It was here that the King, uneasy over the failure of their plans, and putting his head out of the coach window, was recognized by the postmaster Drouet.[11]The sight of the King struck the fellow with amazement; he compared the head of the traveller with that of the King stamped on an assignat (the paper money used at that time), and his malignant expression betrayed his thoughts. The Queen caught his evil smile and felt her heart sink; but they passed on without hindrance, and she gradually forgot her fears. The traitor Drouet, however, lost no time in profiting by his discovery. He communicated it at once to the town council, and the whole village was in commotion. At that moment a special messenger arrived from Châlons, confirming the news of the King’s escape. It was resolved that Drouet, accompanied by a former dragoon of the Queen’s regiment, should start instantly in pursuit of the fugitives, and, in case he succeeded in overtaking them, place them under arrest. In hot haste they mounted, and set off at furious speed in the direction taken by the royal party.
Meanwhile M. de Damas, with a company of dragoons, had arrived at Clermont the previous afternoon, at five o’clock, with orders to wait there for the King, and as soon as he had passed to follow him along the road to Varennes. They remained at their post till nightfall, when Damas ordered his troopers’ horses to be unsaddled and allowed the men to disperse. Half an hour later the coach arrived, and continued on its way without stopping. M. de Damas, who saw it pass, sent an officer to summon the dragoons in haste from their quarters. The town was soon in great excitement; the council was disturbed; discussions grew more and more heated. When Damas finally gave the signal to mount, the troopers refused to obey, and it was with the greatest difficulty he persuaded them to follow him—another link in the chain of fatalities!
The King’s coach had scarcely left Clermont when Drouet himself arrived, obtained a fresh mount, and set off again in hot pursuit. One of the King’s bodyguard was riding in advance of the coach as courier, another behind it as rear guard. Beside these, Damas, when he saw Drouet ride off, had sent one of his officers to overtake and stop him. This man had almost succeeded in his attempt, when, favored by the darkness, the traitor turned off into by-ways known only to himself, and, thoroughly familiar with the country, reached Varennes shortly after eleven o’clock, fully an hour before the King and his family arrived there.
Varennes was a secluded little village and had no post-house, but a place in the outskirts of the town, where he might obtain a change of horses, had been so carefully described to the King that he had no difficulty in finding it. Here they stopped, expecting to get the horses, but nothing was to be seen of them. In vain the King knocked on the door; no one answered. As a matter of fact, the plan had been changed at the last moment, owing to the disturbances existing all over the country, and the horses had been sent to an inn on the other side of the river; but, through more misunderstandings and errors, someone had neglected to notify the King. Lights were still visible in the house, and the Queen herself alighted from the coach and tried to obtain some response from the inmates; but her hope of obtaining information by some chance was not realized, and half an hour was lost. Drouet knew how to make the most of the time. When at last the travellers were forced to abandon the attempt and re-enter the coach, the postilions refused to go any farther, pretending that their horses were too exhausted to continue the journey. Just then the courier returned, bringing with him a man in a dressing-gown and with a nightcap on his head. As he approached the royal couple they demanded impatiently: “Where are our horses, fellow? Tell us at once!”
“Your horses!” he shouted, flinging himself almost inside the vehicle. “That I cannot say; but I know another secret I will not tell you.”
“Do you know Frau von Korff?” asked Madame de Tourzel.
“No,” said he, “but I know something better than that”; and with these words he disappeared again. At the Queen’s entreaties, the postilions finally consented to drive the coach at least through the town. The travellers now believed themselves safe; they attributed this incident, like the other mishaps of their journey, to some error or miscalculation, and, full of hope, saw themselves already under the protection of Bouillé’s loyal troops. But alas! matters were soon to assume a different aspect.
Rightly to understand what follows, it should be explained that Varennes is built on the side of a hill, and consists of an upper and lower town connected by a bridge across the Aire, which flows between. At that time the town was approached from Clermont, not as now by way of a fine square, but through a narrow street ending in an arched passageway, guarded by a heavy gate which could be closed at will. This archway was built under a tower, which is still standing; on one side was a church, long since destroyed, and on the other a small inn called the Bras d’Or, kept by the Le Blanc family. The gateway was used as entrance to the town in time of peace, and the inn served as a sort of watch-house. Beyond the passage was the bridge, and it was here that Drouet had placed the ambuscade which was to prevent the King’s farther progress. The host of the Golden Arm tavern was also an officer of the National Guard. Aroused by Drouet, he ran to call up the mayor of the town, M. Sance; then he and his brother armed themselves, and, summoning several of the National Guard, stationed themselves before the entrance to the archway. Sance meanwhile had hastened to alarm the town, and sent out messengers to the nearest villages. His son Georges, a captain of grenadiers, took command of the guard, and while his other children were running through the town at their father’s command, shouting “Fire! Fire!” M. Drouet, accompanied by a notary called Regnier and some of the townspeople, brought up a loaded wagon, which they placed diagonally across the bridge to obstruct its passage. All the preparations were complete, when the expected vehicle was heard approaching. It passed through the upper town without interruption, the houses apparently all dark and silent, and came rapidly on, until, just as it reached the dark archway under the tower, the horses were brought to a sudden standstill by the barricade. At the same instant there sounded from all sides the cry, “Halt, there! Halt!”—a cry issuing from the rough throats of ten armed men, who now emerged from the darkness. They threw themselves upon the horses, seized the postilions, sprang to both doors of the coach, and harshly demanded of the travellers who they were.
“Frau von Korff, with her family!” came the answer.
“That may be,” returned a voice, “but you will have to prove it!”
At the first shout and the first gleam of weapons, the officers of the bodyguard had leaped from their places with their hands on their concealed knives, ready at a signal from the King to make use of them. But Louis the Sixteenth nobly forbade them to use force, and the hostile musket barrels remained pointing toward the coach. Drouet seized a light, held it up to the King’s face, and, without calling him by name, ordered him to alight and show his passport to the mayor. The King, still clinging to the hope that he had not been recognized, descended from the coach, his family following him.
As the party passed up the street, they saw some hussars arriving; it was M. de Choiseul’s force, which should have waited at the bridge in Sommevesle. The National Guard, whose numbers had increased, allowed them to pass, but were ready nevertheless to resist any attempt at rescue. By this time the malicious activity of Drouet had produced its results. The alarm bell was rung, the drums beat, all Varennes was astir. Thousands of peasants came flocking in from neighboring towns, and the villages through which the King had passed were thrown into wild excitement by the news of his flight.
The mayor’s house, whither the royal family was conducted, contained two rooms on the upper floor, reached by a spiral staircase. One of them overlooked the street, the other the garden. The King was lodged in the back room, but, as there was a connecting door between, he could see all that passed in the street. A dense throng of people had gathered there, and increased every moment. Sance at first pretended not to recognize his illustrious guests, and, treating them as ordinary travellers, explained that the horses could go no farther, and besought them to remain and rest until fresh relays could be obtained. But this mask of hypocrisy was soon thrown aside, and he as well as Drouet began to overwhelm the King with cruel taunts and bitter invectives. They accused him directly of intending to escape to foreign lands for the purpose of joining and assisting in an invasion of France by her enemies. In vain the King attempted to deny his rank and claim the liberty accorded to all travellers. They declared flatly that he and his family were recognized, and continued their jeers and abuse.
“Very well, then,” suddenly said the Queen, with dignity—she had not hitherto spoken a word—“since you recognize him as your King, then see that you treat him as such!”
These words induced the King to resume his natural frankness of manner, which he had with difficulty concealed. He explained freely the motives which had prompted him to take this journey; spoke of his earnest desire to learn the real needs of the people whose welfare was dear to him; resolutely denied the false report that he wished to escape from France and make his home in a foreign land, and even offered to entrust himself to the National Guard of Varennes, and let them accompany him to Montmédy or any other place in the kingdom where his personal freedom might be assured.
The naturally warm and candid eloquence of the King did not fail in its effect. Sance was almost ready to give way, and if it had depended only on him they might have been allowed to proceed. But Drouet had no idea of allowing his prey to escape him now; he became still more violent, and declared that his own head might answer for it if the King were not sent back to Paris. At this moment, too, an incident occurred in the street which decided the fate of the royal fugitives. A conflict arose between the officers who were on the King’s side and the National Guard. M. de Goguelat crowded his horse against the leader of the Guard and drew his sword; the Major discharged his pistol at Goguelat and wounded him in the shoulder, causing his horse to rear and throw him. M. de Choiseul’s hussars looked on, but made no motion to interfere, and it was evident that they could no longer be depended on. All hope was now lost; the King’s only chance lay in the possible arrival of Bouillé and his soldiers, but Bouillé did not appear. Instead, fresh reënforcements of the National Guard came pouring in from all sides to assist their comrades, and the ever increasing throngs overflowed the little town—a town destined from this night to claim a melancholy place in history.
Between six and seven o’clock in the morning, two messengers arrived from the National Assembly, M. de Romeuf, Lafayette’s aide-de-camp, and Bayon, an officer of the National Guard in Paris. They brought a decree of the Assembly, ordering the King to be taken back to his capital wherever he might be found. Bayon entered alone. Fatigue and excitement had given a still darker cast to his naturally gloomy expression. With tangled hair and disordered attire, he approached the King, and stammered confusedly:
“Sire, you are aware ... all Paris is in arms ... our wives and children even now perhaps are being massacred ... you will not go any farther away.... Sire, the welfare of the country ... yes, Sire ... our wives and children....”
At these words, the Queen with a sudden movement seized his hands and, pointing to the sleeping children on the bed, exclaimed:
“Sir, am I not also a mother!”
“What is your business here?” demanded the King.
“Sire, a decree of the Assembly.”
“Where is it?”
“My comrade has it.”
With these words, he opened the door and disclosed M. de Romeuf, who, overcome with emotion, was leaning against a window in the front room. His face was wet with tears. He approached with downcast eyes, holding out a paper, which the King took from him and glanced through rapidly.
“Now,” he said, “there is no longer a King in France!”
The children had awakened by this time, and the little Dauphin became the object of special interest. Some admired his beauty, and others asked him questions about his journey and the Tuileries, to which the sleepy child scarcely responded, but only gazed at his mother.
“Ah, Charles,” his sister whispered to him, “you were mistaken, this is no comedy!”
“I knew that long ago!” returned the poor child, shrugging his shoulders.
Meanwhile, the crowd, excited almost to frenzy by Drouet, were demanding the King’s departure, and their shouts and cries came surging upward from the street. Some of the most violent even tried to break into the house and bring him out by force, while above all the tumult arose a scream of “Drag him out! Drag him into his coach! We will have him!”
The King attempted to appease them by appearing at the window, seeking to gain time, in the faint hope that any moment might bring Bouillé and rescue. As a last resort, one of the waiting-women declared she was violently ill, and the King and Queen refused to desert her. But all their efforts were of no avail, and the King realized at last that further resistance was hopeless. He requested to be left alone with his family for a moment, and, after a brief and sorrowful consultation, he yielded and announced himself ready to depart. The royal mother took her son in her arms and carried him herself to the coach. It was half-past seven when they started on their return journey—alas! just a quarter of an hour too early!
Only a few moments after they had gone, a body of troops appeared on the heights overlooking Varennes in the direction of Verdun. It was the son of M. de Bouillé with the cavalry. He tried to cross the river by a ford, the bridge being defended, but was unable to accomplish it, and thus the last chance of saving the King was lost. General Bouillé arrived soon after at the head of his Royal German Regiment, in full gallop, only to learn when he reached Mouza that the King had left Varennes and that he was too late. Broken-hearted, he turned his horse’s head, and with his faithful and now dejected troops began his retreat to the frontier.
The royal party was already far from Varennes. Surrounded by five or six thousand infuriated peasants, the King was a prisoner in the same vehicle that was to have borne him to safety and freedom. It was only allowed to proceed at a foot-pace, and a whole hour was consumed in reaching Clermont. This town, like all the others through which they passed, was filled to overflowing. Everywhere the shops were closed, the people beside themselves with excitement, and hundreds of frantic voices yelled denunciations against the King, his nobles, and his officers.
At three in the afternoon Ste. Menehould was reached, and the mayor, Furci, a brave and honest man, invited the Queen to partake of some refreshment in the town hall. The weary travellers would gladly have remained here some hours to rest, for the little Prince, exhausted by his seven-hours’ journey in the heat and dust, was suffering from an attack of fever; but Bayon, the cruel commander of this sad expedition, refused to gratify their desire, and the unfortunate royal family were obliged to continue their journey. Here the National Guard of Varennes and Clermont left them, and their place was taken by the Guard of Ste. Menehould, who were relieved in their turn by those of the next town.
One dreadful occurrence struck terror to the hearts of the poor fugitives, and gave them a chill foreboding of the horrors in store for them. On a hillside near the village of Han, a brave nobleman, the Marquis de Dampierre, rode up to greet the King as he passed. Louis conversed with him for some moments, and, as they parted with mutual good wishes, M. de Dampierre bowed low and reverently kissed the hand of his unhappy sovereign. This token of respect was his death-warrant, for scarcely had the loyal noble left the coach door when savage voices shouted to him to halt, and as he unsuspectingly obeyed, the mob fell upon him in a fury, tore him from his horse, and slaughtered him without pity before the eyes of the royal family. His head was cut off and carried on the end of a spear for some distance in front of their coach, as a trophy.
In the midst of such atrocities, it is gratifying to hear of one instance which proves there were still pure and noble hearts even in those frightful times.
Young Cazotte was the commander of the National Guard in the village of Piercy, and it was his duty to receive the King at Épernay, where a stop was to be made at the Hotel Rohan. Cazotte’s men guarded the entrance to this palace, and he exacted a solemn promise from them to allow no one but the authorities to enter. Scarcely were these measures taken when the King’s coach arrived, almost borne along by the waves of people. The prisoners alighted amid a storm of curses, jeers, and insults, directed especially against the Queen.
“Ignore this madness, madame; God is over all!” said Cazotte to her in German.
A grateful glance was her only answer as she stepped forward, followed by her daughter, Madame Élisabeth, and Madame de Tourzel, the crowd pressing close behind them. The little Dauphin was carried by one of the soldiers. He was crying and calling for his mother, who was out of sight. Cazotte took him in his arms and tried to soothe him, but his tears did not cease to flow until he was carried into the room where the Queen had been taken. Cazotte’s delicate solicitude for the royal family did not end even here; regardless of what the consequences might be, he found a seamstress to repair their clothing, which had been torn and trampled on by the mob, furnished them with refreshments and such conveniences as he was able to obtain, and did all in his power to add to their comfort till their departure put an end to his unselfish and kindly service.
Between Épernay and Dormans they met the commission sent out by the National Assembly, consisting of Barnave, Pétion, and the Marquis de Latour-Maubourg. They took their places in the coach, but Pétion and Latour-Maubourg only remained inside a short time, leaving Barnave alone with the travellers. Barnave[12]was one of the minor deputies of the people, who amid all the tumult and violence of the Assembly had preserved his nobility and tenderness of heart. He felt sincere pity for the unfortunate royal family, and, no longer restrained by the presence of his colleague, Pétion,[13]freely offered his sympathy. The Queen was touched by his considerate behavior, and joined in the conversation. Barnave, on the other hand, to whom the Queen had been painted in the most odious colors, was astonished to find her so different from what he had expected, and soon began to honor and respect those he had been taught to hate and despise. When the conversation ceased after a time, he took the little Prince on his knee and talked with the child, whose quick and lively, yet gentle, answers impressed him deeply.
“Are you not sorry to go back to Paris?” he asked.
“Oh, I am happy everywhere,” answered the Dauphin, “as long as I have my father and mamma with me, and my aunt, my sister, and Madame de Tourzel, too.”
“Ah, sir,” said the King to Barnave, “this is indeed a sad journey for me and for my children!”
The mournful tone in which these words were spoken moved the Dauphin deeply, and he took his father’s hand and kissed it. The King took him in his arms and pressed him to his heart.
“Do not be unhappy, dear papa,” said the child, his eyes full of tears. “Some other time we will have a pleasanter journey!”
At every change of post-horses, the other commissioners came up to see what was passing inside the coach. Surprised to find the heir to the throne generally seated on Barnave’s lap, Pétion finally remarked in a spiteful tone, loud enough to be heard by the travellers:
“You see, Latour-Maubourg, Barnave is decidedly the prop of future royalty!”
Unhappy Barnave! He was forced ere long to atone with his life for his newly won devotion to the royal house and perish on the guillotine!
The remainder of the journey passed without further incident. Sullen crowds gathered everywhere to watch the King pass, but no one spoke or showed any sign of good-will or favor toward him. At Ferté-sous-Jouarre, however, the royal family found one hearty welcome from the Regnards, at whose house they dined. Although Madame Regnard wore an apron to avoid recognition, Marie Antoinette guessed her position at once, and approached her, saying:
“You are the lady of the house, are you not?”
“I was that only until your Majesty entered it,” answered Madame Regnard; a reply which pleased the Queen and did full honor to the gracious mistress of the house. When they were leaving, the Queen said to the Dauphin:
“My son, thank the lady for her kindness, and tell her we shall never forget it.”
The little Prince immediately obeyed. “Mamma thanks you for your attention,” said the child, “and I—I love you very much because you have given her pleasure.”
When the coach arrived at Meaux a great tumult arose; a priest nearly lost his life as the poor Marquis had done, but Barnave rescued him, calling out to the people in thundering tones:
“Frenchmen, would you become a pack of assassins?” Whereupon Pétion turned to Latour-Maubourg and remarked with a sneer:
“It appears that our colleague’s mission is not only to protect royalty, but also the clergy!”
After Barnave’s humane action, the Dauphin willingly seated himself again on his knee and talked to him until they reached Bossuet. At eleven o’clock that evening, after his colleagues were asleep, Barnave was summoned to the King’s chamber, where he had a long conference with the royal couple in regard to their situation.
“Evidently,” said the Queen, at the end of it, “we have been deceived as to the real state of public feeling in France.”
They thanked Barnave warmly for his counsel, and it was agreed that he should meet them secretly in the Tuileries. From this time Barnave inwardly swore allegiance to the throne, and kept his vow faithfully to the end.
On the twenty-fifth of June, at seven in the evening, the royal party arrived in Paris and entered the Tuileries, before the gates of which a vast throng had assembled, drunk with wine and fury and with difficulty restrained from violence by the National Guard. M. Hue lifted the little Dauphin from the coach and carried him into his own apartment, where he was soon in bed. The child was restless, however, and his sleep very uneasy. In the morning when he awoke, he said to his tutor, in a voice loud enough to be heard distinctly by the guards stationed in the room:
“Oh, M. Hue, I have had such a horrible dream! I thought there were wolves and tigers and all kinds of wild beasts around me all night long, waiting to tear me to pieces!”
M. Hue merely shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. The guards looked at each other in astonishment, but no one ventured to reprove the little Prince for his prophetic dream.
The French Revolution pursued its terrible course, and war with Austria was finally added to the internal disorders that distracted the unhappy country. The people, kept in a constant tumult by the false reports and incessant assaults of the bloody Jacobins, hated the King more than ever. Not content with depriving him of his liberty and his throne, and subjecting him to the deepest humiliations, the brutal mob also demanded his life.
The first step toward this dreadfuldénouementof the tragedy was the formal arrest of the royal family and their imprisonment in the Temple.[14]On the thirteenth of August, 1792, they were taken to this prison, the gates of which closed behind the King, never to open for him again till he went forth to lay his head under the guillotine.
The Temple was originally the residence of the Grand Priors of the Knights Templars, and in the thirteenth century occupied an extensive area, acquired by the purchase of surrounding lands. In the year 1792, however, little remained of it but the so-called Tower of the Temple, a dark square structure whose massive, frowning walls were flanked by turrets at each corner. The Tower had four stories. On the ground floor there was but one large room, and a kitchen which was unused. The first story consisted of an antechamber and a dining-room, which communicated with a small closet in one of the turrets. The second floor also contained an anteroom and two apartments, one of which the Queen and her daughter used as a bedchamber, others being occupied by the Dauphin, Madame Élisabeth, and Madame de Tourzel. The third floor was similar to the second, and here at first the King was lodged with his attendants, M. Hue and M. Chamilly.
A few faithful and devoted friends had chosen to share the royal family’s imprisonment, but this consolation was not long permitted them. On the nineteenth of August, two officers made their appearance with an order from the Commune to remove all persons not belonging to the Capet family. In vain the Queen opposed the departure of the Princess de Lamballe,[15]on the ground that she was a relative. Their parting was most affecting; both the royal children mingled their tears with those of their elders, until the Princess and Madame de Tourzel were forcibly separated from them and carried away. Not a single attendant was left to the unfortunate prisoners, except M. Hue, who, much to his surprise, was permitted to remain.
Their life in the Tower of the Temple was very sad and monotonous. The King arose every morning between six and seven, and employed himself with his devotions in his little oratory in the turret until nine o’clock, while M. Hue set the room in order, laid the table for breakfast, and then went down to the Queen. Marie Antoinette was up even before the King, dressed herself and her son, and heard him say his prayers. She kept her door closed, however, until M. Hue appeared, in order to prevent the officers, sent by the Commune to remain in her room during the day, from entering any earlier. At nine she went with her children and Madame Élisabeth to breakfast with the King, and M. Hue took this opportunity to clean their rooms and light the fires. At ten the whole family returned to the Queen’s room, where they remained for the rest of the day. The King devoted himself to his son’s instruction, and the Queen heard the Princess recite her lessons, while Madame Élisabeth taught them ciphering and drawing.
At one o’clock, when the weather was fine and Santerre, the commander of the guards, was present, the whole family walked in the little garden of the Temple, and the Dauphin amused himself with childish sports and games. At two they had dinner, after which came an hour of recreation, when the children’s amusements and laughter somewhat enlivened the customary gloom. About four the King would often take a short nap in his arm-chair, while the Princesses sat by with a book or some needlework, and the little Prince studied his lessons or applied himself to his drawing and copy-book. M. Hue superintended his work, and after it was finished took him into the other room, where they played ball or shuttlecock together.
At seven the family gathered around the table, and read aloud from some religious or historical work that would interest and instruct the children. At eight M. Hue gave the Dauphin his supper in Madame Élisabeth’s room; his parents were usually present, and the King would often give him little easy riddles to guess, the solution of which occupied and diverted the child. After supper he was undressed and said his evening prayer, which usually was as follows:
“Almighty God, who hast created and redeemed me, to Thee I pray. Preserve the life of the King, my father, and watch over the days of my family also. Protect us from our enemies! Grant to Madame de Tourzel strength to bear the sorrows she is enduring on our behalf.”
After his prayer the Queen put him to bed, and she and Madame Élisabeth remained with him in turn. As soon as the family supper was over, the King came to say good-night to his son. After a few moments’ talk, he pressed the hand of his wife and sister, received the caresses of his children, and returned to his own room, retiring at once to his oratory, where he remained till midnight.
The Princesses sat together some time later, often making use of this quiet hour to mend the family clothing; and the King rarely composed himself to sleep until after the guard was changed at midnight. This was the daily routine as long as the King remained a prisoner. The days passed in sadness and humiliation, and there was scarcely an hour in which they were not exposed to some fresh insult or indignity.
At this time the little Dauphin was seven and a half years of age. Through all their troubles, he showed a courage and sweetness of disposition seldom found even in the happiest natures. Sometimes the seriousness of his thoughts would betray itself by word or look; but he never failed to respond to his parents’ affected cheerfulness with all a child’s unquestioning light-heartedness. Apparently he thought no more of past greatness; he was glad to be alive, and the only thing that made him unhappy was his mother’s tears. He never spoke of his former amusements and pleasures, showed no regrets, and seemed to have forgotten all the joys of happier days. He applied himself diligently to his studies, and with the aid of a good memory he was far more advanced than most children of his age. Through all this time of sorrow and trouble, the poor little Prince had possessed one unfailing consolation—his parents’ love and care. But alas! the time was soon to come when he would be deprived of this, too, and lose, first, his father, then his mother.
The hard school of adversity developed all the purity and nobility of the boy’s nature, already so richly endowed with warm affections and tender sensibilities. Still a child in all his acts and feelings, he was old enough at the same time to be able to comprehend the misfortunes of the family, and seemed to feel that he owed his parents even more respect and attention than formerly, though his lively fancies often made him forget their cruel situation. He realized that they were prisoners, and was discreet and prudent in his speech and behavior. Never a syllable escaped him that could have caused a painful memory or regret in his mother’s heart. How affectionate and yet how thoughtful and quick-witted he was, one or two incidents will show.
A stone-mason was at work one day on the wall of the King’s anteroom, making a place for heavier bolts to be put on the door. While the workman was eating his breakfast, the little Prince amused himself by playing with his tools. The King took the chisel and hammer from his son’s hand to show him how to use them, and worked at the wall himself for a few moments. The mason, moved by a sudden feeling of pity, said to him:
“After you have gone away from here, you can say you have worked on your own prison!”
“Alas!” answered the King, “when and how shall I get away from here?”
Scarcely had he spoken the words, when the little Dauphin threw himself into his father’s arms and burst into tears. The King dropped the hammer and chisel: he, too, was much affected, and paced up and down the room for some moments, struggling with his emotions.
On another occasion the Prince had not shown a coarse fellow named Mercereau all the respect to which he considered himself entitled, whereupon he addressed the child roughly with:
“Hey, boy! don’t you know that liberty has made us all equal?”
“Equal, as much as you please,” answered the Dauphin with a glance at his father, “but you will find it hard to make us believe that liberty has made us free!”
And now the time was approaching which was to separate the King from his loved ones forever. After so many crimes committed by the French people in the first intoxication and frenzy of their power, there remained only the King’s death to be accomplished. Louis the Sixteenth, the mildest and most just of kings, who had committed no crime but that of loving his people too well, was summoned before the blood-thirsty Convention which had boldly set itself up to judge him. For several days previously the treatment of the royal prisoners had been even harsher than before. They were deprived of every means of employment; even the ladies’ needles were taken away from them, so that they could no longer find distraction in their feminine occupations, and to Louis these added brutalities indicated but too plainly the issue of his trial. Indeed, he was quite prepared for the worst; but what troubled him most was the separation from his family. During the session of the Convention he had not been permitted to see them, and it was only with the greatest difficulty and by the most ingenious expedients that he was able to obtain news of them or communicate with them.
At last the death sentence was pronounced, to be executed on the following morning, and the King was granted a final interview with his family. At half-past eight in the evening his door was opened. The Queen came first, leading the little Dauphin by the hand; then her daughter, Marie Thérèse, and Madame Élisabeth. They threw themselves into the arms of the King, and for some moments a sorrowful silence prevailed, broken only by sobs. The Queen made a motion to her husband to take them into his bedchamber.
“Not there,” said the King, “we will go into the dining-room; that is the only place where I can see you.”
They stepped into the adjoining room, which was divided from the antechamber by a glass partition, and the guards closed the door. The King sat down with his wife and sister on either side; the Princess knelt before him, and the Dauphin remained standing between his father’s knees. They all leaned towards him and frequently embraced him, while the King told them about his trial, and tried to excuse those who had condemned him. He then gave some religious admonitions to his children; charged them to forgive those who were the cause of his death, and bestowed his blessing upon them. The Queen expressed her earnest desire that they might all spend the night together, but he refused, saying that he much needed to rest and compose his thoughts. This melancholy scene lasted nearly two hours. As the time drew near when it must end, the King turned to his children again, and made them give him a solemn promise never to be revenged on his enemies. Then, taking the Dauphin on his knee, he impressed upon him the fulfilment of his last wishes, and concluded with these words:
“My son, you have heard all that I have said, but since an oath is more sacred than words, swear with uplifted hand that you will obey the last wishes of your father.”
The little Prince obeyed and took the oath with streaming eyes. The others, too, wept bitterly, for the touching nobility of the King only intensified their grief. And now for more than a quarter of an hour not a word was spoken; only heart-rending sounds of anguish filled the room, while the whole family mingled their tears until exhausted by sorrow. At length Louis rose, and the others followed his example. A faithful servant, named Cléry, who had managed to gain admittance to the prison so as to be near the King, opened the door. Louis supported his wife and held their son’s hand, while the Princess clasped her arms tightly about her father and Madame Élisabeth clung to his arm. They took several steps toward the outer door, and again heart-breaking sobs burst forth.
“Be calm!” said the King; “I will see you again in the morning at eight o’clock.”
“You promise?” they all cried.
“Yes, I promise!”
“But why not at seven?” asked the Queen.
“Well, at seven, then,” replied the King. “Adieu!”
This farewell was spoken in such a touching tone that their grief became once more uncontrollable. The Princess sank senseless at her father’s feet, and Cléry assisted Madame Élisabeth to support her. The King, to put an end to this distressing scene, clasped them all once more in his arms most tenderly, and tore himself from their embraces.
The King’s last farewell
The King’s last farewell
“Farewell! Farewell!” he said again with a breaking heart, as he returned to his room.
The good King, the loving father, had seen his dear ones for the last time on earth. To save them from another such trial, he nobly resolved to deprive himself of the sad consolation of pressing them once more to his heart, and went to his execution without a last farewell. His last words, spoken from the scaffold to the people, were:
“I die innocent of all the crimes of which I am accused. I forgive all those who are the cause of my death, and pray God that the blood you are about to shed may assure the happiness of France. And you, unhappy people....”
The rest was drowned in the roll of drums. His noble head fell—the head of a martyr, the head of one of the best and most merciful kings who ever ruled in France.[16]
After the sad parting, the Queen had scarcely strength enough left to undress her children, and as soon as they were asleep she flung herself, dressed, upon her bed, where she passed the night shivering with cold and trembling with apprehension. The Princess and Madame Élisabeth slept in the same room on a mattress.
The next morning the royal family arose before daybreak, waiting for a last sight of him whom, alas! they were never to see again. In all quarters of Paris the drums were beating, and the noise penetrated even into the Tower. At a quarter-past six the door opened, and some one came in to get a book, which was wanted for the mass about to be read to the King. The anxious women regarded this trifling occurrence as a hopeful sign, and expected a speedy summons to the promised interview. But they were soon undeceived. Each moment seemed an hour, and still the time slipped by without bringing the fulfilment of their last sorrowful hope.
Suddenly a louder roll of drums announced the moment of the King’s departure. No words can describe the scene that followed. The heart-broken women, with tears and sobs, made fruitless attempts to excite the compassion of their pitiless jailers. The little Prince sprang from his mother’s arms, and, beside himself with grief and terror, ran from one to another of the guards, clasping their knees, pressing their hands, and crying wildly:
“Let me go, messieurs! Let me go!”
“Where do you wish to go?” they asked him.
“To my father! I will speak to the people—I will beg them not to kill my papa! In the name of God, messieurs, let me go!”
The guards were deaf to his childish appeals; fear for their own heads compelled them to be, but history does not tell us that they were inhuman enough to jeer at the child or make sport of his innocent prayer for his father’s life. Even harder hearts must have been touched by the sight of such sorrow.
About ten o’clock the Queen wished the children to have some breakfast; but they could not eat, and the food was sent away untouched. A moment later cries and yells were heard, mingled with the discharge of firearms. Madame Élisabeth raised her eyes to heaven, and, carried away by the bitterness of her grief, exclaimed:
“Oh, the monsters! They are glad!...”
At these words the Princess Marie Thérèse uttered a piercing scream; the little Dauphin burst into tears; while the Queen, with drooping head and staring eyes, seemed sunk in a stupor almost like death. The shouts of a crier in the street soon informed them yet more plainly that all was over.
For the rest of the day, the poor little Prince hardly stirred from his mother’s side. He kissed her hands, often wet with his tears, and overwhelmed her with sweet childish caresses, which he seemed to feel would comfort her more than words.
“Alas! the tears of an innocent child, they may never cease to flow!” said the Queen, bitterly. “Death is harder for those who survive than for the ones who are gone!”
During the afternoon she asked permission to see Cléry, who had remained with his royal master in the Tower till the last moment. She felt that she must hear the last words and farewells of her martyred husband and treasure them as a precious legacy, and for more than an hour the faithful valet was with her, both absorbed in sorrowful discourse.
The long day passed in tears and wretchedness, and night brought no respite. The prisoners had been placed in charge of two jailers, a married couple named Tison, coarse creatures, from whose intrusions they were never free. Thus the inflexible hate of an infuriated populace pursued them even in the sanctity of their grief.
It was two o’clock at night, and more than an hour since the tearfully ended prayers had announced the time for rest; but rest was still far from the three unhappy women. In obedience to the Queen’s wishes, the Princess Marie Thérèse had indeed gone to bed, but she could not close her eyes. Her royal mother and her aunt, who were sitting near the bed of the Dauphin, talked of their sorrow and wept together in uncontrollable anguish. The sleeping child smiled, and there was such an expression of angelic sweetness and purity on his innocent face that the Queen could not refrain from saying sadly: