collected from every hamlet in his territory. They seemed like a legion of some spectre army of Hunger and Ignorance. In the commander Germain recognised his discharged butler.
The Canoness he descried escaping, unseen by them, with the aid of a gardener, across the pond into the park. He withdrew from the window and fled quickly towards the chamber of Cyrène. She likewise was seeking him, and in a passage they rushed into each other's arms.
"Where is the Canoness?" she exclaimed.
"She is gone, she was warned," he said. "You know there is danger, love?"
"I see it," she answered.
"Come," he urged her, "the office is strong, we may have to defend ourselves."
Thither, therefore, they returned and anxiously awaited Dominique, each fearful of the safety of the other. For the moment the protection of the house had to be trusted wholly to the Auvergnat.
Dominique was absent about fifteen minutes, during which Germain could hear the servants barring the doors, and voices surrounding the house in all directions. The valet returned and related his observations. After making the doors fast and collecting the female servants in the hall, he had carefully looked out of the wicket of the grand entrance, and seeing no one approaching, opened, and going out to the head of the steps, inquired of the mob their errand. He was met by a hurly-burly of cries.
"Long live Liberty! Long live the King! Death to the aristocrats! Long live the nation!"
"What do you seek of Monsieur le Chevalier?"
"His head!" cried Cliquet.
"Bread, bread!" shouted the sabot-maker.
But two others came forward and more rightly interpreted the chief and quaint demand of the ignorant peasants. They demanded all his parchments and title-deeds to burn; "for," said they sententiously, "we shall then be freed of rents and dues, which are now abolished by the King." Some of the bolder rioters had even started a fire to burn the documents.
"And if he does not give them up?"
"We must cut off his head and burn down his château. We are sorry, but it is the King's order."
Dominique, in reporting, made no suggestions; instead, he waited for instructions. Lecour thought a moment. He came to the conclusion to try severity. "Tell them," said he, "that unless they are quiet I will make parchments of their skins."
Cyrène caught his arm, but the answer had already gone.
Dominique dropped therôleof butler for his old ones of soldier. He saluted, and marched down to deliver the message. A hush was heard for a few moments, then the entrance door slammed, and an instant after all the windows in the mansion seemed to shatter simultaneously before a tremendous volley of musketry and stones. Every wall and casement shook with the shouts and racketing sounds of a fierce and general attack.
Germain and Cyrène shuddered. The noise awoke them to the seriousness of the situation. It brought them face to face with that terrible storm whose thunderclouds were now thickly darkening over France—the death-dealing typhoon of the Revolution. A proud thought came into his head. "My time is come. I shall die defending her."
"Do you and all the servants save yourselves," he said to Dominique. And he took two pistols from the drawer and laid them on the table, looking into Cyrène's eyes.
"No, my master," Dominique returned, "if you die, I will die with you. I know my duty. But let us at least defend ourselves well."
"See that the others escape, and especially the women. It is not right for them, who are from the country here, to be embroiled with their relatives. Tell them on no account to open the outer doors, or they run the risk of massacre, but to make terms through their friends in the mob."
It was only a question of minutes when the besiegers should succeed in breaking a door or scaling the walls to the windows and making their entrance. From the office windows they could see a score of those in the rear running forward across the grounds with a ladder which they had secured in the stables. Passing again to the front of the house, Lecour saw the mob angrily tearing up garden benches and summerhouses for the same purpose. An active crowd besides, under the urging of Cliquet, was battering the main door with a beam. The fire, lit for his parchments was blazing merrily, and a man with a shock of matted hair, by a sudden impulse snatched a long brand and raised the cry of "Burn him up!" Others sprang forward to do the same, and fought for the blazing pieces, but Cliquet bounded down the steps and knocked the matted-hair man down.
"Curse you!" he shouted. "You will spoil the whole business. You don't know how many good things are in there for us."
Dominique returned from the servants. "They are well arranged for," said he.
Cyrène tremblingly caught Germain's arm, excited with a new idea. "To the old château! not a moment to lose!" she cried, and seizing Lecour by the arm hurried him into the passage which communicated between the new mansion on land and the ancient one in the lake, while Dominique followed. Half-way across was a decayed wooden door, which once had done duty as a gate behind the portcullis. They shut and bolted this with all speed, and then turned to look round them. The crash of the main door falling and the shout of the mob which followed, penetrated to their retreat.
"We have plenty of powder and pistols," Dominique exclaimed; "there is the armoury just at our backs."
The armoury, in truth, was close at hand and in it an ample selection of old-fashioned weapons.
"Let us place this to command the passage," Germain said, touching a bronze cannon, after they had taken some pistols and powder.
"Very good, my General," Dominique assented excitedly, and pushing the rusty trunnion they got it into position. It was an ornate affair, which had been for centuries discharged by the de Bailleuls on the birthdays of the family. Cyrène had the good judgment to remain in the armoury.
It was several hours before they were discovered. The reason, as they concluded by listening at the door in the passage, was the exploring of the wine-cellars by the besiegers, under the guidance of Cliquet. Blows, shouts, and crashes indicated numerous acts of destruction. Inevitably, however, they were at last found out by Cliquet himself, who could not forego the delights of revenge. He came to the wooden door.
"Baptism, dame, I have you now, you cursed young white-gill!" cried he. "Break it in, my boys, smash, hack. We'll roasthimin place of his parchments—the man who will make parchments of our skins."
Lecour ran back to take a moment's glance at Cyrène. She was kneeling at prayer. He withdrew, grasped his pistols with renewed determination, and stood at his post.
Lecour and Dominique were quite ready—the latter with his fuse, the former with a pistol in each outstretched hand and the need of saving Cyrène in his fast-beating heart. They were disciplined soldiers, the mob was not. No sooner had the door fallen in and the crowd of attackers rushed into the passage, than the roar of the cannon was heard, its flame was seen, a cloud of sulphurous smoke thickly filled the passage, and a mass of mutilated and shrieking creatures covered the floor. A terrible sorrow for his suffering tenants surged over Germain. A dreadful silence fell upon the rest of the house, followed by mingled sounds of confusion in the distance, and soon the main multitude itself appeared, pressing forward towards the passage.
Lecour, with his pistols undischarged, again stood immovably covering Dominique, as he deliberately and rapidly reloaded, and once more while the crowd still pressed on a torrent of shrapnel poured into them, sickening all finally of the attempt.
The two army men thus remained temporary masters of the situation, but they knew that the advantage could not serve them long.
As for Cyrène she was weak with the shock, but insisted on making no complaints. He watched her anxiously and tenderly until she seemed somewhat recovered, but it was evident by her trembling limbs that a grave illness was but briefly postponed. The groans which came from the passage caused her to make several attempts to go to the sufferers, and she had to be gently restrained and removed by them to another part of the castle.
As dusk fell the two defenders moved cautiously forward among the horrors of the dead and dying, and once more rudely fastened up the door. It became clear that they must attempt an escape, for with the dark came fresh dangers.
Dominique remained on guard, while Lecour, taking a candle, went through the old castle, making a rapid survey. The night was clear and cold, the moon had not yet risen, and the darkness was sufficient to favour them. He selected a window for the attempt. Then, reckless of treasures, he cut down some of the old tapestries which lined the chambers, and slit off enough to twist into a rope. This would bring them to the level of the water, now thinly covered with ice.
"But will the ice bear us?"
"No, Monsieur, I started across this morning and it broke."
"Of what nature is it?"
"Soft, and bends, and your foot sinks through it."
"Very well, we can cross it."
He hurried back to one of the chambers where there were some of the de Bailleul portraits hanging, pulled them down with his own hands, and tore the frames of several apart. Their sides he attached as cross-bars to others, by means of strings ravelled from the canvas of the tapestries. The result was a makeshift for snowshoes. With these they escaped across the ice to the park, unnoticed by their enemies, who, by the lights in every part of the mansion, they could see were active and uproarious.
When at last, arriving at the gate of a château miles onward toward Paris they looked back they saw an immense blaze in the distance, and the heavens aglare from east to west with the conflagration. But the saving of Cyrène made up in Germain's heart for the loss of his mansion, and he felt as if by that as he had taken a step towards redemption.
THE NECESSITIES OF CONDITION
All through the long illness of Cyrène, which followed the revolt at Eaux Tranquilles, and especially after her first grief for the misguided men who had fallen in the corridor, her heart dwelt with great intensity on the destruction of her hope of a home. She recurred to it again and again in her conversations with him, until he ventured to mention to her the offer once made to him by Liancourt of the position of Commandant of the cadet school on his estates.
"Could you retire thither," said he, looking into her eyes with emotion, "away for ever from your friends, away from your rank, from the Court, and all that is so brilliant and belongs to you, to live your life along with a man of humble birth wholly unworthy of you? You speak of a quiet hearth and of abandonment of the world, but could you make a sacrifice so great as this?"
"Germain, love, do you not know me yet?" she answered, returning him a look of affection which profoundly troubled him. He knelt and kissed her hand in silence. "Is not love life itself?" she said, rising with difficulty from her arm-chair. "Let us go without delay and obtain permission," and, taking his hand, led him with steps slow and pitiably uncertain into the presence of the Maréchale.
Madame was seated alone, mumbling to the count of her rosary, but on their appearance dropped it in her lap and resumed her usual bearing of dignity.
"Grand-aunt," began the Baroness, "we have a great boon to ask of you."
"What is it, Baroness?" she said.
"Grand-aunt," Cyrène repeated falteringly, "have you ever known what it is to love?"
The question astonished Madame l'Etiquette. For a moment it seemed as if a slight mounting of the blood to her wrinkled cheeks was visible. In the next her features resumed their stiffness, and she answered, "Tush! that is the business of citizenesses."
"You too have had your dream; I have heard of it," Cyrène persisted. "Women are women, whatever their sphere."
"Say illusion, perhaps, not dream; but the subject must cease. What do you want of me after this verymalàpropospreface?"
"I ask you to consent to our immediate marriage," Cyrène said with desperate directness, and tremblingly taking the chair which Germain proffered, sat down with white face, watching Madame de Noailles anxiously.
The latter did not reply.
"Grand-aunt," pled the young woman, "you have felt like us in your day, the longing for a home, a sweet refuge from the wretchedness of life. You had a lover to make you feel how sweet it might have been."
"Get these silly ideas out of your head," responded Madame l'Etiquette, ignoring Lecour, but speaking in a not unkindly manner. "Your rank demands anestablishment, not a home. Monsieur understands that his position and yours are very different, and that two things at least are necessary in order to make your marriage possible—his standing as a Bodyguard, and a complete establishment. The riotous condition of his province makes the latter very dubious. You understand this, Monsieur de Lincy?"
"It must be admitted, Madame la Maréchale," Lecour said sorrowfully.
"You have some sense, I observe."
"But I can live without an establishment. A position is open to Germain in the provinces as Commandant of a school," Cyrène exclaimed.
Madame uttered an exclamation so energetic, and she rose so fiercely from her chair that Cyrène stopped in dismay.
"Saints of heaven!" went on the Maréchale, "is the family on the brink of a catastrophe? Can the Noailles, the Court, and the Crown afford to allow a Montmorency to annihilate herself? How dare you, forgetful of your relatives, your position, your descent from a hundred kings, advance such a proposal to the Chief Lady of Honour. I am something, Madame, and I intend to be considered, and to see that your family shall be considered. A pretty idea this, of rustic innocence and rural retirement, of straw bonnets and shepherding, of the new school to which you belong and who are the enemies of everything permanent. You are destroying customs to make way for theories, manners for boon comradeship, chivalry for finance, elegance for vulgarity, religion for atheism, and character for sentiment. You are to blame for all the present disorders, and such as you have brought about the burning of your own château. No, Madame, I will not permit the marriage. How dare you propose it to her, sir?"
Lecour said nothing. He could not.
Cyrène continued bravely.
"The matter is of the deepest concern—of infinite importance to us."
"I have decided it. I am the guardian of your future, and I intend to remain so."
"You are the lady head of the family and guardian of my future under the will of my father, but let me say without disrespect that I am a widow, and legally control my own right to dispose of my hand."
"You think you could disobey me? I could easily see to that. The King would refuse to sign the contract of marriage, and there my power would only begin."
"You cannot prevent us from at least marrying. The humblest French peasants have a right to that without any royal signature."
"Yes I can, and I will show you the power of the old school!" cried the dame, straightening herself with an inconceivable triumph and shaking out the folds of her brocade. "Monsieur de Lincy here knows well that I am right in preventing you from sacrificing your position. I call uponhis honour as a noblenot to allow this disgrace to fall upon you. I call upon it to sustain the head of your house. I call upon it to reverence the wish of the dead and the will of the King. You admit me right and just, Monsieur de Lincy? I call upon your honour as a noble. Answer me."
"There is but one way of replying," he returned slowly; and Cyrène in her very anguish showed her pride in his response to the fatal appeal to his honour.
"Well, then," Madame cried, partaking in that pride and changing her manner to one of much kindliness, "you have done well and are good children. Believe that my strictness shall endure no longer than is necessary. It is true that in the name of order I forbid your marriage, but I consent to your remaining affianced until these troubles of our country pass away or Monsieur obtains some establishment, no matter how small, if sufficient, and even though that should take as long as your lives may last. Kneel and receive an old woman's blessing."
With what disappointed and mingled feelings they knelt before her and bowed to the conquest of nature by the OldRégime.
THE PATRIOTS
At midnight the full moon, silver-gilt, touched the house-fronts of the Street of the Hanged Man. They lit the figure and slouched hat of Jude, who, carrying a package, slunk up to the door of the Gougeon shop and was admitted. The Big Bench were in session. The light of the tallow-dip seemed to concentrate itself on the wicked smile of the Admiral as he watched Jude opening the packages.
"Do you know who sent this, gentlemen?" the spy cried, enjoying the importance of being the bearer of some surprise.
"We are not gentlemen, and we do not know," retorted Hache.
"It was a high personage, rowers—no less a personage than a prince—a royal prince."
"What haveweto do with princes?"
"With the Duke of Orleans, much; rival to the throne, he is the friend of the people."
"Ah, yes, the friend of the people, and he wants us for something. That is a good contract," the Admiral interrupted. "Whose windpipe does he want to cut, and what does he promise to pay for it?"
"Nothing so risky; only some shouting, and as for the pay, here, Admiral, is the nose of the dog," and he handed him a full bag of coin.
The Admiral tore it open, and exhibited the metal to his greedy-eyed subordinates. Hache grabbed at a couple of the coins, and joyfully flipped them up to the ceiling.
"Now what does our friend the Duke of Orleans want? Ourfriendthe Duke of Orleans,gentlemen," the Admiral added, smiling ironically.
"To wear these badges and shout for him," replied Jude, displaying the contents of his parcel, a couple of dozen red woollen tuques.
"No objection," the Admiral answered; "no objection in the world, but what is the object?"
"Well, Monsieur Admiral——"
"Shut up with your 'Monsieurs', spy," called Hache. "Do you want us hunted for aristocrats?"
"Well, Citizen Admiral then, you know how things have been going since last spring. In May there was the holding of States-General; in June the National Assembly confront the nobles and swear never to disperse; in July the Court menaces to suppress the Parisians by the army; on the eleventh the people slaughtered by the Dragoons; on the fourteenth——"
"The Bastille taken—I was there."
Exultation lit the ring of faces.
"Ragmen, we have had good times since the 14th of July," said the Admiral. "It is now becoming our turn. I always told you it was coming, but I am going to give you better still. You are going to learn to love the sight of red blood better than red wine."
"The aristocrats," Jude continued, "have been skipping over the frontiers; the people starving and rising to their rights; we hung Councillor Foulon to the lantern——"
"And put grass in his mouth, the old animal!" exclaimed Wife Gougeon with vicious hate.
"The King——" proceeded Jude.
"The Big Hog," shouted a Councillor savagely.
"The Big Hog, then, has had his bristles singed with all this: the people despise him. Orleans is the people's favourite. What if the Galley-on-Land should put Orleans on the throne?"
"Good!" cried the Admiral.
The Big Bench broke into excited comment.
"Citizen Jude is admirable." Their leader went on, "Nothing could be more acceptable than the money of a friend to the people. I tell you, ragmen, our time has come. There is nothing we cannot try."
"Let us garrott every gendarme."
"They keep well out of our way now, at least when single," another boasted.
"We don't loot enough houses," a third grumbled. "What is the good of belonging to the nation?"
"It is the sacred right of the citizen to oppress the oppressor," chimed Jude.
"Ragmen, you don't know what I mean," vociferated the Admiral sharply. "We are to be the great men—the Government. I have seen this ever since our sack of Reveillon's paper-factory. Everything belongs to the boldest. You will yet see our Big Bench legislators of Paris and me a Minister of France."
"Bravo; bravo the Admiral!"
The man who last entered, the Versailles beggar, now came to the centre.
"Listen, friends. You know that what I learn at Versailles is worth something to the Galley-on-Land."
"Invariably," said the Admiral.
"The Big Sow, you know, she they call Madame Veto, has been cursedly working to keep the Big Hog with the cursed hogs. The people are afraid of more Dragoons, and are crying, 'The King to Paris!' Well, now, this is the third of October. Yesterday afternoon the Bodyguard, as they call them—all fat hogs, mark you—gave a dinner in the theatre to the Flemish Dragoons. They were so glad to have Flemings to sabre Paris that the Big Sow came in, and they all spat on the people's cockade, and put on the White Hog colour, and also a black one, and vowed they were cocksure of shutting us up. They brought in the Big Hog from his hunting, and he is in the mess, too. At the end they all followed Madame Veto home, shouting everything to vex us patriots.Iam apatriot," he added winking. "It is an outrage on the nation. We must go to Versailles. We must bring the Big Hog into our bosoms, away from the Bad Hogs. Do you see?"
"I am in it," cried Hache.
"An incomparable scheme," said the Admiral. "Brave Greencaps, don't you see before you all the swag in the great château of Versailles? My God! it is a pretty scheme—a scheme worthy of a Galley-on-Land."
Even Gougeon seemed to be waked up, and fixed his greedy black eyes on Motte.
"Citizens," the Admiral continued, addressing Wife Gougeon. "This is better begun by the women. This morning you will go the Fish-market and stir the fishwomen up. You must learn the lingo of patriotess. Scream hard that 'The nation is in danger!' 'Down with the enemies of the republic!' Talk of 'the excellent citizen,' 'the true patriots,' 'the goodsans-culottes.' Be 'filled with sacred vigour' against 'the vile aristocrats.' We 'work for liberty,' we 'bear the nation in our hearts,' and 'fulfil a civic duty.' 'Against traitors, perpetual distrust is the weapon of good citizens,' and 'away with the prejudices of feudalism!' You can pick up carts-full of the lingo at the Palais Royal."
"I don't understand that bosh," blurted Hache.
"You learn it in two instants, Hache."
"Wait till I tell you another thing, Admiral," Motte interposed. "There are now twenty thousand ragmen from the provinces encamped on the hills of Montmartre, fit for everything good. I have been through them, and when a St. Marcellese holds his nose, you may fancy. Man never saw such a choice crowd of breechesless. Getthemstarted and go to the women to-morrow."
"To-morrow, then, let it be. The cries are to be 'Bread' and 'The King to Paris,' the fishwomen to lead; the Big Bench sign to be the red wool of 'our Friend Orleans'; then sack the bakers; then the Hôtel de Ville; then the château of Versailles; and death to every black or white cockade."
THE DEFENCE OF THE BODYGUARD
Word passed about at the stately teaà l'Anglaiseof the Princess de Poix that there was danger at the Palace.
"Germain, my knight," whispered Cyrène at the harpsichord, the bright tears in her eyes, "I must not keep you now. Go to the Queen. It is for times of peril that descendants of chivalry were born."
Tenderly kissing her hand and saying adieu, Lecour drove to the Palace and reported for service.
The great Hall of the Guards in the centre of the Palace faces the top of the Marble Staircase. To the left a landing leads to the Hall of the King's Guards and thence, to the apartment of the King; to the right another to the Hall of the Queen's Guards and the chambers of Marie Antoinette.
The Marble Staircase was approached by the Court of Marble, the smallest and innermost courtyard of the vast château, looked out upon by the royal apartments and paved with white marble. The exit from this was to the Royal Court, whence through a grating to the Court of the Ministers, and thence through the outer grating by the entrance gate to the Place d'Armes.
Though the season was yet early in October, it was as gloomy and forbidding a night as one in the worst of November. The darkness and chill were aggravated by a wearisome drizzle. They were further aggravated by the discomforts of an anxious situation. About fifty Bodyguards, lying and sitting under arms in the Hall, were trying to spend the night, or rather the early hours before dawn, entertaining each other. They were mainly of the command of the Count de Guiche, then in its turn of service, but a number among them wore cross-belts of other companies, for the need had been pressing, and all within reach had been hastily summoned. The reason for anxiety was a great invasion of women from Paris on the afternoon of the previous day headed by "a conqueror of the Bastille." A deputation of twelve of these women were led to the King, who satisfied and pleased them by his kindness, but the rest of the crowd, brandishing knives through the railing, accused these of treachery and tried to hang them. Outside the Palace on the Place d'Armes the numbers were increased by horde after horde of men marching from the slums of Paris, armed with pikes, muskets, and hatchets, and full of drink. After dark many had filled the streets, knocking at the houses demanding food and money, and terrifying the town. The sentinels, the Bodyguards, and the Flemish regiment had with difficulty rescued the women of the deputation, kept the gates and held the mob at bay. They were jeered at and even fired on, whereat one or two of the Bodyguards had fired back. The filthy furies, drunken and degraded to an extent of degradation almost unknown to-day, were especially foul-mouthed regarding the poor Queen. As for Wife Gougeon, she had stood out on the very floor of the Assembly, flourished her dagger and screamed "Where can I find the Austrian?"
At length rain and night brought a certain cessation, and with them hopes rose. The troops were withdrawn at eight. The main portion of the Bodyguard were sent to Rambouillet in the vicinity, as they seemed to excite antagonism among some companies of the National Guard or militia of Versailles. About twelve in the evening, General Lafayette, of American fame, came up at the head of the militia of Paris and took command of the external defences of the château.
The mob were still, however, permitted to camp out on the Place d'Armes.
"What are they doing now?" a tired officer of the Bodyguards asked of another, who had come in and was giving his dripping cloak to one of the King's lackeys.
"They are mostly asleep, on the Place. It is all over hillocks of rags."
"In the rain?"
"So it seems; it does not wet that sort."
"They must be hungry."
"Not at all. They have each his or her bottle of drink; besides, they roasted and ate our comrade's horse that they shot by the light of their bonfire. It was looking on at a cannibal's feast to see them dancing round it, men and women."
"More so had it been an ass's carcase, perhaps."
"Say a wolf's. If there is a breed of human wolves, I have had it proved to me to-night. The difference between these and the kind in the Menagerie is that it is we who are within the bars."
"You need not offer the breed as a novelty; I saw plenty of them at Eaux Tranquilles."
The speakers were Grancey and Germain. The Baron's face was full of indignation; Lecour's of platonic contempt.
The door of the Hall of the King's Guards opened, and the sentinels saluted for a Duke, while the Prince of Luxembourg entered. The Guards who were awake aroused their comrades. All sprang to their arms and saluted.
"Gentlemen," said the Prince, "you will be glad to know that his Majesty has such trust in your faithfulness that he is sleeping as quietly as usual."
A shout of "Vive le Roi!" arose.
The Prince withdrew. From the opposite door—that of the Hall of the Queen, now came out Monsieur d'Aguesseau, Mayor of the Guard, who was making the disposition of sentries.
The contingent, who were still standing, turned to him with looks of anxiety, and Lecour, as spokesman for the rest, said respectfully—
"How sleeps the Queen?"
"Her Majesty, alas! does not sleep. She starts up continually, haunted by the foul insults of yesterday and the immense unmerited hatred of the people of France. What a load for a woman to bear!"
The cry of "Vive la Reine!" which had been ready went forth only as a low murmur.
"Gentlemen," said d'Aguesseau, "our duty may be grave before long. General Lafayette has, it is true, assumed the external defence of the Palace with the National Guard of Paris. At the same time, we must remember that that Guard are now scattered among the churches of the town and fast asleep, while the invaders are a countless multitude at our doors, and we but a handful. On us depend, as on a thread, the lives of our King and Queen and of all these helpless persons of the household. Remember, sirs, that your time to die, the soldier's hour of glory, may now have come."
A shoot of "Vive le Roi!" from every throat was again the response. It echoed through the windows across the Court of Marble and down the Great Staircase. It was memorable as the last loyal cry of the household of Versailles.
"The hour has arrived to change guard," Mayor d'Aguesseau went on. "Will you, Monsieur de Lincy, take command in the Hall of the Queen?"
D'Aguesseau passed on to inspect the precautions at other points of the Palace.
No sooner had he left than the men disposed themselves with serious faces for active work. A sympathetic feeling of devotion displayed itself. Suddenly Des Huttes, the best voice in the company of Noailles, struck up solemnly that tender reminiscence from the opera of "Richard Cœe Lion"—
"Oh, Richard, oh my King, the world forsaketh thee,"
and the Bodyguards, overcome with emotion, one and all stood still with bended heads.
It was then about three o'clock.
In four hours' more the French Monarchy was to fall and the ancientrégimeto pass like a dream. The east wind dashed a terrible gust of rain against the windows and shook their panes like a summons.
* * * * *
"Oh, Richard, oh my King, the world forsaketh thee," haunted Germain as he paced the Hall of the Queen's Guards. Recent political events connected with the drawing up of a national constitution, and the hunger of the poor, which they naturally blamed on those in power, had, he knew, raised deep animosity towards Louis XVI. and the Queen. Her thoughtless life of gaiety in past days, and the greedy demands of her friends the Polignacs, had made her particularly the mark of venomous hate. As d'Aguesseau said, "what a load for a woman to bear!" The thought raised in Lecour the deepest pity. Opposite him was the door of the first antechamber, called the Grand Couvert, where had posted Varicourt, and within it some dozen others. There Varicourt stood, handsome and elegantly uniformed, at that beautiful door in that fine hall. Yet behind all this elegance what misery! The Canadian could not suppress the vision of the tortured Queen starting out of her sleep in her chamber a few paces away. This suffering woman was in his charge—he must be loyal to her and lay down his life before hers should be taken. Well, he had faced death before—it had not yet quite come to that; but he would be loyal and true. Oh, if he could only cross for a few minutes to the Noailles mansion and have a word with Cyrène. Was she in danger too? His heart ached with anxiety.
So the hours of the night passed.
A little before six, while he was resting on a bench and all seemed quiet, he suddenly heard shouting. He was startled, for it was much nearer than the Place d'Armes. Yes, there was no doubt of it; he heard a pistol-shot close by, and at the same time he sprang to his feet. There was a simultaneous stir in the Great Hall of the Guards, and de Varicourt, at the entrance to the Queen's antechamber, rapidly drew his sword. So did du Repaire, sentinel at the door to the Marble Staircase.
Germain ordered Miomandre de Ste. Marie, another faithful Guardsman, who was posted at the door of the Great Hall, to go down the Marble Staircase and bring back a report of the trouble.
It afterwards appeared that the two of Lafayette's Paris militiamen posted at the outer gateway had betrayed their trust and let in the mob of viragoes and armed brigands who pressed for admittance early in the morning. Now commenced a season of terror in the Palace.
No sooner had Miomandre reached the head of the staircase, and Lecour looked after him out of the open door, than they both saw the court below alive with a lashing ocean of pikes and furious faces.
The two Swiss sentinels who kept the foot of the staircase had managed to check the rush, and for a moment the brigands checked themselves to get each a hack at an object they had thrown down. Lecour saw instantly that this object was a man—a Bodyguard—who, as with a tremendous effort he threw off his assailants and stood up, the streams of blood pouring over his face, he recognised as poor Des Huttes. Germain's first impulse was to bound down the steps to his rescue—but discipline did its work and checked him. Should he leave his post, what would become of the Queen? Des Huttes during the moment of this quick reflection, was brained from behind by a man in a red cap, and fell, pierced with countless pike-wounds. His eyes still moved when the rag-picker Gougeon ran in, and, placing his foot on the chest, chopped the head from the body with blows of an axe. In an instant it was stuck on the point of a pike and triumphantly carried away.
Lecour, his brain on fire, drew back and steadied himself to retain presence of mind.
An instant after he could hear the roar of the mob as it surged up and the voice of Miomandre shouting to them, "My friends, you love your King."
They rushed on Miomandre and tried to kill him as they had done Des Huttes; but he was quick, and springing to the embrasure of a window, defended himself, while the yelling booty-seekers, athirst for easier-seized treasures, turned to press forward into the apartment of the Queen. The attack came quickly, but Germain shut the door in time and locked it, and thanks to the perfect make of the lock its bolt held out against the onset. That could not long be, however, as he knew the panels must give way before their axes.
"Stand firm, du Repaire!" he cried, and ran across the hall to where de Varicourt was guarding the door of the Queen's antechamber. Before passing in, he grasped the hand of the devoted Bodyguard, who understood that his hour had come, crossed himself, and answered with a look of unalterable devotion.
Germain closed the door of the antechamber lovingly and regretfully, locked and bolted it.
The howling pack were but a few minutes in breaking in. He could hear their shouts of triumph and the shameless cries of the women against Marie Antoinette.
Astonished at finding themselves in the inside of the Palace, the first comers were dumbfounded, but a red-nosed beggar in a red cap immediately sprang towards de Varicourt, shouting, "This way to the Austrian!"
"Vive la Nation!" roared men who were looting the tapestry from the benches.
"Death to the Sow!" was the shriek of Wife Gougeon.
"Death to the aristocrat!" shouted the Admiral with a devilish laugh, leading the rush on de Varicourt.
The latter defended himself with all his strength, first with his clubbed musket, then with his sword. For some seconds he kept the murderers at bay, and it seemed to du Repaire, looking eagerly across the hall, that after all the impossible might be accomplished, and the valour of his comrade stem the accursed horde. To no purpose. As he turned like lightning to deliver a thrust to the left, a blow from a billhook on the right crushed his skull; he dropped, and his bleeding body was instantly robbed and dragged out to the Place d'Armes.
Meanwhile du Repaire, inspired by the heroic conduct of de Varicourt, took advantage of the momentary diversion to slip across and occupy his fallen comrade's post. The assailants, some of the boldest of whom had suffered from de Varicourt's sword, were astonished and daunted by the sight of another Bodyguard in the same place.
"Canaille!we know how to die!" he cried, and stood ready to strike the first on-comer.
"So do we!" cried the Admiral, and struck at him, but tripped and was pulled back.
"Save yourself, du Repaire, if you can," commanded Germain from within the door.
Seizing the moment's confusion, du Repaire sprang through the weakest part of the semicircle around him, and scattering the tramps in the rest of the hall before him, reached the door of the Great Hall of the Guards opposite, not without several wounds. The door was fortunately opened and Grancey, who opened it, emptied his pistol into the foremost pursuer and killed him, obtaining time to lock and bolt again.
The crowning instance of the spirit of the Bodyguard was now given. Miomandre de Ste Marie, who had sheltered himself from the first rush of the mob in the window embrasure at the head of the staircase, seeing the crowd rush after du Repaire, and not knowing of the command to abandon the post, sped over and stationed himself in the same position. Meanwhile, during the few minutes in which all this took place, Germain had opened the door of the Queen's drawing-room and said quietly to a lady of honour, "Save the Queen; they want to kill her." The ladies of honour bolted the drawing-room door, hurried to the Queen, hastily dressed her, opened a secret door in a panel near her bed, and hurried her by a passage to the chamber of the King.
Miomandre, meanwhile, was attacked like Varicourt and du Repaire. Knocked down from behind with the butt of a musket, he would have been despatched but for the scramble of the Galley men to rob his body of his watch, and by the diversion of the rage of the crowd against his companions shut in the Great Hall.
While Ste Marie lay insensible, those in the Great Hall were actively piling up benches against the door and removing the stacks of arms to the Oeil de Boeuf, which adjoined it, and where they proposed to make their next stand in the way to the apartments of the King. The Count of Guiche and the Prince of Luxembourg worked like the rest, and just as the door crashed through the last of the weapons were brought into the Oeil de Boeuf and its entrance closed. The Hall of the Courtiers seemed to receive the unusual invasion with the inperturbability of a courtier. One scene of bustling life appeared to suit it as well as another, even though death were so near to follow. The little reserve were drawn up in order, determined to fight it out there together.
And now a long, low sound was heard in the distance. It approached, and as it grew the shouts of rage in the Great Hall ceased, and a roar of scuttling feet was heard. Lafayette's National Guard were approaching, and as the serried lines, advancing at the double, reached the Court of Marble, their drum-beats suddenly burst into a thunderous roll, and the Court, the staircase, and the halls were cleared of the cowardly rabble.
Such was the glorious defence of the Bodyguard. And so the Queen was saved.
The Queen was saved; the King was saved; the household was saved—at least for the present—but the monarchy was lost.
His Majesty left Versailles at one o'clock. The Queen, the Dauphin, Madame Royale, Monsieur, Madame Elizabeth, the King's sister and Madame de Tourzel, governess of the children of France, were in his Majesty's carriage.
A hundred deputies of the Assembly in their carriages came next. The advance guard, which was formed of a detachment of the brigands, set out two hours earlier. In front of them Hache and Motte danced in triumph, carrying the pallid heads of Des Huttes and de Varicourt aloft on their pikes.
They stopped a moment at Sèvres in front of the shop of an unfortunate hairdresser. They caught hold of the latter and forced him to dress the gory heads; a task which made the poor man a hopeless maniac the same evening.
The bulk of the Paris National Guard followed them closely. The King's carriage was preceded by Wife Gougeon and the fishwomen and a rabble of prostitutes, the vile refuse of their sex, all raving with fury and wine.
Several rode astride upon cannon, boasting in the most horrible songs of the crimes they had committed themselves or seen others commit. Those who were nearest the carriage sang ballads, the allusions in which, by means of their gestures, they applied to the Queen. In the paroxysms of their drunken merriment these women stopped passengers, and pointing to the carriage, howled in their ears, "Cheer up, friends, we shall no longer be in want of bread; we bring the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's boy."
They pointed to waggons which followed, full of corn and flour, which had been brought into Versailles, and formed a train, escorted by Grenadiers and surrounded by women and bullies, some armed with pikes and some carrying long branches of poplar. This favourite part of thecortègelooked at some distance like a moving grove, amidst which shone pike-heads and gun-barrels. Above and in front of the motley procession which accompanied them, mounted high on one of the waggons, rode Death himself, so the spectators thought, grinning, triumphing, and directing the whole, in the shape of the skull-like countenance of the Admiral of the Galley-on-Land.
Behind his Majesty's carriage were the remnant of the Bodyguard, some on foot and some on horseback, most of them uncovered, all unarmed, and worn out with hunger and fatigue. The Dragoons, the Flanders regiment, the Hundred Swiss and the National Guards, preceded, accompanied, or followed the file of carriages.
Lecour, weak with the night's anxiety and the frightful disappointment of the day, had scarcely strength to drag himself along between two Grenadiers, who from time to time supported him, and one of whose great hairy caps he wore as a token of fraternity. All at once hell seemed to have risen about him. He heard a united yell from many savage throats, and saw a ring of red-capped brutes lunging and striking at himself, and a little woman-fiend sprang at his breast and buried something sharp in it.
The last thing of which he was conscious was the satanic revengefulness of her eyes.