II d Si i 't' 1 1 1 R 1 Ff'H (Batnell Unttt^rstti) iCtbrarg Stifuta. 'Stm fork THE CELTIC LIBRARY PRESENTED BY CLARK SUTHERLAND NORTHUP CLASS OF 1S93 The date shows when this voltime was taken. To renew this book copy the call No. and give to- the librarian. HOME USE RULES tt|K*A «£%A.d All Books subject to recall T^ '•LGm-*&^ All borrowers must regis- ..Og ter in the library to borrow books for home use. ' All books must be re- turned at end of college year for inspection and repairs. Limited books must be " returned within the four wsek limit and not renewed. Students must return all books before leaving town. Officers should arrange for the return of books wanted during their absence from town. Volumes of periodicals and of pamphlets are held in the library as much as possible. For special pur- _ poses they are given out for a limited time. Borrowers should not use their library privileges for the benefit of other persons. Boaks of special value and gift books, when the , giver wishes it, are not allowed to circulate. Readers are asked to re- port all cases of books marked or mutilated. Do not deface bo>r:s by marks and writing. Cornell University Library PR 5377.S5Q3 The queen's fillet, 3 1924 013 547 975 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013547975 THE QUEEN'S FILLET By canon SHEEHAN, D.D. Luke Delmege: A Novel. Lisheen: or the Test of the Spirits. A Novel. Glenanaak: A Novel of Irish Life. The Blindness of Dr. Gray: A Novel of Irish Life. Miriam Lucas: A Novel. The Queen's Fillet: A Novel. The Graves at Kilmorna: A Story of '67. Parerga: a Companion Volume to " Under the Cedars and the Stars." The Intellectuals: An Experiment in Irish Club- Life. Early Essays and Lectures Canon Sheehan of Doneraile: The Story of an Irish Parish Priest as told chiefly by himself in Books, Personal Memoirs and Letters. By Herman J. Eeuser, D.D. The Queen's Fillet BY CANON SHEEHAN, D.D. Author of "Afy New C-urate," "Luke Delmege" "GlenanaaT," etc. FocsiH Imfkession LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. FOURTH AVENUE & 30th STREET, NEW YORK LONDON, BOMBAY, CALCUTTA AND MADRAS 1919 Copyright^ 1911, by Longmans, Green, and Co. First edition printed, 1911 Reprinted April, 1912, June, 1917 May, 1919 CONTENTS BOOK I CHAPTER PAGE I. The ChAteau Saint-Remt 3 II. Father and Son 11 III. St-Sulpice 19 IV. . Soul-Struqgles 27 V. To Paris 36 VI. The Demigod 43 VII. At Versailles 53 VIII. The Sibyl of the Woods 63 IX. Statesman and Soldier 67 X. The Castle by the Sea 76 XI. Camilla 86 XII. A Night-Attack 95 XIII. August the Tenth 108 XIV. Girondists 120 XV. The Marquis's Pardon 130 XVI. Maurice Escapes . 137 XVII. The Gascon's Revenge 149 XVIII. A Fruitless Attempt ... 157 BOOK II XIX. A Regicide 166 XX. The "Haute Noblesse" 177 XXI. The Queen's Passport .186 XXII. Genevieve and C^cilb 197 XXIII. The Son of Capet 208 XXrV. C^cile's Dream 217 V vi CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE XXV. The Sttpeeme Crime 227 XXVI. Victories and Defeats 239 XXVII. The Queen's Fillet 247 XXVIII. The Reign of Terror 256 XXIX. "Exit Tthannus!" 269 BOOK III XXX. The Dead Marshal 287 XXXI. Ad^le's Guardian 299 XXXII. firiENNE 308 XXXIII. The Carthusian 317 XXXIV. A Rash Promise 325 XXXV. At St-Marcellin 333 XXXVI. An Incognita 339 XXXVII. Under Arrest 347 XXXVIII. The Abbot Pleads . 355 XXXIX. ADiiLE's Sentence 363 XL. Reprieve 371 THE QUEEN'S FILLET THE QUEEN'S FILLET BOOK I I The Chateau Saint-Remy "What? Can you not hear it, — the rumbling of the earthquake beneath your feet; and the signs in the heavens above your heads? 0, bhnd, and deaf, and foolish! And the storm wiU break, like the hurricane of fire on Gomor- rah; and you will sink beneath it, as the doomed cities sank for ever under the lake of bitumen and sulphur!" "You are mad, mad, mad! These books have turned your mind. Give them up, Maurice, and get your horse and dogs to-morrow, and go into the forests and the pine-woods, and get back your health of mind and body." "But I tell you 'tis -coming, coming, and is at hand — the day of vengeance and retribution. What time is this to think of horses and dogs, when the earth is shaking beneath our feet?" "You're a dreamer of dreams, Maurice de Brignon, — a seer of visions and a dreamer of dreams! And mark you, that is a dangerous frame of mind for a young man. Chacun d son metier! And the lot of a young man is to mount a horse, not to sit on a tripod; and to look into his lady's eyes, and not into the glass of a clairvoyant." "It needs no tripod and no glass to see what is at our doors, Ren^" rejoined his companion moodily. "I hear the falling of the axe, and that most terrible of sounds — the onrushing of a maddened people!" "You need a doctor, my friend," said Ren6 Pereyra. "Your nerves are unstrung, and your imagination has 3 4 THE QUEEN'S FILLET leaped beyond its boiinds. You hear the click of the billiard-balls inside yonder room, where the shadows are passing on the blinds; and the fall of the cascade in the forest." "Would that that were true, Ren6," rejoined his friend. "Yes, you are right. These things are in the hands of the gods. If only I coidd shut out the vision!" "Then come and shut it out, Maurice," said his friend. "Now, come along! If your father finds us here, he will storm; and he hath a sharp tongue — that good father of yours!" He laid his hand on the arm of the young man, or rather boy, who leaned with him against the parapet of a bal- cony, the white figure of a marble nymph above his head, and the broad terraces of the gardens far down beneath his feet. The fuU moon was up, and saihng over the tops of firs and pines, and flooding the vast front of the chateau, every line of which, from the mullioned win- dows of the basement to the pinnacles of the Moorish turrets, it threw into strong reUef. The time was mid- night of an autumn season; and the date only a few years before that terrific outburst of human madness that closed up and avenged the voluptuous reigns of Louis XIV. and XV. Any reader of pre-Revolution history can easily picture to his mind the scenes and circumstances that lay before the eyes of these young men that autumn night. A vast chateau, lighted from basement to attic; a gay assemblage of fair dames, clad in the fantastic fashion of those times; and nobles, who traced their blood through the veins of kings and conquerors; and statesmen versed in every art but the art of statesmanship; and courtiers whose supple backs never cracked beneath the bowing and bending of ceaseless courtesies; and abb^s, dressed in ecclesiastical costume, very unlike the tunics of Jewish fishermen; and here and there domestics, pliant and obedient and respectful, but counting the hours when all this splendour would be wrapped in consuming fires, and THE CHATEAU SAINT-REMY 5 only the ashes of a burnt-out civilisation should mark where learning and wit, and all the stately graces of the eighteenth century, gleamed and glittered and shone. And down there, even in the blessed autumn time, were peasants mourning over desolated homesteads, and chil- dren crying for bread, and old men crippled with rheuma- tism, for they had to stay out on the bitter winter nights to beat the marshes and still the croaking of the frogs, lest milord should turn once in his sleep, and the chate- laine be disturbed by other than pleasant dreams. And it was aU now ending, or about to end; and Ren6 Pereyra could not see it. Was it his Spanish blood that refused to see anything, except under a sunny aspect? But Maurice de Brignon saw it, — saw it clearly defined as if a ghastly panorama of burning castles and bleeding figures had risen up before his mind and become a gloomy obsession. And hence his dismal forecastings; and hence the firm but gentle refusal of his friend to accompany him back to the salon or the billiard-rooms, and all its music and gaiety and beauty and life. And yet, Maurice de Brignon was but a boy — a stripling of sixteen, tall for his age and well moulded in face and figure, and gifted with a supple strength that would have marked him for an athlete in ancient Rome or Greece. But he was gifted or cursed with a neurotic temperament derived from a mother who had died at an early period of her married life from consumption; and these neurotics are the world's prophets and priests, beckoning to the summits of the eternal hills, or the ministers of Ahriman on the down- ward slopes of Gehenna. He waited for a few minutes after his friend's departure, watching the beauty of the scene that lay before his eyes, and thinking of the human misery that festered beneath that beauty. Then, with a sigh, he passed along the terrace, descended some steps that led towards a pathway alon^ the lake, and walked rapidly forwards, imheeding the countless water-lilies that floated on the surface of the still waters, or the plaster groups of Laocoon, and *5 THE QUEEN'S FILLET figures of dying gladiators, and nymphs, and Psyches that made an avenue of gleaming sculptures along the lake-side path. When he reached the end of the promenade, he undid the latch of a wicket, and was immediately hidden in the gloom of the forest. Here, he walked more slowly, pondering the subject that was now perpetually before his mind, and trying to think out some way of awakening the sophists and revellers that were aU around him, to a conception of dangers that had become almost living and dread reahties to himself. Sometimes he stopped, and leaned up against the rugged bole of an oak tree, and tried to read a few lines of a book he held in his hands. But the moonlight was too faint, and he could only catch a line or two, which, however, gave him food for reflection imtil he reached another open glade. For, who could not find thought- material in such as this: "The torpor of a persecuted people is to be dreaded more than their spasms of rebellion, as a volcano always slumbers before its most violent eruptions." Or this: "There is a Red Book hidden in a rosewood desk at the Petit Trianon. When it is opened, as the seer saw at Patmos, the seven vials of wrath wiU be poured out upon the earth." "The Red Book," he soliloquized, his finger holding the page open, "what is it, I wonder? The Red Book!" He plunged deeper into the forest, attracted by the murmur of the cascade, which fell, a broad sheet of water that shone like silver in the moonlight, and then broke away into the river that ran down to the little village of Saint-Remy, where the labourers were now asleep. But it seemed to take an articulate shape, like the voice of a man speaking in low and suppressed tones, and yet with an accent of anger and reproof. He stopped, and drew back into the shade of the trees, and listened. There was a pause; but the music of the waters continued in the moonlight, as if the stream was singing unto the stars. THE ChAtEAU SAINT-REMY 7 But, then again came a broken murmur, not like the even rhythm of the waterfall; and Maurice knew that he had, without design, broken in upon one of those midnight conveiitions which, he knew well, were now being held in every nook and coign of shelter in the country. He was not in the least afraid. The "Terror" had not yet shown itself in that awful manner that makes faces blanch even to this day. But he felt he was an intruder; and, furthermore, that if he acquired any knowledge of these men and their doings, he could not in honour keep it secret. But then, the impetuosity of youth and his nervous disposition, always dragging him into dangerous situations, prevailed. He stepped into the moonhght, and advanced in the direction of the voice. There was a stampede, which was instantly checked by one strong, masterful command; and Maurice found himself face to face with ten of his father's retainers, every one of whom he knew intimately from his habit of mixing freely amongst the poor. "You are right, Dubuisson," he said boldly, and with confidence that he would not be misunderstood, "it is only the guilty and the cowards that flee. An honest man should fear neither man nor the Devil." "You would hardly say so, young master," replied Dubuisson, who was the village smith, "if ever you felt the pangs of hunger, or the cut of a riding-whip." The retort was so imexpected after his own avowal of confidence that the young man wAs taken aback. "And yet," he said, rapidly recovering his composure, "there seems something uncanny in these midnight meet- ings. These men should have been in bed hours ago!" Dubuisson laughed out. "Where were you bom, Maurice de Brignon," he said, "not to know that not one of these serfs has slept at night on a pillow for years?" "More shame for them!" said the young man. "I don't like night-birds — " 8 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "More shame for those who compel them to watch through the long hours of the night away from their wives and children, lest there should be one pheasant less for the Count's gun, or the snares of his lackeys!" Maurice de Brignon was shocked; and yet not sur- prised. He was quite well aware of the fact; but some- how, he had taken it as a matter of course. It had never come before him in all its dread significance till now. "Watching for poachers, I suppose?" he said, with a half attempt at an apology for the system. "Precisely. There is no greater crime than for a poor man to have a fowl simmering in his pot. But, we are improving, young master, every day improving. Our lords and masters are become hmnane. True, there are only straw beds down there in the village, through which this river runs; and only black bread and water-cress to eat; and the river-water to drink. But the times are improved since monseigneur, returning from a bad day's sport, would bring down a peasant or two with his gun; and if he could pepper them on a house-roof, and have the pleasiu-e of seeing the vermin tumble like a wounded pheasant, all the merrier." "You arc a liar, Dubuisson!" said the young man angrily. "You are a revolutionist and a radical, and you are leading these poor fools astray. Come away, men — " "Dubuisson is not a har, young master," said an old ranger, stepping forward. "I saw it." "Saw what?" said the young man, angrily. "Take care of what you say, Lebreuil! You are an old man, and an old retainer of our family; and you are not going to traduce us at the bidding of such a malcontent as Dubuisson." "I am an old man, with one foot in the grave," said Lebreuil, "but I saw it. I saw the master shoot a poor gamekeeper over there in the wood, near Cerconnet. I saw a mason tumbled off the roof in the yard of the Cha- teau by a musket-shot." " It was none of our family did such a dastardly thing? " said the young man, trembling with agony and shame. THE CHATEAU SAINT-REMY 9 "Ask me no more, young master!" said the old man, falling back amongst his comrades. There was a dread silence of a few minutes. Then, Dubuisson, realizing his triumph, called forth the old man again; and with a fierce gesture he tore open the wretched shirt of the old ranger, and dragged him over to where de Brignon was standing. The old man's chest was heaving painfully, and the bronchial tubes were making their own dismal music. The ribs of the chest were quite bare in the moonlight. Dubuisson struck them roughly. He was in a furious temper. "Do you see?" he cried to the young Count. "Starva- tion!" "Do you hear?" he cried, bending down his ear to catch the loud breathing. "Disease!" "What are these white marks, Lebreuil?" he cried, mockingly, pointing to the marks of tiny pustules on the chest. 'Croton-oil!" said the old man. "How long are they there?" "Forty years this Christmas!" was the reply. Maiuice turned away, leaving the old man standing, his white breast bare to the moon, the brawny smith still holding the wretched shirt open as if it were a sight for God, and angels, and men. He passed rapidly backwards along the way he had come, leaped lightly up the steps of the terrace, and strode along in front of the chateau. The night was close and the blinds were drawn up, and the lower windows were open. He saw the salon, where a young lady in evening dress leaned languidly over a sofa, her chin resting on her jewelled hand, and a faint smile playing aroimd her mouth, for a young wit was mockingly relating some story that seemed to hold them all entranced with amusement. Further on, in the next apartment, a card-party were engrossed in the game of whist. Little pyramids of gold lay on a green baize table; there was silence as of those in deadly earnest. There was a look of pain and a gleam of avarice on the face of 10 THE QUEEN'S FILLET the lady fronting the window. Her yellow pilk, spangled with jewelled scorpions, and her coiffure, rising like a tower above her head, seemed to be forgotten in the eagerness of the game. Further on, gentlemen in their shirt-sleeves were playing biUiards and sipping brandy. In the largest salon, a cotillon was in progress; and Mau- rice, who thought dancing little better than the contor- tions and grimaces of monkeys, swept on disgusted. In the last room in front of the chateau, a solitary figure sat on a high chair. His left hand lay by his side, clasping a volume which he had just been reading. His back was towards the window; and he was gazing upwards, as if in deep thought, at the rows of well-bound books that filled the shelves. Maurice paused, and gliding behind a window-mullion, watched his friend. He half read his thoughts. He knew they were far away from the frivolities of the chateau and the mixed society that thronged its chambers. Was he thinking of their conversation of an hour ago? Or, was he stirred to strange emotions by what he had been reading? Maurice knew well what book was in his hands. It was tlmile, or the Central Social — books that were then stirring the youth of France to their soul- depths. Would he step in through the open window, and disturb that deep meditation? He decided, no! And quietly gliding away, he turned the comer of the chS,teau, and reached his chamber unperceived. Two candles were burning on his table. He extinguished them, threw up his bedroom window, and looked out on the lovely night. The lake lay on his left, dark as Death, except where the white patines of the water-lilies gleamed in the moonlight. The great, dark forest behind seemed hud- dled away — a dark mass of undefined foliage, vast, iUimitable. An owl hooted over his head in the tower; but he saw neither lake nor forest, but the white breast of the labourer ridged and furrowed by starvation, and the little white nodules where the croton-oil had raised its pustules on the flesh. n Father and Son The next morning dawned with promise of a glorious autumnal day. The forests shone in all their splendid colours; and the warm, autumnal sun beat down hotly on the terrace, and on the ground in front and beneath, where now was gathered after the morning meal a goodly assemblage of dames and cavaliers. Most of the latter were mounted for the chase, their gims slung in front or over their shoulders, their horses leaping and curvetting in the high spirits engendered by generous provender and little work. The rangers clad in green jerkins kept apart, and now and again flicked with their long whips the flanks of the white and red setters that tore madly along in canine play, and sometimes got into dangerous proximity with the horses. The ladies filled the light caliches that were drawn by bay mares, whose silken coats shone in the svmshine. It was a gay, 'animated scene; and the sun sparkled on the polished silver of harness and carriage, and the jewels on the hands of cavalier and knight. The days of hawking were almost over; but one young girl held a brown hooded hawk on her thickly-gloved hand, and played with his jesses with the other. As the bugle sounded, and a yoimg himter, hardly more than a boy, rode up and ordered the caval- cade forward, he looked up at the terrace, where his father. Count de Brignon, and his elder brother, Maurice, were standing, one at each end of the broad steps at the top. He slung round his silver bugle and sent its clear notes ringing across the landscape. He replaced it with a smile of self-gratulation or conceit; and at the same 11 12 THE QUEEN'S FILLET moment, the young girl who held the hooded hawk at her wrist, waved her hand towards the terrace, and cried: "Au revoir, Monsieur le Comte! Bon matin, Monsieur I'Abbe!" Maurice's brow flushed at the insult, which had elicited a laugh from the departing guests; and then, without looking at his father, who was pulling down his long black beard, whilst a grin of pleasure crossed his face, he went in and biuried himself in the library. He could not read, although he took down volume after volume, and tried to biu-y himself in its contents. He despised himself for being so much agitated at the word of a silly chit of a girl, who would mock the Divinity for the pleasure of uttering a bon mot. But he could not control himself. He walked up and down the floor vainly trying to subdue his agitation, and just as vainly reason- ing that that dread word meant nothing, but the leap of a girl's thoughts. He looked down at his costume — black velvet jacket, slashed with silk braid, black pantaloons, black silk stockings, and black shoes with silver buckles. "No wonder," he said, "she should have mistaken. I must change this ecclesiastical costume." But the mocking tone and the implied insult came back to sting him again and again; and he thought, with a kind of savage exultation, of what he had seen the night before ia the forest. "There will be a rude awakening one of these days. Messieurs and Mesdames," he said to himself, "and I and others shall have our revenge. At any rate, I am now committed to the cause of the people and liberty." A few hours later, he was summoned to meet his father in the same library. "Sit down, Maurice," said his father blandly, when fearing, wondering, hoping, he entered the room. "You probably guess the object of my seeking this interview." "I confess. Sir," said the young man, looking away from his father's face, "that I am quite in ignorance of your intentions." FATHER AND SON 13 "Well, then, to be brief," replied his father, "I sent for you to say that it is now quite time for you to think of college." "The military college at Soissons or St. Laurent?" said Maurice, a gleam of hope and of martial ardour lighting up his face. "I mean St-Sidpice," said his father, with a frown. "St-Sulpice?" said the young man. "That is a college for priests." "Quite so. And, as you are to be the only member of the family who wiU have the honour of entering the Church, it is quite time to prepare. You are now the canonical age; and after a few years' study, you can have a benefice. There are some fat ones at my disposal." The young man was silent. He sat stiU with crossed legs, his eyes fixed on the rows of books above his head, his face white and rigid, his nostrils distended. His father did not interrupt him. At last, Maurice said, turning swiftly aroimd and facing his father: "Am I to take this. Sir, as a joke or an insult?" "It certainly is not a joke," said his father calmly. "And it ill becomes a Catholic gentleman to regard an invitation to enter the Church as an insult." "Certainly not," said his son. "But, hitherto, if younger sons have entered the Church, and climbed to ecclesiastical preferments, the Comtes de Brignon have been the Comtes de Brignon, without a 'I'Abb^' to their names." "And the Comtes de Brignon shall be the Comtes de Brignon," said his father. "I have no intention of merg- ing the title in the Church." "Then, this whole thing is a joke, probably originated by that witty young lady who saluted me this morning. I suppose I have sanctioned it by my disregard for per- sonal appearance. I shall change all that." "No! You shall rather retain it, my boy," said his father, rising, and speaking affectionately. "You shall retain it and become an ornament to the Church for 14 THE QUEEN'S FILLET which you are so well adapted. Nay, nay, don't inter- rupt me! I know you, my dear Maurice, better than you know yourself; and of course, I must keep up the traditions of our race. We are a race of soldiers, not of bookworms. Now, you are gentle, which becomes a good priest, whether he is village cuH or Monsignor; you are studious, which means you are to rise by learning to the highest offices in the Church. There has been a Cardinal de Brignon ere now. Why not a second? You love solitude. The very thing a good priest loves, if we are to judge by that excellent book — the Imitation! True, you lack ambition, which is a weakness, because although you might think it the more spiritual and holy thing to be lowly and meek, the world is disposed to take men at their own estimation, and to beUeve you to be what you profess. Nevertheless, if you never get beyond the rank of a good village cure, it -will be a gain. Of such is the kingdom of heaven!" And the Count de Brignon took snuff. He was get- ting on well. "Besides," he continued, flicking off a little dust from his sleeve, "it makes no matter. In these new ideas of equality, and levelling down of the squire to the slave, of the prince to the peasant, we all have to share. Sometimes, indeed, I, too, suffer from the temptation of throwing open this chateau of oiu^s, and making it a' lodging-house for the blind, the lame, and the deaf; and partition- ing these broad acres amongst our peasants. But then, I consider that probably they would quarrel amongst themselves for precedence, and the strong man and the cunning man would again become the Comte de Brignon, or his equivalent. It is only a question of time; and his- tory repeats itself. Look at Dubuisson now! Let us suppose that in a general bouleversement all things and persons were dragged down pell-mell into a common level, don't you think he would be the first to raise his head above his fellows? But, as I was saying, my dear Maurice, with these ideas in the air all around us, surely FATHER AND SON 15 you should not complain if with my solicitude for your welfare, temporal and eternal, I choose for you the quiet placid life of a priest instead of the possibly tumultuous career of a Comte de Brignon." The yoimg man was listening as in a dream to these cynical platitudes uttered in a quiet, even tone by his father. The last words seemed to wake him up; but he had not yet realised their utmost significance. He was examining his past to see wherein he had offended. He could not beUeve that his father, for a mere whim, would disinherit him. At length, he said quietly, but the tears were in his eyes: "Father, either this is part of the ordinary play of words and exchange of wits that now obtain in our salons; or it is a dread and terrible reality. If it is merely an exercise of wit for the evening sahn, I should not object. Do you assure me it is not?" He turned aside at the last word; and dashed a tear aside. His father saw it, and smiled. "Now, Maurice," he said, "everything convinces me that I am right. I mentioned before some happy quah- fications which you undoubtedly possess for the sacred ministry. Behold, another! Innocence, guilelessness — the most admirable attributes of the priesthood — 'Be ye simple as doves!' You are simple, Maurice de Brignon, very simple, if you cannot grasp the meaning of my words!" "Then I have offended you in some mysterious way, and seriously?" "No, my boy, you have not offended me. I rarely take offence, for it is only fools that offend; and I take no notice of fools. All men are fools; and some women. This world of ours is only a vast asylum for fools. You know what the good Voltaire says: 'If the other planets are inhabited, this world is the limatic ward of the uni- verse.' The good Voltaire is right. Men must walk through Ufe as through the wards of a lunatic asylum, bowing to each mad idiosyncrasy, and above all, avoiding 16 THE QUEEN'S FILLET quarrels. You will admit that it would be foolish to dispute the sovereignty of the King of Siam, or the Em- peror of Morocco; or to argue with a madman who thinks he is made of glass or has a harpsichord in his brain. Well, in a modified manner, life, society, men, and women are mad. Each has his own delusion, which he cherishes as part of his existence, and for which he is prepared to fight d outrance. Well, a wise man passes such morbid creatures by, leaving them to hug their delusions. And so, you see, my dear boy, you have not offended. Only I make certain arrangements, and they have to be carried out — at one's peril." "And these arrangements are?" said Mavuice, rising up, and confronting his father. The latter was a brave man, but he shrank under the eye of his disinherited son, wherein a new and dangerous light was gleaming. "That you proceed at once to St-Sulpice to commence your clerical studies, and to prepare yourself for orders." "And the title of Comte de Brignon, and the property?" "These are my affairs. A priest has no business with such earthly things." "But the title descends to the eldest son; and the de Brignon property is entailed. I claim by legitimate descent, and the rights of primogeniture, which are recog- nized by the laws of France, the right to succeed you in the title and estates of our family." "All that is changed," said his father, dropping his mocking tone, as the words came more sternly from the Hps of his son. "It could not be changed, except with my consent, freely and formally given, to renounce the title and estates for ever. That I have not given; and I beUeve you to be yet honoiu'able enough not to use my name." "The Comte de Brignon flushed at the impUed insult, and then grew pale. "There is only one other way," continued Maurice, "to break the rights of succession, and that is by Royal Letters Patent." FATHER AND SON 17 "Well?" said his father. "You have obtained them? You can obtain anything now by money, when the Royal Exchequer is empty, and the Austrian woman is gambling away the revenues of the kingdom with the most disreputable canaiUe in the Capital." "Ma foi!" said his father. "But you seem to be anxious to see the insides of the Bastille, or Vincennes, yoimg man." "Braver men than I have seen them," said Maurice. "Then you have bribed royalty or the minions of royalty, to disinherit me. Very good! I don't ask for proofs. The man who would disinherit his son without cause is equally capable of prociuing the documents. But now, one word, my dear father!" The sudden change in tone assumed by the young man, and the sudden imitation of his own mocking accents, disconcerted the Comte. He sank into a chair, and turned his face away from his son. The latter went on: "I understand aU. You have disinherited me for Claude and — that girl! Very good! But you cannot take from my veins the blood of soldiers and chevaliers. My ambition was to serve my coimtry in the army. You condemn me to the sanctuary. I go. I know the same intriguing that procured the Royal Letters Patent can also procure lettres de cachet in these our days. I don't want to be arrested at midnight, and without trial, condemned to secret imprisonment for life. I go. But mark you, Comte de Brignon, you are the last of your race! The days are at hand when titles, crowns, mitres, wiU be dragged down and burnt to ashes by a maddened people. When you and your class," oh! what bitter emphasis he laid on that word, "wake up suddenly to see the frightful conflagration you yourselves have origi- nated, perhaps the Comte de Brignon will be glad of the services of the Abb6 de Brignon to save himself, or if any remain that are yet dear to him. Yet, even then, I doubt if the Church can save, or if a maddened humanity 18 THE QUEEN'S FILLET will not trample all in the common mud. Farewell, dear father. Or rather, au revoir! We shall meet again!" He strode from the room. His father remained seated, plunged in a kind of stupor into which the anger of his disinherited son had precipitated him. He paid no atten- tion to the tlu-eats of revolution. These had been re- peated so often of late years that the aristocracy of France had regarded them as futile. There had been one abor- tive attempt, which was promptly suppressed, and the leaders hanged as high as Haman. And the same would occur again. With a nobility loyal to its king, and an army loyal to the state, they would burn out and extin- guish in twenty-four hours any attempt at insurrection. The Count was troubled about other things. His pride was stung by the bitter words he had heard and which he never expected. "The wretch," he said, rising up and walking up and down the long room. " I have a good mind to have the fellow seized at once, and put where he would have time to repent his indiscretion. But, no matter. He will go; and I mistake very much if St-Sulpice is not worse than the Bastille. How that cassock will gall him! A veri- table Nessus shirt of torture. How the young buck will rage when, instead of his slashed and braided uniform, he will find the black petticoat tangled around his knees; and how will he finger his breviary, instead of his sword. By Jove, yes," as a happy thought struck him. "We'll pay him an immediate visit, Claude and Marie and my- self, and ask him to remember us in his prayers." Ill St-Sulpice The portraits drawn of the professors of Issy and St-Sulpice by their most renowned, but most unhappy pupil, Ernest Eenan, fifty years after the outbreak of the Revolution, might also be taken as the symbols of that distinguished order when Maurice de Brignon was reluctantly placed under its charge. The men had changed. The spirit that created the men was the same. And just as St-Cyr to the Parisian mind means mili- tarism, and the Louvre suggests art, so St-Sulpice suggests the ecclesiastical spirit in its highest and most perfect manifestation. This is not by any means what the outer world, so superficial in its judgments, deems it to be. It is not the spirit of sleekness and suppleness and iutriguing; it is not the power and the desire of worming oneseK Lato the labyrinths of human hearts and extorting their secrets; nor yet the power of supple adaptation to the exigencies of society in order that it may influence society. It is the exact opposite of all this. It is the spirit of aloofness from what it contemptuously terms "the world"; it is the hatred of the flesh that wars against the soul, and every art and design that can embellish the attractions of the flesh; and it is the disdain, not sprung from spiritual pride, but from a consciousness of antagonism, for every- thing that savoiu's of luxury, or ease, or profit — of all that men pursue with avidity, and find with disgust. It is the spirit that adopts in aU its entirety the mediaeval views of the body as the deadly enemy of the soul; and whilst professing the deepest spiritual abasement and humility, regards with a kind of contemptuous pity those W 20 THE QUEEN'S FILLET whom it designates as "seculars." The ignominia seculi, the degradation of the secular habit, the pride of spiritual rank, the exaltation of the sacerdotal order, the glory and the splendour that surround the priesthood — these are the dominant ideas that prevail in ecclesiastical sem- inaries; and they reached their highest realization m. the cloisters of the vast building which the hands of the Revolution so ruthlessly destroyed. And the gentle and holy, and polished and learned priests, of whom Renan speaks in a tone of reverential and affectionate pity, had worthy predecessors in the professors under whose care Maurice de Brignon was now reluctantly but obediently placed by the behests of his father. At first, the whole atmosphere of the institution almost choked him. Accustomed to a free life, fuU of exercise and the toils of sport, he drooped under the pressure of those cloistral aisles, whose very religious dimness, so suggestive of piety and poetry, weighed down upon and cloaked every spiritual and intellectual faculty. He felt he was trapped and caged; and he walked the narrow limits of his prison in fretfulness and despair. The studies revolted him. These logical subtleties and metaphysical disquisitions were like chopped straw in his mouth. All the graces of the classics, the science of graceful phrases and noble thoughts, had no place in this austere seminary where everything seemed to be rigidly excluded, except hard reasoning along the lines of the ancient Stagirite, drawn as a kind of logical circumvallation aroimd the truths of Divine Faith. It is true that he foimd after some time that the more gracious things of life were not unknown either to professors or students; but they had been put aside as the playthings of children, and unworthy of the notice of reasoning men. Then the rehgious sur- roundings galled him. The cassock was a garment of femininity and shame. He, who had been dreaming all his youth of the gorgeous uniforms of hussars and cuiras- siers, who saw their dolmans flying behind them in the battle-charge, and the white cloaks of the chasseurs gleam- ST-SULPICE 21 ing in the smoke and crash of victory, looked down at the black skirt that tangled itself around his knees and clogged every movement, with a feeling of utter loathing and disgust. And, during the solemn services of choir and chapel, his thoughts were far away. He could attend piously enough as a Galahad or a Bedivere. Nay, he could make a knightly vigil without reluctance or protest; but to be condemned to serve all his life as a cowled and shaven priest — it was maddening. And yet, disgusted and shamed, he could not help admiring and even loving the good priests under whose care he had been placed. Their gravity, so unlike the levity and folly of the abb^s of the salon and the court; their vast learning, lightly and humbly borne; their self- effacement, their untitled grandeur, appealed strongly to his imagination. He thought, if there be such a thing as perfection in man, surely it was here. And they? Well, they were troubled and anxious about their pupil. They knew his history and circumstances well; and they felt for the boy. But what was to be done? One evening, as he paced up and down the garden walks alone, as was his wont, for he disdained the peasant- bom student, although he had been reading Jean Jacques, and although his own sense told him that in learning and greatness of soul many of these were his superiors, he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and a pale, gentle face looked into his. "Alone, my child," said a sweet and gentle voice, " always alone I Is it well? " "It is not well, mon p^re," he said, tiu'ning away his face to hide his tears. "It is very unwell. But, what can I do?" " Accept with resignation God's holy will," was the reply. "It is not by God's will I am here," Maurice replied, "but by the evil machinations of men. As many a young girl is driven into the cloister against her inclinations, so am I driven into a profession I detest and loathe, to serve the caprices of an imnatural father." 22 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "But dost thou not know, my child," pleaded the gentle voice, "that the good God often uses the machinations of men for his own wise purposes? Have you not read in Holy Writ how often the wisdom of the Eternal has con- foimded the wisdom of men? " "Aye," said the young man, in whom the spirit of argimient was now strengthening the spirit of revolt, "but I have also read how often the hapless and the wretched have been driven to despair, and the hand of God was closed against them. But that is not the ques- tion now. The question now is, what right have I to enter a profession, for which I am in every way unfit, and to which I have the strongest repugnance?" "I have seen cases where that repugnance was changed into love and enthusiasm," said the priest. "And can you hold — mon ph-e, pardon me if I am seemingly rude — that a youth without the shadow of a vocation may yet intrude into the sanctuary?" "The vocation may come," said the priest. "Never!" said the young man emphatically. "No power on earth or heaven can make a priest of one who is in every way unsuitable. And mind — the priesthood means renunciation, does it not?" "Certainly, my child!" said the priest. "On the day when you say to the pontiff, 'The Lord is the portion of my inheritance and my cup,' you sacrifice everything to the Lord!" "And do you suppose, my dear Father," said Maurice, lapsing into a tone of bitter sarcasm, "that I, Maurice, Count de Brignon, shall tamely abandon my claim to my hereditary rights? Never! I am here through com- pulsion. I do not imdervalue the power of the Church, her wealth, her dignities; but I am a child of the Crusaders, and I shall never relinquish my title." "Was Cceur de Lion greater than the 'Hermit'?" said the priest musingly. "Or was St. Louis greater than St. Bernard? But there I am comparing saints; and St. Paul forbids it. But, Maurice de Brignon, a greater than ST-SULPICE 23 thou has renounced the world even in our times, and renounced a title as great as yours, nay greater; and has already had his reward. Nay, I, a poor Sulpician, am much mistaken if he does not yet rule in the cabinets of kings, and sway the destinies of empires." "Of whom do you speak, mon peref" said the young man, whose curiosity was now thoroughly roused. "Never mind!" said the priest. "He is coming here to-night. You may see him, although you may not speak to him, as he is coming here for Retreat." There was a pause as the priest and the young student walked side by side along the gravelled path, their cas- socks brushing the laurels by the way, and their feet trampling the red leaves of the autimm. Then, as they turned, the professor said, as if to himself, and as if won- dering at the discovery: :; "And he, too, has been disinherited, and his portion given to a younger brother. And he has the additional disadvantage of deformity. Yet, he will rule in the cabinets of kings, and sway the destinies of empires." "Then the Church, too, has its carrieresf" said the yovmg man, who could only think of it as an object of ambition. "Yes!" said the professor. "The Church has its social and political aspects, as a world-wide organisation, just as it has its deep religious aspect to the himible and the lowly. They do not conflict. But, sometimes, foolish people see only one face of the statue, and they profess themselves shocked. They do not see that a vast empire must have its terrene connections — its ambassadors, its nuncios, its dignitaries, nay, even its wealth. So far from being embarrassed by such things, they are helps, nay, necessary helps towards its mai^ntenance. But beneath all the pomp and power of empire, it keeps in the hearts of the people the lowly spirit of Christ; and he who put his foot on the necks of kings, bent his knee the next moment to some humble friar." "Ha! Put his foot upon the necks of kings! I like 24 THE QUEEN'S FILLET that! But, I would have liked it better if it were not the foot of Popes, but of the people!" "Sh!" said the priest, shocked at such audacity, and moving away from such a rebel. "And if it were added," continued the student, with a smile, "on the necks of fair queens who are gambhng away a nation's wealth, so much the better." But the good Father had put his fingers in his ears. For some days after this scene, Maurice de Brignon watched and scanned every strange face that entered the college to find the great Unknown. But in vain! There were the same calm, placid faces of the professors, the same keen, if plebeian faces of the students, and no more! He decided that his good interlocutor was guilty of a pious fraud, and he dismissed the thought. Then one evening, he saw a yoimg abb6 who seemed to limp pain- fully on a stick, and kept studiously aloof from every one. He decided that this was some country curi with mental scruples as well as physical deformity. Later on, the same evening, he entered the large hbrary to seek a book. It was dusk. There was but one occupant, and he was perched high on a library ladder, crouched together on the topmost step, and straining his eyes in the twilight. Maurice passed on. But the figure accosted him; and in a tone of peremptoriness that caused resentment and carried obedience. "Come hither, mon enfant," he said. "Your name!" "Maurice, Comte de Brignon!" was the reply. "The devil!" said the strange figure," you mistake! You are the Dauphin, but you have grown too rapidly." "God forbid!" said the student so earnestly that the visitor laughed. "You dread the dignity, or — the destiny?" he said. "I detest the origin, and I dread the fate," said the student. "Ill words in the mouth of a French nobleman," said the visitor. "What the devil are you doing in this galley'" ST-SULPICE 25 "Waiting!" said Maurice. "For what?" said the visitor, now descending slowly, until he reached the floor and confronted the student. "For time, and a time, and the times foretold by the prophet." "I see you read your Bible. Take a wise man's advice — keep also to your Breviary!" "I am not yet qualified; and never shall!" said the student. "Sit down!" said the visitor. "I must hear more of you!" "But you're on Retreat, Monseigneur!" said Maurice, now assuming a tone ojf respect. The abb6 thought it was sarcasm. "Never mind!" he said. Then, as if recollectmg some- thing, he beckoned the student to follow him from the library, and he led him up the narrow staircase which led to the small suite of apartments that had been reserved for his use. "Sit down," he said, "Maurice de Brignon! You are right. I'm on Retreat, and we must not scandalize these young gueux. You've a story. Let me hear it; It will while away the tedium of these long hours.". Maurice was about to make another bitter reply; but he was no longer now in the twilight and the shade. He was face to face with the most remarkable man of his time, and his eyes involuntarily fell beneath that calm, inscrutable, contemptuous glance before which the eagle eyes even o^ Napoleon quailed. Yet it was not an angry glance. Nay, it was very mild. It was its immovability that constituted its power. The eyes looked half closed, and they gave the man the appearance of somnolency; but they searched and searched the depths of the soul, as if it were a crystal globe under a strong and piercing light. And the heavy jaw denoted massive strength beneath that eye of scrutiny; and the mouth was closed, and the lips lay, like marble slabs, on each other. That face was a monolith. There was no crevice that even a 26 THE QUEEN'S FILLET sword could pierce. It was as the face of a tomb that yields up its secrets no more for ever. Maurice de Brignon sank down abashed. One glance at that face turned towards him, smiling, inquiring, was enough. He stammered an apology. "I fear I have been rude, num Tpere," he said with eyes cast down. " I did not understand. It is so unusual." "Never mind," said the voice, that was calm as the face. "I think I understand. Tell me your history." And there, with the yellow candle-light streaming on his face, Maurice told this strange man, who, apparently not much older than himself, seemed to be centuries beyond him in wisdom, the whole story of his life. When he came to the account of the hunting-party, the gay triumph of his brother Claude, and the flippant sarcasm of the young lady with the hawk and jesses, he burst into tears. The strange visitor watched him curiously for a moment, took out his snuff-box, tapped it, arranged his handker- chief on his knees, and flicked away a minute particle of dust. "Ma foi!" he said, "the son of the crusaders weeping for the impertinence of a girl who was probably whipped that morning by her nurse. There is some false blood there. That is not how the de Brignons acted." The insult acted like magic on the boy. He rose up, his eyes flashing, and his cheeks burning. "Monseigneur," he said, deliberately, and pointing to his cassock, "this garment of shame saves us from a quarrel. I bid you good evening!" "A lion in an ass's skin, or an ass in a lion's skin, which is it?" murmured the visitor, as Maurice left the room. "But 'tis a hard fate, poor fellow. I think I can help him. At least, I must see more of him." IV Soul-Stkuggles And he did. The boy's nobility, his high spirit, his disinheritance so very Uke his own — all appealed to this strange man who, each day and every day of his sojourn in St-Sulpice, took the opportunity of seeing the unwilling student and gaining a deeper insight into his character. And again and again, in their frequent interviews, he returned to Maurice's narration of that midnight scene in the forest of St-Remy, and he had him repeat his description of the old wood-ranger, and the fierce language of Dubuisson, the blacksmith. "Strange," he murmured, "but I am hearing similar reports from all parts of the country, even from Brittany. The people have been transformed into wild beasts. What will it be when the gates of their cages are thrown open?" "What," cried his young friend, "but desolation on desolation? When the fountains of the great deep are broken up, what can you expect but a deluge?" "I suppose now," said Monseigneur, looking aside at Maurice with that slanting glance from half-shut eyes which in after years seemed so incomprehensible even to skilled diplomatists, "you are the only person in this little harbour of religion who has any interest in such things?" "I believe so," said the student modestly, and yet with some pride at the distinction. "The good Fathers are interested in metaphysics, and some are Orientalists; none are scientists; but all are holy and amiable and charming." "Then you cannot speak to them of the things that interest you, and — me? " 27 28 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "No!" said Maurice, laughing. "When I denounce the King and his court and, above all, the Austrian woman, they put their fingers in their ears and run away." "And why do you disUke the 'Austrian woman' so much?" "Because she is the main cause of all the coimtry's troubles; and because I am convinced that it is owing to her infajnous court and covu'tiers I am here to-day." "You may be wrong," said Monseigneur thoughtfully, "although I have heard similar things from older lips than yovu's. You may change your opinions about the Aus- trian. In any case, my dear friend," he added, with a little smile in which contempt and kindness were blended, "n'im.'pcyrte!" They parted, Monseigneur and student; but the latter was not forgotten by his powerful friend. Nay, there appears to have been struck some close intimacy between them, for we find the following letter from Versailles, dated a few days after that terrible October 6, 1789, which beheld the fall of the Bourbon dynasty in France. "Versailles, October 10, 1789. "Maurice a Maurice. "One more instance of the truth of the text: Ex ore infantium et lactentium, etc. Thou hast prophesied aright, my young friend! The deluge has come; and I have seen the King and Queen of France borne along like straws on a muddy flood. I have been here some weeks in my capacity as elected deputy to the Etats GSn^raux which the King, with his usual benevolent imbecihty, convoked in view of his palace. The Etats were threefold. Nobles, Commons, and Clergy; but, ma foi, they were ill-assorted bedfellows, because the middle one, laclcing politeness and the savoir-faire of good society, promptly kicked the Church and Nobility of France into space. Our little bambino King pleaded for his two pet children. He did not like to see them shivering in the cold; but the others would not have it; and told the SOUL-STRUGGLES 29 bambino King to go and play with his piece of coral. The Bishop of Chdteauroux, naturally anxious to get back to the warmth of office again, generously offered a portion of his tithes as a bribe to the sturdy young rebel. He made a pretty speech, full of all kinds of generous offers and promises of self-sacrifice on behalf of the clergy; but a long, lank, yellow lawyer, his face pitted with smallpox, and the coloiu' of an unripe melon, rose up and, twitching his mouth, bade Monseigneur go back to the poverty and hiuniUty of his master. The thing was absurd, of course; but the fellow was cheered to the echo. Then the Bambino bade his army to disperse the young rebels. These promptly replied by repudiating King, Nobles, and Clergy, and forming themselves into a National Assembly. They are exceedingly amusing. Each comes into convocation with a portfoho under his arm, containing his speech; and no matter how irrelevant it may be to the purposes of debate, he rolls it off majestically and sits down with the con(3eit of a Cicero. There is one giant amongst the pigmies — one Mirabeau, utterly disreputable in life and conduct, but gifted Avith a facial ugliness that is captivat- ing by its very hideousness, and a contempt for morality and humanity that fascinates every one who comes under his influence. I am already his slave. The rogue makes me laugh. I know he is in the pay of the Duke of Orleans who is ambitious to see the Bambino hustled back to his cradle and himself appointed Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom. If the Bambino offers a bigger price, he will go over to his side. Meanwhile the canaille of Paris have visited us and brought their dirt and diseases with them. Such a rabble — butchers, fishwomen, outlaws, male and female — all the refuse of humanity were here. They invaded the palace, shot two of the King's guards dead, and paraded their bleeding heads on pikes, invaded the National Assembly and called for their pet orators, our good friend Mirabeau being prime favourite; and lastly wound up by ordering out the King's carriages and taking the King and Queen of France prisoners to Paris. It was 30 THE QUEEN'S FILLET a pretty procession. CowptMe, a muscular ruffian, bran- dishing a huge sledge covered with blood; then the bleeding heads of the murdered guards; then cannon with women sitting astride; then King and Queen and Royal Family, surrounded by the National Guards who, to do them justice, looked thoroughly ashamed; then the National Assembly with their portfolios of speeches under their arms. Nothing has been seen like it since the conquered kings of the East crouched under the Roman spears, or straggled up to the Capitol, chained to Roman chariots. Does your blood boil? Even I, a world spectator, was interested, even though I shall have no further part in the Assembly. There were two despicable and abject cowards — the bambino King who would not have a shot fired to save his kingdom; the other, Lafayette, a petit-^nattre in uniform, a military rope-dancer, who went away to bed when the mob were pouring into the Royal Palace, and who allowed the King and Queen to step into the pool of blood where the brave life-guards were murdered. Ah! the Queen! The one great, brave soul amidst such a mob. Ah, Maurice de Brignon, had you seen Marie Antoinette when the mob shouted for her, and she came forth in all her dazzling beauty and showed herself, and they cowered before her, you would have known what the English poet meant when he wrote: 'There is a divinity that doth hedge a king!' I think I must get that scamp, Mirabeau, over to her side. One look from her eyes, one touch of her royal hand — and he is at her feet! And I think he holds these people in the palm of his hands. And you, Maurice ■ — some day, too, you will adore I'Autrichienne! Are you eager for the fight? Does the battle call to you from afar off? Rest where you are, my child! Read your Plato imder the lam-els, and let the mad world alone. But will the mad world let you alone? I trow not. And if it did, would you be more tolerant to yourself? Well, what is to be, will be. And he who lives shall see! Meantime, le jeu s'en va." SOUL-STRUGGLES 31 It was not a letter to set at rest the turbulent spirit of the young student. For the twelve months that had elapsed since he saw Monseigneur on the ladder in the library Maurice bravely battled with himself. He could not help admiring the holy and gentle priests that he saw around him in the chapel, in the cloister, in the lecture- room, on the grounds. They were so learned, so humble, so gentle, so considerate; they were so utterly untainted from the world he knew so well, that oftentimes he thought that surely this was the culmination of human character — the perfection of a Christian ideal. And many a time the idea suggested itself that perhaps, in some inscrutable , manner. Divine Providence, which, he was taught, guided all human destinies, might have brought him here into a haven of rest and holiness, even though it were, through the machinations of men. And the deeper lessons of his faith, too, were sinking into his heart. A young, impres- sionable mind cannot listen, morning after morning and evening after evening, to some presentment of eternal truth without being swayed by it. And Maurice, medi- tating on the passing nature of human Ufe and its utter insignificance in the eternities, would sometimes be tempted to think that, after all, a Ufe of study and rest and prayer, succeeded by the peace of eternity, might be preferable to a more lurid and eventful and stagy life, with only a hope of annihilation. But youth is youth; and when the hot blood leaps to the brain, it chases away those grey and sedate and sombre thoughts, and replaces them with those dreams of glory and greatness that have made the history of mankind. You cannot argue against such things. They are outside all argument. You must suppress them incontinently, or yield to them unreservedly, and take the consequences. And this is what Maurice de Brignon did. The good Fathers of St-Sulpice were somewhat puzzled about their strange pupil. On the one hand, he was here by his father's behests, and probably by the connivance of higher powers. And that meant a good deal at a time 32 THE QUEEN'S FILLET when the Church was at the beck of the Court. Again, he was clever, and had thrown himself into his studies with unusual zeal. And so far as discipline was concerned and the rules of ecclesiastical life, he was not wanting. He attended all the college exercises punctually; and although he was not pious, he was regular. And then — was there not always the favomte theory that, by perseverance and diligence in college, the ecclesiastical vocation that had not been originally given might come under a special dispensation of Divine Providence? They therefore decided that Maurice de Brignon might be called to orders in the Pentecost season of 1790. Their decision was confirmed by a visit which the Count de Brignon paid to the seminary about Easter in that year. He had come up to Paris to see and consult his friends about the very alarming condition of things that prevailed even in the country districts. It woxild appear that the peasantry were no longer contented with black bread and soupe maigre, so maigre that it differed very little from lukewarm water with a carrot floating here and there. His hay and corn, too, had been burned at Christmas; and when he sought compensation, he was laughed at. His wood-rangers, too, and gamekeepers had got so lazy and independent that they actually went to bed every night; and his pheasants and deer had been shot without mercy. Clearly things were coming to an ugly pass. And here in Paris he had heard the King and Queen were prisoners in the Tuileries; and it had been said, but he refused to believe the report, that the Tiers 6tat had actu- ally sat down in the King's presence, and remained im- covered. Hence, the Count de Brignon thought he should come up and see for himself if these things were true; and should also try and consult with his fellow-nobles as to the means that might be most judiciously chosen to combat such a deplorable tendency in the times. He was stunned to find that nearly the whole of the junior clergy and a considerable portion of the French nobility, with a Prince of the blood at their head, had gone SOUlr-STRUGGLES 33 over to the Tiers Mat, now governing France under the name of Constituent Assembly or other; and that the mob of Paris were as free to pass through the gilded chambers of the Tuileries as the King and Queen. Quite as a secondary matter, and merely because he was in Paris and would Uke to amuse Claude de Brignon and Marie Rousselet, he took them with him to visit St- Sulpice. But Maurice de Brignon refused point-blank to see them. The superiors, however, seemed more convinced than ever after the Count's visit that Maurice had a vocation to the clerical state, and should be advanced to Holy Orders. As the time approached, darker and darker grew the thoughts of the young student, who felt he was coerced into a condition of life which he hated. He was the victim of injustice, and he resented it; and as he brooded over the thought, he felt he was but one in the twenty-five millions of his countrymen who were chafing imder a similar yoke of injustice, and were just now tugging at their chains for freedom. He thought he heard the clank of those chains as their captors sought to fasten them tighter. He thought he heard the rasping of the files that were cutting through them for freedom. The crash of the Bastille, as it fell beneath the hands of the infuriated mob, had echoed over the walls of St-Sulpice; and the dust of the dismantled fortress-prison had been wafted on to the leaves and flowers of the college garden. And the cries of a humanity, emancipated amidst the horrors of revolution, had pierced the heavens over his head; and he heard voices calling to him to come out and help in the great work of a nation's regeneration. On Pentecost Sunday in that year Maurice de Brignon stood up in alb and cincture amidst twenty other yoimg Levites who were called to the Order of Subdeaconship in the httle church of Issy, an offshoot of St-Sulpice. He had been led thither almost unconsciously, suffering him- self to be drawn onward as a passive being who had no will of his own. That white garment, which to the other 34 THE QUEEN'S FILLET students was the robe of honour symbolizing the immacu- late purity of the lives to which now they were about to consecrate themselves, was to him a garment of shame, under which he shuddered. But he came and went in a half-unconscious manner, as if every trace of will-power had been paralysed. His tall figure was conspicuous amongst his companions; and many in the congregation knew that the young student was noble. The Mass commenced. The Pontiff sat down on the foot-stool, his golden cope sweeping the carpet on the pre- della, and his mitre gleaming in the morning sunlight, which flashed diamonds from diamonds and sapphires from' sapphires. The Roman Pontifical was held before him by an acolyte; and, after a pause, during which he cast his eyes over the two long lines of young Levites, he pronounced the solemn adjuration that precedes the taking of the vow of cehbacy in the Sub-diaconate. Not a sound broke the awful stillness but the clear, ringing voice, slowly and solemnly reading the fateful words. Then, as he closed the solemn interpellation with the still more solemn invitation, In nomine Domini, hue accedite! the two ranks of students fell prostrate with a crash on the ground. One alone remained standing. His confessor, who was close behind him and was watching him intently, saw him shudder at the words: Adhuc liberi estis! as if a violent spasm had convulsed his frame. He was about to approach the young student to argue and remonstrate with him when he saw him refuse the prostration. But he had no time. For with a stifled cry of pain Maurice dashed over the prostrate bodies of his fellow-students, rushed into the Sacristy, tore off alb, and cincture, and amice, reached his room hastily, flimg aside the cassock, and put on the velvet jacket that he had brought with him; and, hastily placing all his httle belongings in a vaUse, he leaped down the broad staircase and gained the outer entrance. As he passed through the gate, unguarded this morn- ing on account of the •stream of visitors, he heard hasty SOUL-STRUGGLES 35 steps behind him, and a feeble voice gasped: "Mau- rice! mon enfant!" But he dared not look behind him, but strode rapidly onward; and in a few hours the Ught haze of smoke above the vast, turbulent city made his heart beat with hopeful emotion as the prospect of a new and strenuous hfe burst upon his imagination. V To Paris As he approached the city his heart beat quicker; yet he was surprised at the quiet that seemed to reign every- where. It was a glorious morning, and all the landscape glittered in the new embroidery and jewelling of spring- time. The air was throbbing with the trills of song-birds; and as our young pilgrim drew it in, in deep, long draughts, he began to think that he had never lived hitherto, but had been immured in some dark sepulchre with the bones and inscriptions of a dead past. As he passed through a little hamlet, he saw over a court-house, or some other pubhc building, the magic words: LibertS, Fraternite, Ego- lite ! and his heart gave a great leap. He entered a very humble cottage, and asked for bread and a glass of milk. The old woman looked at him suspiciously, shuffled around uneasily, and gave him the food reluctantly. He put down on the table a louis d'or. Her eyes gleamed with ava- rice for a moment, and then she waved the temptation away. "Going to Paris?" she said. "Yes!" said Maurice, who for the first time began to feel that he was getting into strange circumstances. "Have you a passport?" "No! For what, madame?" "For what? Because you won't go much farther, mon enfant, without one." "Then I shall be stopped?" he said. "Arrested," she replied. After a pause, during which Maurice had to ruminate on this possibiUty, and also on the fact that he was an aristocrat, and could not deny it, she said: 36 TO PARIS 37 "Whence do you come?" "From Issy. I was a student, and about to be com- pelled to take Holy Orders this morning. I flung aside the cassock, and am going to throw in my lot with my country." "Mon Dieu!" she cried, casting aside her looks of sus- picion and embracing Maurice, "you are a brave child. And you gave the priests the go-by. What a brave child! Jean, Jean!" A side-door opened; and Jean, a sturdy artisan, with naked hairy breast and naked arms, came forth. He had heard all. "Jean," said the old woman, "shall we not get this child a passport? Shall we not send him on to the patriots in Paris to swell the ranks?" "Yes," said Jean, but in a surly manner. "Your name, citizen?" "Maurice de Brignon!" said the young man, forget- ting himself. "Ma foil" said Jean. "But, with such a name as that, young man, you are more likely to find your way to the Condergerie than to the Tuileries." "Yes! But I have renounced it," said Maurice. "I have renounced the title of Comte de Brignon to cast in my lot with the people." "Little merit there, citizen," said the tradesman. "But, you have been locked up. You have not heard?" "I have heard nothing but the rumble of the Revolu- tion," said Maurice. "And I want to help to push on the Car of Liberty." "Then you don't know that all titles are abolished — that there are no longer Counts, or Barons, or Lords, or hereditary rights, or primogeniture?" "I haven't heard; but I am not sorry!" "The boy is all right," said the old woman. "Go. Jean, and get the lad his passport from the Commissary." "Then you insist on going to Paris?" said Jean, who appeared to be reluctant to assist the young aristocrat. 38 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Yes!" he said. "My face is turned to Paris. I shall not turn back." "Better you turned your face towards the frontier, mon enfant," said the man. "But come — you have your destiny in your own hands." Maurice took his passport from the hands of the Com- missary of police, wondering why he was stared at, why men went in and out whilst he was waiting, scrutmizing him from head to foot, and all in unbroken silence. With somewhat lessened enthusiasm he pushed on to the city, watching for ever new revelations of the spirit that was abroad. Yet, all seemed quiet and undisturbed. The husbandmen were in the fields, the workmen on the roofs; the shops by the wayside were open; and the daily work of the world seemed to go on, as if the old regime was not passing away. Once a troop of cavalry trotted by; and, as he stood aside, the gleam of their arms, the clank of sabres, the tread of the horses' feet, the nod of their bear- skins, the sweep of their short cloaks, thrilled him through and through. "If nothing else turns up for me in yonder city," he thought, "I shall join the armies of France." Once again he was accosted and commanded to show his papers. They were closely examined, and he had to face the same scrutiny as before. The officer slowly returned his papers, bade him go forward. Then tm-ned to one of his comrades and said, sotto voce: "Pour la Farce." Maurice heard, but did not imderstand. Afterwards he remembered the ominous words, and understood. He entered the city. All again was quiet. The busi- ness of life seemed to progress as usual. Gay equipages were in the streets, the side-paths were thronged with well-dressed people. There was a subtle scent of flowers in the air. He stepped into a by-street, as he feared his dress might attract attention; and, noticing a dingy jew- eller's shop, he entered under pretext of getting his watch rectified. An old man, with spectacles on his forehead, came forward and took the watch which Maurice prof- TO PARIS 39 fered, again casting on him the same look of cold suspi- cion and scrutiny he had met before. The watchmaker bade him be seated, and went over to the window to exam- ine the time-piece. It was a splendid gold chronometer. Inside the jewelled cover were the arms of the de Bri- gnons. The old man softly whistled as he opened the works. Maurice took up a paper — one of the thousand feuiUetons that were then published. He cast his eyes down along the columns, and suddenly stopped, all his atten- tion aroused. It was a speech delivered in the National Assembly the day before by the Bishop of Autun, pro- posing the sequestration of all Church property to the amount of 1,200,000,000 francs for the service of the country. The resolution was weakly opposed, and carried ahnost tmanimously. The Bishop was voted "Saviour of his Country and of his Order." Then Maurice's eye caught another paragraph. It was to the effect that the Chateau of St-Remy had been burned to the ground the night before by the patriots under the command of Citizen Dubuisson; that the inmates had fled and escaped justice; but that the ci-devant Comte de Brignon and Claude de Brignon were now on the lists of proscription as imigris; and all good citizens were commanded to deUver them up to justice if foimd within the limits of France. Mamice laid down the paper. He began to feel that, with all the apparent quietness around him, he was standing on the edge of a volcano. The watchmaker, after carefully examining the works, handed back the watch to him. "There's nothing wrong with your watch, good Sir," he said, "except the cover." "The cover?" Then Maurice remembered the family coat of arms. The old man watched him keenly from under his spec- tacles. "You have read the feuilleton?" he said. "Yes!" said Maurice. "St-Remy was our mansion. Dubuisson — I knew him well! I never thought he would go so far." 40 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Then you're the Claude mentioned here as pro- scribed?" "No!" said Maurice, now thoroughly alarmed. "My name is Maurice. I had renounced my family; or rather they had renounced me." He was silent for a few seconds. Then he began to think that he could proceed no further without advice, and that he might as well seek it here as in more danger- ous surroundings. "Can you let me know where the Bishop of Autun resides?" he asked, pointing to the paper in which the Bishop's speech was recorded. "Citizen Talleyrand? You know him?" "Yes, I know him. He has ordered me to call on him, if ever I should come to Paris." The man waited. " I knew him at Issy," Maurice continued. " I met him before his consecration as Bishop. He has written me often since." "At Issy?" said the watchmaker. "Yes! I've been placed there against my will by my father, who disinherited me in favour of a younger brother — the Claude who is mentioned here. They wanted to force me into Holy Orders. This morning I should have received the Sub-diaconate. I have run away from Issy. I want to be a soldier." "A brave child!" said the watchmaker. "Embrace me, my son! You devote yourself to the Republic?" "I don't know if there be a Republic," said Maurice simply. "All I know is that I hate King and Queen and nobles — but most of all 'the Austrian woman.' I don't know or care what is the form of government. All are equally bad, for all are dominated by scheming politicians. I want to be an honest soldier in the ser- vice of my country." For some time the old man scrutinized the face and features of this strange youth with that cold, suspicious glance that every one at the time seemed to assume. TO PARIS 41 Then, when he had apparently satisfied himself that all was right, he said gently: "Let me see that watch again!" Maurice handed him the watch. The old man touched a bell. "Emmeline," he said, "fetch me the bottle with the orange label that lies on the mantel-piece." A young girl, apparently not more than fifteen years of age, but beautiful with all the maturity of womanhood, appeared. Maurice was too engrossed with his own thoughts to notice her. The girl glided away again as quietly as she appeared. The old man was busy with the watch. The smell of some powerful acid filled the shop. There was no sound but the ticking of innumerable clocks. Presently, a soldier with the blue tunic and red facings af the National Guard came in. He was doubly strapped across the breast. He grasped his side arms with his left hand. "What is the exact time, Citizen Reinhard?" he said. "Four hours and one quarter," said the watchmaker. The soldier left; and the watchmaker, still holding the watch in his hand, went into the little parlour behind the shop. "You had better come hither, my friend," he said to Maurice. "The patriots are abroad. They have keen eyes." Maurice, rendered every moment more uneasy by all that was passing around him, obeyed. The old man made a sign to his daughter. She placed some food on the table. Their eyes met. But she instantly disappeared. "You have had a long journey," said the old man. "Eat! I doubt if you can see the Citizen Talleyrand to-night. Remain where you are. I don't think it would do you good to see more of Paris this evening." "You are very kind," said Maurice. "But I feel I am intruding on you. I fear I have taken a false step — " " Don't take another," said the old man. " Here's your watch! The works are all right now. So is the cover. See!" 42 THE QUEEN'S FILLET He looked and saw that the de Brignon arms were com- pletely removed. The gold was discoloured by the acid, but not a trace of the engraving remained. "Now, my yoimg friend, allow me to proffer a word of advice. Drop that 'de.' It is superfluous and may be dangerous. You are henceforth Maurice Brigneau. I have rebaptized you. Should it be ever necessary to resume your name, and I don't think it will, it will be easy enough to find proofs. But with the property con- fiscated, the chiteau burned, and the title annihilated, it cannot make much difference. By the way, what kind of fellow is Dubuisson, mentioned there?" " A rough, strong, burly smith," said Maurice. " I knew something was on foot. He used to gather my father's retainers at night and harangue them on their rights. I came on them suddenly one midnight. They weren't afraid of me. I knew they were casting dice as to who should have the chdteau." "The brave fellows!" said the old man. "And then they decided that Egalite was the watchword of the Republic, and they couldn't quarrel about a ruin. Ah! how long was the day of vengeance delayed; but how terribly has it dawned at last!" "So I used to tell my friend, Ren4 Pereyra — " "Ha! You know Ren6 then?" "Yes! And you?" "He and Andr6 Ch^nier come here sometimes. Andr4 is the poet of the Republic. But some day he'll have his head chopped off. There are some who would eat a dish of singing nightingales. ■ We are all Romans now, or Greeks. The Greeks won't have a poet in the Great Repubhc; the Romans like dainties — lampreys fed on the bodies of drowned slaves, the tongues of singing- birds, etc. Poor Andr6! And he won't stop singing for all that I can say. Nothing but the knife will stop his songs. Enomeline here has them all by heart." VI The Demigod It was some time before Maurice was able to discover the himible hotel or lodging where the unfrocked Bishop of Autim now dwelt, for this astute pohtician did not care that many should know his asylimi, or rather watch-tower, whence he cast those soft dreamy eyes of his over Paris, and watched the slow development of the tragedy that even now, after a hundred years, stands out in all its hideousness, prominent from the pages of history. The dangerous rdle he had to perform required silence, secrecy, watchfulness. The day was far distant when he covild entertain emperors in the Rue St-Florentin. He received Maurice with benignity; and when the boy began to stammer out apologies and explanations for having flung aside the cassock, he stopped him. "You couldn't put on the stole," he said. " 'Twould choke you. But now — my good German friends say: Hin ist hin; verloren ist verlwren ! The question now is: What are you going to do? " "I'm going to be yoiu" secretary, Monseigneur!" said Maurice, although he looked somewhat uncertainly at the lay dress which the prelate now affected. "Your salary will be small," said Talleyrand. "Mine is nil, jxist now!" "Never mind," said the boy. "I'm lodging with a good old man and his daughter — a watchmaker in an obscure street off the Rue de Sevres. I have enough still to pay my board. To be candid, Monseigneur, I want your protection." "And you shall have it," said Talleyrand. "But to commence! Drop that 'Monseigneur,' please! Sei; 43 44 THE QUEEN'S FILLET gneurs and Seigneuries are things of the past! They will revive again. But the world now is gone mad; and we must humour its madness. I am Citizen Talleyrand!" "It is cumbrous. 'Monseigneur' was better!" "Certainly! Don't mind the surname. It is inex- pressive. Keep to ' Citizen.' " "It grates upon me," said Maurice, "when addressing you." "And it grates on me," said the statesman. "But it is the fashion, like the tricolor. We have locked up the Bourbon lilies for the present. Ma foi!" he continued, as if speaking to himself, "but I fear they'll be faded enough when they are brought forth again. But you said you lived near the Rv£ de Sevres ? " "Yes! A Uttle by-street — Saint-Something or other — not far from the Ecole Militaire." "Ha! That's your destiny, I fancy — not secretary to a dubious politician and — a cripple!" He pushed out his foot as he spoke; and Maurice noted with concern the deformed foot, and the shapeless shoe that covered it. "That disinherited me," said Talleyrand with bitter emphasis, "but I helped to disinherit others. It is wonderful how a spur on a deformed foot kicks on the intellect. But come! the Assembly is sitting — and doing nothing as usual. It will not be interesting; but you may see Mirabeau!" They crossed the river, and mounted the broad flight of steps that led to the hall where the present rulers of France were hurhng anathemas at each other. A whiff of hot air and the Babel of many voices burst upon them. Maurice was directed to the gallery, where fashionable women were mingled with poissardes, and the ragged sleeves of the lowest classes fluttered over the heads of the legislators. The din was appalling; the odours of the place were sickening. A feeble voice was urging from the tribime some relaxation in the imprisormient of the King and Queen. Loud shouts of dissent drowned his THE DEMIGOD 45 voice. The President was ringing a bell furiously. Another speaker succeeded. He, too, was interrupted by his fellow-members, and even by the gallery, where men and women shook their fists furiously at him. A young man mounted the tribune, and spoke in such a savage and truculent manner of Capet and "the Austrian," that for the first time Maurice felt a curious sympathy for the royal prisoners dawning on his mind. But the speaker was greeted and seconded by such a tumult of yelling, that Maurice rose up to depart. Then, Talley- rand made a few quiet, sarcastic remarks from his place; and the moment after, the lion head and the distorted features of Mirabeau appeared above the edge of the tribune. There was a volley of cheers, which he waived aside by one contemptuous gesture; and then he, in a fierce tone and yet with infinite tact, espoused the cause of the royal prisoners. Once, a murmur of dissent arose, as the orator thundered along defiantly. "Silence," he cried, in a deep voice. And there was silence. Then, in an instant, he diverted his speech to the approaching festivities in the Champ de Mars; and announced that on that great occasion, the aimiversary of the taking of the Bastille, the King would take the oath to the Coimtry, the Constitution, and the Law; and all classes would thenceforth be in perfect harmony to work for the regen- eration and redemption of France. Thunders of applause greeted this annoimcement. Members embraced each other effusively. The meeting, which promised to be so stormy, broke up in excellent temper; and the deputies filed down the staircase. Maurice followed; but in the crowd of sans-culottes with whom he was surrounded, he could perceive tokens of savage dissent from Mirabeau. "The lion is caught!" said one. "And in a woman's net!" said another. "I shouldn't be surprised if that lame devil had some- thing to say to it. You can never trust these priests." "No matter! the people will conquer yet. Marat is with us!" 46 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "And Danton!" "The baker will knead his flour in his own blood; and the bakerine and the petit Mitron will eat it!" said a truculent savage. " Like old Foulon. Well, 'tis good to be a king. Bread is better than grass any day!" It was his first contact with the proletariat. The horrible coarseness of the whole thing repelled him. He began to feel sentiments of loyalty. And he should see and speak with Mirabeau. He had noticed that across the leonine features the symptoms of disease and dissipation were clearly written, and that the white hand which stilled the tempest shook violently. But the voice was the voice of a necromancer; and the terrible eyes, upturned to the gallery, seemed to sweep as by lightning every trace of opposition or dis- sension from the loftiest to the basest spirit congregated there. He was the new spirit of France — the spirit of sheer brute force of intellect which foreshadowed the sheer brute force of arms, which henceforth, for a quarter of a century, was to break down every trace of virtue, or honoiu', or refinement from end to end of Europe. It was the loosening and liberating of the beast in man; and he would ravage Europe before he was caught again. Maurice waited at the foot of the broad staircase, down which in a few moments he saw his patron and Mirabeau descending. The former limped painfully. The latter walked slowly to suit his steps. But his tread was the tread of a lion. Yet, Maurice noticed that the mob were not enthusiastic about him. They stared at him curiously. That was all. Dark suspicions were already afloat that he was in communication with the Court; and a hideous, deformed dwarf, living over there across the river in a cellar, was hinting in his Ami du Peuple that the popular cause was betrayed. When the two great statesmen reached the street, Talleyrand, who never lost sight of the present in his dreams of the future, said: THE DEMIGOD 47 "Here's a young lad that wants to know you!" Mirabeau held out a singularly small hand for such a giant, and, without a word, he suffered those terrible eyes to rest upon the young man's face. Maurice felt that the palm of his hand was moist and soft; and he saw even deep down beneath the pits left by the smallpox, those thin lines of congested veins that mark an over- strenuous life which is hastening to its close. The two statesmen were friends. That was quite clear; and Maurice rejoiced at it. But he could not help noticing the vast difference in their appearance. Mirabeau, leonine in face and figure, his broad breast open, for the frilled shirt did not close — it was the Byronic fashion a few years later; and Talleyrand, tall and slim, his yellow hair, with a golden gleam through it, faUing far down on his shoulders; and those wonderful deep-blue eyes, already half-shaded with their lashes, calm, keen, observant, never to be lighted by a gleam of anger, or softened by a mist of pity. And the boy, watching both with the unconscious observance of youth, could not help seeing that the career of one was but commencing, and that of the other was drawing to its close. "Your first view of the drama, mon enfant?" said the tribune, addressing Maurice. "Yes," said Maurice, "the theatre smelt rather badly. You'd want some chloride of lime there!" "Quicklime rather!" said Mirabeau. "I wonder who'll see the end of the play? Not I. But I shall be curious when making my bow of exit to see who's coming in from the wings." "Potion, Brissot, Clavi^re for the present," said Talley- rand. "But they won't be the last!" "Who then?" said Mira,beau. "Alas, who?" said Talleyrand. "When the mountain heaves, it brings up everything, even the scoriee and mud at the bottom!" "Allans !" said Mirabeau. "This is no place to dis- cuss such things. Sup with me to-night at Roberts's. 48 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Seven shall we say? Bring your young friend. No one else!" He called a cabriolet, and drove away. "You're in luck, Maurice," said Talleyrand. "It is not every one that is so soon admitted to his confidence. Keep yoiu- eyes and ears open. The time is short, and the greatest man in France is passing away." And so far as Talleyrand could exhibit emotion, he seemed to his young friend deeply moved. It was a memorable supper for Maurice. His way led along the Boulevard St-Germain, across the Pont de la Concorde, across the gardens of the Tuileries, into the Boulevard des Capucines, and thence to the Chauss6e d'Antin where Mirabeau at this time lived in princely splendour. It was a lovely spring evening; and the city showed as yet no trace of the terrible forces that were seething and heaving beneath the surface. But he noticed that around the Palace, where the Royal Family were now immured, there was massed a strong body of the National Guard. They seemed, as Maurice passed, to be undergoing a drill of inspection. An officer on a white charger was pointing here and there, as if marking off outposts for the night. Maurice moved on. He had a certain boyish contempt for infantry. Yet the figure and face of the officer struck his imagination. He asked some one of the crowd passing by, who it was. It was General Lafayette. The word " 'petit-maitre" at once rose up to his imagination; and he scrutinized him closely. Then he got jostled in the crowd. "The little birds won't escape to-night," he heard a woman say. There were only the three present at the supper. Mira- beau was moody and distraught at first. But he ate heartily, furiously, cramming himself with sweetmeats, and drinking deep draughts of wine. Talleyrand was abstemious, lightly touching each dish as it was pre- THE DEMIGOD 49 sented, and drinking only the very lightest and driest wine. He went so far as to remonstrate with his friend. "You should be more careful, Count," he said. "Have you any idea of how valuable your life is to France? " "Yes," he said, "I have! With me Royalty departs — never to return." "And can you not for the sake of that unhappy King economize your strength? The cause is a worthy one; and you know it is not children you have to contend against." "By Heavens, no!" he said. "Not children, but wild beasts, spurred on to madness by the mob. Did you see that Fifth of October without perceiving who are now the rulers of France?" "They need a strong hand," said Talleyrand. "The time is at hand when they must be cowed, or they shall conquer, and after that, the deluge!" "A strong hand! Yes! And this is it!" said Mira- beau. He held out his white hand and spread the fingers on the table. He then raised a glass of wine. His hand shook, and the wine was spilt on his clothes. He gave a Uttle laugh of self-pity. "Ah! that poor Queen!" he said. "I met her last night, no one knows where. She told me all — the petty persecutions of these devils, the pretended protection of that wretched fop, Lafayette, their eternal dread of poison. She has no fear. Mon Dieu! She's every inch a queen. The httle foppish beauty of the necklace and the card-table is gone, and Zenobia has come. Look here, Talleyrand!" he cried, filling up another glass, "they — she must be saved, at any cost, and you shall save them." "I?" said Talleyrand, Ufting his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. "Yes! You, and you alone. You're the only man in Paris that has braius enough to think it out, and then accomplish it. They must fly." 50 THE QUEEN'S FILLET The statesman roused himself at this, and coming over, he took the wine from Mirabeau's hand, and laid the glass aside. Then, he went around, and closed every door and window. "Listen to this!" he said. And he unfolded Madame de Stael's plan of flight to her chateau in Brittany. "She will go and return, go and return, imtil her car- riage is as well known as the mail. She will take a dif- ferent companion each time, so that a new face shall not be noticed. Then " "Absurd!" said the orator. "They're not safe within the borders of France. When she is beyond the frontiers, I shall breathe freely." "But there's a chance of escape to England!" said Talleyrand. "That means much. And yet, Belgium or Italy were better. They will be proscribed. So much the better." There was a pause. A waiter came in and asked if they needed more wine. No more! He went out, closing the door softly after him. Talleyrand got up, and fastened the door. "You are cautious!" said the orator. "One needs to be. But to resume. Have you ever met Fersen?" "The Swedish fop?" "No! The Swedish gentleman!" "Talleyrand, we shall quarrel!" "No! That's not Ukely. But to business. What think you of July 14, the day of the F^te?" "For the flight?" "Yes!" "It would never do! I have built my hopes on that day. There will be five hundred thousand present, and I shall crown Louis Capet again King of the French." "You are very sanguine!" "I am very sure. The King will take the oath of obedience to our laws, of loyalty to the Commonwealth — how I detest that base word, Republic — Mirabeau THE DEMIGOD 51 will speak and there shall be no man to answer. And, to the thunder of one hundred cannon, the voice of half a million Frenchmen will proclaim Louis once more their king." The tribune was now passing from a mood of despond- ency to one of insane exaltation. "Yes, I see it all. The mighty amphitheatre built by a hundred thousand willing hands; the Altar of Freedom in the midst; the cassolettes smoking — blazing beacons of Liberty to an emancipated world; the tricolor and fleur- de-Us embracing on a thousand undulating banners; the bands of every regiment in Paris playing the Marseillaise and Richard! mon Roi! all the beauty of France gathered there to witness the inauguration of a new era of Freedom; and the thunder of a thousand cannon announcing the new marriage of the King and the state. my friends! is it not worth living for? dying for? Nay, should Mirabeau die that day, it would be his euthanasia. He would go down to history with Ciiicinnatus and the Gracchi!" Talleyrand touched the bell. The waiter appeared. "Coffee, please!" Mirabeau did not heed. He went on in his rhapsody: "Fhght? Who spoke of flight? I? Yes, mon frere, Mirabeau has his hours of despondency, too, Uke other mortals. But perish that word! They shall not fly! Fly from a rabble that is not fit to Uck the dust beneath their feet. The Queen of France — of the world — to fly before a pack of beagles hounded on by satyrs; the hounds will devour Actseon. They will never turn on their goddess. Ah! that fop, that doll in uniform, that mock revolutionist — if he had only the courage of lighting one match and sweeping one hundred of the canaille to hell, over there in Versailles, how different things would be to-day! But I shall take that Bird of Paradise, and hang his feathers on the Queen's neck, when one hundred thousand sabres are flashing in the sunlight of July; and I'll make the coxcomb hand up his sword 62 THE QUEEN'S FILLET to the glorious Queen, whom he is unable and unworthy to defend." The coffee was brought in. He filled his cup half full of sugar, and drank the coffee strong and sweet. It brought him back to earth. "I saw Lafayette, as I crossed the garden of the Tuileries," said Maurice. "He appeared to be arranging the night-patrols at the Palace." Mirabeau was silent for a few seconds. Then he rose. "Let us go," he said. "These things need calmer moods for reflection." They walked towards his palatial house in the Chauss6e d'Antin. The two statesmen entered. Maurice made his adieux, and walked down along the Boulevard, and across the front of the gardens. There were lights twin- kling in the windows of the palace. Here and there a dragoon sat motionless on his horse, with drawn sabre. Maurice knew that they were not a guard of honour. VII At Versailles To the student of the French Revolution, that most revolting and fascinating page in human history, perhaps nothing is so remarkable as the placidity and indifference with which the multitude regarded the terrible events which were taking place around them, until the swift horror of the Reign of Terror involved aU France in common ruin. The people ate and drank and rose up to play, whilst beneath their feet terrific forces were being let loose, whose awful power and tendency for destruction were not even conjectured, except perhaps by one or two thoughtful minds. These saw that all those bonds of reUgion and loyalty that make society cohere, and keep the individual from crime, and the body pohtic from dissolution, had been loosened and broken by the teach- ings of Voltaire and Rousseau, and that it needed but the touch of circumstance to precipitate the whole common- wealth into irretrievable ruin. Hence, when our three young friends, now well ac- quainted, Maurice de Brignon, Ren6 Pereyra, and Andr6 Ch^nier, met at the close of a warm September day in the viUa which the latter had rented in a deep and hidden nook amidst the woods of Versailles, their conversation, although it referred to the events that were taking place in rapid succession in the city, took no tone of alarm or despondency. They had rapidly formed a friendship, that comes from tastes, alike on some points, antagonistic on others; and probably it was the hostility of opinions rather than their similarity that ripened a mere acquaint- ance into something deeper and more profound. They sat out after dinner, in the evening twilight. In front of 53 54 THE QUEEN'S FILLET them was a painted panorama of woods, yellowing and reddening to the faU; of streams that murmiu-ed languidly beneath them; of a sunset that glowed and changed in a swift rapidity of colouring, until the forest seemed bursting into flames, and then dying out in grey and sombre ashes. "That sun is just now striking the western windows of the Tuileries," said Ren6. "The royal prisoners are now at dinner. What a sad sight it must be!" "What matter if the heart of the nation is glad!" said Andr4 ChMer. "We have only bade Royalty stand aside from the pleasures it was monopolizing, and share them with the people," said Maurice; "just as a crowd in the coffee- room of a hotel would order some insolent swaggerer to stand aside from the fireplace, and allow every guest his share of the light and heat." "But there seemed no need to arrest that swaggerer!" said Ren6, "and put him imder lock and key. And then — what if all your guests crowd arovmd the fire? Is not this anarchy?" "True," said Maurice, struck by the words. "These are almost the dying words of Mirabeau. I was there!" "I envy you," said Andr6 Ch^nier. "Tell us of the grand euthanasy." "Was it euthanasy?" said Ren4. "It was a grand Socratic death," said Maurice. "We dined with him' two evenings before at Roberts's, the restaurateur, you know — " His friends nodded. "He was out of sorts, somewhat peevish. Talleyrand, whom he trusted implicitly, and who could speak to him as no one else could, had been worrying him because he was too entichi with Potion. He had also warned him against Brissot, and Clavifere, and Cabanis. The giant was vexed, and he was indolent and weary. The truth was, that the shadow of death was projected across his path; and worse than death was the dark prevision of impendii^ evils to France " AT VERSAILLES 55 "What evils?" said Ch^nier in a tumult of enthusiasm. "Ha! There it is!" said Maurice, smiling. "There is the exaltation republicaine, with the absence of which these good friends were always twitting Mirabeau. They more than suspected that he was favourable to royalty; and they were right. But he saw only a dark and terrible future impending over his country; and, as I said, he was despondent. Before dinner, he flung himself on a bench in the court-yard of the restaurant; and there, quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the passers-by, he gave way to doleful prophesies about what he called the Ter- rific Future. It was so strange in a man who had the name of never considering the future, but living au jour le jour, that even the imperturbable Talleyrand was sur- prised. But we dined. And as usual with such natures, he leaped to the other extreme. Late at night, what with excitement, strong drink, the madness of despair, he became a delirious madman, raved, sang, made speeches. Then, suddenly, as the pale summer dawn was creeping in, and the lights looked ghastly, he put his hand over his heart, and shouted: 'My God! what strange new pain is this?' and fell forwards, his head striking the table. He was instantly removed to the baths; got so far better that he walked home, took to his bed, and never rose." Maurice paused a moment. ChSnier, with his glass poised, was about to salute the spirit of the dead states- man. Mamice went on: "My friends, you may talk of greatness, and I do not doubt that Mirabeau was great. But, if you had seen him that morning as I saw him, his huge face swollen to twice its natural size, and the skin all blotched and speckled with horrid spots above the yellow flesh, the foam gathering on his Ups, and the attendants wiping it away every minute " "Don't! Don't!" said Ch^nier. "My God! You are traducing the mightiest man in France, Maurice! These are loathsome details." 56 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Aye. But the spirit of the man was indomitable. He faced the mighty ordeal of dissolution calmly. He asked, next day, just when the end was at hand, for a piece of paper. He wrote with a trembling hand: 'It is easier to die than to sleep!'" "Rather melodramatic!" said Ren6. "I don't care for those great men posing in death like an actress in an opera!" "It was magnificent!" said Ch^nier, rising up in an excited manner, and holding aloft a long white glass, filled with Chambertin. "Here's to thy immortal spirit, Mirabeau! Guardian of France and its hberties, look down from the abodes of the blessed gods, and watch over the mighty revolution which thou didst inaugurate!" "He hears thee not! Death is an eternal sleep!" said Maurice. And Ch^nier fiung down the glass, and broke it into a hundred fragments. The little episode calmed the minds of the young men, growing heated under the influence of wine and the exalta- tion ripublicaine. Andr6 sat, his head between his knees, musing and despondent. Ren^, more composed, watched the glory dying off the burning trees into the grey ashes of an autumn night. Maurice leaned back in his chair. He was thinking of that deathbed. "He had royal obsequies," he said. "And a queen wept over his catafalque." "Well might she!" said Ren4. "The keeper is dead. What of the wild beasts now?" "He was spared the horrible humiliation of July 14," said Maurice. "He would have made it the drama of nations. It became the farce — the burlesque of buf- foons." "And your good bishop the central mime?" said Ren6. "Ren6, we shall quarrel," said Andr6 Ch^nier, raising his head. Ren6 came over and put his hand around his friend's neck. AT VERSAILLES 57 "Never," he said. "Two children of Languedoc can- not quarrel. We are of the race of singers, Andr6 — the mighty trouveres of the past. What have we to do with blood, and revolution, and this Paris canaille f Come away, Andr6, back to our mountains and our river. La Gl^be and Ruse will welcome us, and put on their snow- mitres; and our little river will sing to us, Andr6, as she sang to us when we were her children. Don't you re- member the old, old chapel with the quaint gables up on the mountain, where the holy well was surrounded by pilgrims and patients; and we went in that hot summer day, and said our prayers before the Virgin's shrine, and the peasants spoke to us; and you, a young pagan, said there were nymphs around tlie well, and that you 'd come one day and build a pagan grotto there, and sing your pagan songs like Bion or Theocritus? How did the Hnes run: Changeons en notre miel lews plies antiques flews, Pour peindre notre id&e empruntons leurs couleurs; Allumons nos flambeaux d leurs feux poUiques; Sur des pensers nouveaux faisons des vers antiques. Oh, Andr6, come away, come away! What have we, the children of the Garonne and the Aude, to do with the children of the sultry Seine — with fishwomen and coup- tetes and the rabble on the one hand, and insane poli- ticians on the other? Look you, Maurice, Andr6, I can't breathe here. It's an atmosphere of pollution. I am haunted since that night, that awful night, Andr6 " "What night?" said Ch6nier, in a gloomy manner. "You're a child, Ren6 Pereyra, and should not mix with men. What night do you speak of?" "That night, that awful night, Andr6," said the young man, almost in tears, "don't you remember, when we held that frightful orgy near the Church of the Carthu- sians. Don't you remember? It was all so beautiful at first — the flowers, the music, and the girls; and you sang your own dear songs, and then — oh! the horror of it all! The shame, the sorrow, the degradation, the Sileni 68 THE QUEEN'S FILLET and the Bacchantes and the Maenads, with their white silks stained with red wine, and such faces! Oh, my God! — " "You are a child, Ren6," said Ch6nier in a shamed way. "You should not mix with men." "And then, and then," continued Ren6, his voice taking on a preternatural solemnity, as he recalled the events, "and then we went forth from that Dionysian banquet, you and I, under the stars, and the great bell of the Con- vent pealed out — it was two o'clock on that summer morning, and the sun was rising and flushing all the river, and the air was sweet and pure, and we alone were pol- luted " "Stop that foolish nonsense, Ren€," said Ch^nier again. "One would think we were novices in a convent. Men of the world can't be immaculate. Polluted! That is an odious and a shameful word! Polluted, because we had a Uttle wine, and danced with a handful of girls, and wore chaplets of flowers. Absurd, perhaps! But, polluted?" "Yes, yes, yes, yes!" said the boy, passionately. "It was pollution — horrible pollution! You said so yourself, Andr6, when we stood in the church-porch, and you said these old monks were deceiving the world by early and unearthly bells. You said they were all snug in their beds at the matin-bell, and we watched and waited; and then, and then, O my God! to see them come forth, one by one, saints and prophets; to see them sweep into their stalls, to hear the rumble of the organ, and the first words: Deus in adjutarium meum intende; and then to think of these drunken ballet-dancers with their painted faces, whom we had left prostrate on the floor of that infamous house — oh, oh, oh!" And the boy took &,way his hand from the shoulder of his friend, and walked away into the night. There was dead silence between the two remaining friends for several minutes. That little passionate inter- lude had disturbed them much more than they were AT VERSAILLES 59 willing to acknowledge. Strange tlioughts had awakened in both — thoughts which they had deemed lay buried beneath the ruia of faith. They were types of their countrymen, who can no more expel their Catholic in- stincts than you can drive out Nature with a fork. In an instant, as if a flash of lightning had suddenly hghted up the night that had now closed darkly before and around, the mighty Revolution that had seemed to Andr6 Ch^nier the golden dawn of a new era for humanity seemed rather the lurid exhalations of a hell suddenly opened beneath their feet; and the career and death of Mirabeau, which had seemed to the other the sublime ending of a Pericles or a Cleon, now dwindled down into the vulgar appearance of the life and death of a dissolute and intriguing rou6. And both simultaneously sought to argue against the impression. "That child should be at his mother's apron-strings, or tied to a priest's cassock," said Andr6. "You see how a trifle impressed him." "I do. It is absurd. These emotional characters have no business in the walks of men." "And yet they make our poets and painters." "Confess, Andr^, you were disturbed at the boy's words." "At what they suggested? Yes. The memory of that morning makes me shudder. I blot it out; but it comes back." "And while Reni spoke, do you know that I, too, had reminiscences of my dear old preceptors at Issy. Such sweet, cultured, dignified men they were; and as humble as children. And it was aU so beautiful — the morning Mass, the evening Vespers — the calm study, the prayer. I feel like a man who has come out from a convent- garden into a glaring theatre of fops and courtesans. Andr6?" "Yes, Maurice!" "Must it all go? AU the sweetness and beauty and solemnity of life? " 60 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "But it is all a fancy — a superstition, Maurice. The Age of Reason has come. WTiere's the use in indulging in dreams, were they never so beautiful? We have to face facts. You know we are a race of reasoners. We'll have nothing but facts, no matter how unpleasant." "I thought you were for bringing back the old gods," said Maurice, referring to his friend's classical poems. "Are we not to have again Aphrodite, and Apollo, and all the old graces and pleasaunces of Greece? " "Yes, you have said it. They'll all come back — old Pan, and Silenus, and Bacchus, and the nymphs and fays, and they'll people the groves again, and make life merry with their riotous laughter." "But are not these dreams, too, Andr6? Why give up one mythopceia for another?" "Ah! but these are the voices, the symbols of Nature — Nature, the unsubduable. Nature, the unconquerable! Away with your pale Syrian gods and your inunaculate virgins and your stony saints! Give me back, give me back the divinities of Mother Nature — the joy and the deUght of hving, the raptures of youth, the glory of beauty, the delight of wine, the face of Helen, that set Troy aflame, the vision of Cytherea arising from the foam, the rosy Hours, the pink and purple Aurora, and all the pride and glory of this most wonderful world! Ave, Apollo Musagetes ! Ave, Cytherea formosissima ! mater et sponsa deorwm! Ave, et avete, omnes divi et diva Par- nassi! Redite et manete nobiscum in aetemum!" "You forgot Minerva," said Maurice. "Has she no place in your Pantheon?" "Certainly, certainly," said Andr6. "She comes in all her majesty, mistress and queen of all!" "And with Medusa's head upon her breast!" "Maurice, you are worse than Ren6. Where is he gone, that young mystagogue? Come, the night is dark, very dark; and hark! Is that thunder, or the guns of the Revolution? 'Tis thunder. 'Twill be a terrible night." AT VERSAILLES 61 The two young men walked slowly towards the villa which Andr6 Ch^nier had rented, deep in the woods of Versailles. The oncoming storm had not deepened m intensity as yet. There were only the low mutterings afar off, not easily distinguishable from the sharp report of artillery, muffled into softer and deeper sounds by distance. And now and again, a blue flash, like a wing of flame, shot across their path, and showed the reds and yeUows of the autumnal woods. The lights were burning in the villa, and a table, strewn with autumnal flowers, was laid; but Ren6 was not there. They became anxious and questioned the servants. No! He had not returned. "He has gone down to the Maison d'Or, very probably," said the servant. "He was to sleep there. He had en- gaged rooms." "Probably," echoed Andr6, as if he were unconscious of what he was saying. "I quite forget. Did I ask him to have a room here, Maurice? " "I'm not sure. Perhaps not. In any case, he would I'etum here. He is not a country lout to go to bed at such an hour." "I hope so. Hark! The storm is deepening, and coming nigher. These magnetic disturbances are not usual in the autumn. How frightened CamiUe will be!" "And Emmeline! I always dread a thunder-storm in the city. There is so much steel and so many magnets in that shop." "We'U close the blinds, turn up the lamps, and wait. Read somethiag for me, Maurice. My head is weary. I took too much wine. Some say wine is the muse of poetry disguised. That's stupid. But read something, Maurice; something sweet and soothing. I dare say we shaU have quite enough of revolutionary dithyrambics later on." He flung himself on a sofa, placed one hand beneath his head, and watched the ceiling with glowing eyes, as 62 THE QUEEN'S FILLET his friend read these lines from Andre's own poem to Camille — commencing: Jamais, il m'en souvient, quand les hois du Permesse. "That's unkind, Maurice," he exclaimed, when his friend had concluded. "Unkind to quote a poet's miser- able verses in his presence. But hark!" A flash of crimson across the lamplit chamber was instantly succeeded by a terrific roU of thunder overhead, which, commencing with the sharp detonation of a can- non, rumbled and rolled away in angry waves of sound across the forest. And the rain, which was patteruig before, now fell in a deluge on the roof, and swept away the gravel in a terrific torrent from the terrace in front of the villa. Silent and appalled, they seemed to await another and another peal; but just then a feeble knock was heard at the door; a hurried colloquy with the servant in the haU; and Ren6 was ushered in, pale, with dishevelled hair, and with his light garments saturated by the fierce deluge of rain through which he had rushed from the depths of the forest. VIII The Sibyl of the Woods "Rene, you! Here, take some brandy. You are wet through. What happened? We thought you had gone down to the village." "I went wandering through the woods, and there I met — was it a dream, or am I deranged?" He put his hands wearily to his forehead, and ran his fingers through his streaming hair. "I don't know," he murmured, "something strange happened. I'm in that mood of mind when I don't know whether I am asleep or awake, whether what I see is vision or the distorted view of a dream. But, Andr6, is there anything strange — I mean unearthly, uncanny in the forest?" "I don't know," said Ch^nier coldly. He was a poet, but not a visionary. He hated above all things the abstract — the supernatural. "Tell me what you saw, and let us judge. Hark!" he said, as if his friend's recital were of no consequence, "that avalanche of rain means the end of the storm. Listen! How it dies away in the distance, as the groans of an exorcized spirit." "It was a woman," said Ren6, not noticing. "She met me just where the path dies out from the forest, and the uplands commence — a tall, dark woman. She was angry. She said, 'What a time for the sons of France to be revelling, when their coimtry is in danger!' I could only stare at her. She said, 'Come!' And she took me — I suppose 'tis all a dream or some mental derange- ment — into a cave, with a vast map on the high wall, 63 64 THE QUEEN'S FILLET and she drew her finger hither and thither; and strange shapes appeared. It was all ruin and desolation, and red fire and blood! The rivers ran red to the sea, choked with white naked corpses that jostled each other as they plunged along. Great sea-monsters, eels or serpents thirty to fifty feet long, came up from the depths of the sea to batten on the corpses; and I saw vast congers coiling their black folds about the dead and dragging them down into the depths. And there was the sound of fusillades — the sharp crack of muskets and the thud of falling bodies; and then she stopped, and asked me did I hear anything? And I did. Something rose and fell, rose and fell, and there was a sound as of heavy things rolling into baskets, and heavier things puUed away. But the worst sight of all was the murder of little children, for I saw them clinging to the feet of soldiers, and lifting up their weeping faces piteously, and piteously crying, 'Mercy!' only to be smitten down into dark Death. And above all arose the murmur of crowds, and the shouts of orators impelling them; and a strange, weird, terrible song as of a nation, wading to Victory through a sea of blood. And then the nation that had brought fire and ruin upon its own threshold, burst its barriers and carried fire and ruin upon an impotent and appalled world, untU the curses of trampled himianity arose around its terrible path; and the nations gave back in fire and sword a retribution for their outraged liberties. And then she said: 'Go, and tell your comrades what the Sibyl of the Woods hath shown you. The end of all things has come, and it behoves aU to be alert. Go thou,' she said, 'into La Vendfe — there you will seek and see your vocation. Tell yoiu: poet ' No! I cannot say it, Andr^." "But you must," said Ch^nier, rising up from the couch, and appearing more interested and excited than he would have cared to admit. "What did she say of the Poet of the Revolution?" "Nothing! Nothing!" said Ren^, weeping. THE SIBYL OF THE WOODS 65 "Some strolling disciple of Cagliostro!" said Andr^ contemptuously, as he approached and touched the bell. "You need a bromide, Ren6. Your nerves are out of order." A servant appeared. "Is there any fortune-teUer, clairvoyante, or general human cheat anywhere in our vicinity? " asked Andr6. "Yes!" said the servant promptly. "She has been telling the maids' fortunes for the last fortnight." "I thought so!" said Andr6. "Now to bed, Ren6, and sleep off thy intoxication. We must be in Paris to- morrow!" And Ren6 departed, like a man walking in his sleep. "What think you of this?" said Andr^. "I think lightly enough of it," said Maurice. "I don't think the Revolution means Hell opened." "And yet? " said Andr6 reflectively. There were some moments' sUence. The last drops of the thunder-shower were dripping from the eaves. "I think I shall see that woman," said Andr6 at last. "What's this she called herself — Witch of Endor, or what?" "The Sibyl of the Woods!" said Maurice. "A pretty title. I hope the wearer is as pretty. Then you'd fear nothing. It is these lank, lean necromancers that are always right. And your heart is safe, Andr^, is it not? " "Yes! I hope so. And yours, Maurice?" "I marry Emmeline before Christmas," said Maurice. "The old man was reluctant. It seemed Uke seeking a title for his daughter. But we overruled his scruples, telling him that all titles now were dead, blotted out for ever!" "For ever! That is a spacious word, Maurice!" "Yes, it is. Do you think the old r6gime wiU revive? " "There's no saying. Sometimes I hope it may, purged of all its iniquities." "No matter. I shall never be ashamed of Emmeline, as the Comtesse de Brignon." 66 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "And has the little monkey no ambition?" "None whatever; she's always singing Mourir pour la patrie!" "Absit omen!" said Andr6, rising. "Come! To bed! I must see the Sibyl to-morrow 1" IX Statesman and Soldier It was a warm night in the July of the following year. In a room, tastefully furnished, and looking into a court- yard, where some truant boys were playing the hangman's game, the ex-bishop, now statesman and confidant of Vergniaud, Brissot, and the other leaders of the National Assembly sat at a table, immersed in a pile of correspond- ence that lay before him. The Venetian blinds were closely drawn, so that the waning Ught of the summer night came down through the slits, and nothing could be seen from beneath. Several candles in the huge cande- labrxmi that swung in the middle of the chamber, threw their illimiination into the remotest corner of the apart- ment; but the table at which the statesman sat was also lighted by a shaded lamp, which cast its circle around the papers that were carefully piled, heap upon heap, before him. From time to time, he stood up, and without shifting his place, he gazed at the chandelier over his head, not in a puzzled manner, but in a mood of medi- tation. Then, he sat down again, and resumed his study of the documents before him. They related mostly to England, from whence he had but recently arrived. The night wore on; and he was thinking of retiring, although the intense heat of the atmosphere made sleep difficult, when his servant knocked, and announced that an officer wished to see him. He was not startled; but he said in a tone of annoyance: "An officer? Rather late for visits. Show him in!" Then, as if hastily recollecting himself, he added: "Into the anteroom. Light some candles there!" 67 68 THE QUEEN'S FILLET He followed his servant after a few minutes, wondering what message an officer could bring him; wondering, too, why he gave no name. He did not recognize Maurice in his uniform of lieutenant in the National Guard, until the latter spoke: "It must be a noble disguise, when even the sharpest eyes in France do not recognize me!" "Ha! de Brignon! Ma foi, this is a surprise! And so you accepted my suggestion. Young heads are not always so pliant. But come! I have no secrets from you!" He led him back to the room where he had been sitting, pointed to a seat, but remained standing. "It suits your figure," he said, pointing to the dark blue tunic with its red facings. "Has it suited your fortunes as well?" "Somewhat!" said Maurice. "It has saved me from a good deal of espionage; and I have seen history!" "The preface, or prolegomena only," said the states- man. "The green-room recital. We advance now on the stage." "I wish the managers would remit the performance," said Maurice. "I have seen enough." "So have we aU. But the public, and, mon Dieu, what a pubHc! are clamouring at the doors, and threat- ening to pull down the theatre; and the managers must go on!" "It is not a pretty sight — a King's dethronement," said Maurice. "I have seen the red cap — and a filthy flannel rag it was — on the head of the King and the Dauphin. I have seen a pike-point tearing the sUk on the breast of the Queen." "And the people — the great people whose voice is the voice of God? " said Talleyrand. "A hundred thousand devils!" exclaimed Maurice, starting up in a fury. " The people? The canaille, spouted from the mouth of HeU! Pah! The smell of their filthy rags is in my nostrils stiU. Think of it! Think of it! STATESMAN AND SOLDIER 69 A horde of devils — the she-devils the worst, with their naked breasts and their tangled hair — surrounding that queenly woman! Ah! she is a queen, Monseigneur! Every inch a queen. Why was she calumniated and defamed? You could not see her there behind that barrier which the grenadiers pushed before her, without thinking, thinking of all that the poets had ever written about divine womanhood. A little pallor beneath the eyes, that was all the sign she gave that Death, and Death at such hands, was actually touching her. But the scorn and pity of her lips — scorn of the brutes that were surging aroimd her; and yet Divine Pity, such as you would associate with the Virgin — that was all. My hand was itching for my sword; and look you, Mon- seigneur! I'm sorry now I did not draw. Death at the feet of such a woman would earn immortality!" "Very pretty! Very pretty indeed, for one who saw but the sins of Kings yesterday. But, may I pray you, drop that 'Monseigneur,' Maurice! Our heads are now hung so Hghtly on our shoulders, that even a word may blow them off." "I shall not caU you 'Citizen,'" said Maurice angrily. "The word carries its own degradation." "The people are not all bad," said Talleyrand quietly. "You saw but the refuse of faubourgs and holies — the poissardes and chiffoniers of the city. Take my advice, Maurice! Never generalize!" "Ah, but!" said Maurice, excitedly. "You are wrong. Monsieur " "Ha! That's better!" "Yes, Monsieur! We'U stick to Monsieur, although it is an unamiable compromise. But you are quite wrong. Monsieur. True, the great bulk of these demons were of the lower classes — what a hell is thine, Voltaire! — but not all. That was the surprise. One yoimg man, well dressed and polite, went around, and in the hearing of the Queen and her little daughter, continued repeat- ing: 'Yes! They must die! They must all die! It 70 THE QUEEN'S FILLET is necessary that one man should die for the people!' It was horrible! The fellow was so cool — no passion, none of the savage rage of the mob — but 'They must die! They must all die!' I got the fellow's name — Cle- ment! — far a future meeting!" And Maurice crossed his legs in a savage mood. "I know him!" said TaUeyrand quietly, "He's a student of the Sorbonne. He is the bosom friend of a man who will write the bloodiest pages in French his- tory." "But I think the most horrid sight of all," continued Maurice, "nay, not the most horrid, because there was a certain grace about it — but let me say the most tragic, was when a young girl, amidst all the horrid blasphemies and obscenities that filled the air, came cahnly forwards, and rebuked the Queen. She was a young girl, very young, a splendid animal, with the face of Th^roigne, but without its dissipation. She crossed her arms on her breast, and said: 'You, the Austrian woman! How I hate you!' 'And wherefore?' said the Queen. 'I have done you no harm!' 'But you have wronged my country!' the girl said. 'Nay,' said the Queen. 'I have loved France.' 'Perhaps you are wronged!' said the girl relenting, and touched with the awful grace and beauty before her. 'You may be wronged!' The simple words touched the Queen, and for the only time in that dread ordeal she wept. Santerre leaned over on the table, and said: 'Corn-age, Madame! But, beware of false friends!' What are we to think, when a word can turn a multitude from frenzy to pity, and the reverse?" "Yes! Yes!" said Talleyrand meditatively. "But let us get to facts, Maurice. You are too dramatic, monfils! Tell me, where was Potion, and Bamave?" "Potion, the knave, the scoundrel! Where was he, but hiding and plotting as usual. He came, when the game was over, and the last of the canaille was swept from the Palace. Ma foi ! 'twill take a river full of eau-de- Cologne to purify the palace. He bowed and scraped STATESMAN AND SOLDIER 71 and made apologies: 'He had only heard of the outrage a few minutes before.' And all the refuse of Paris had been surging through the staircases and rooms for hours; and every church bell in Paris ringing the tocsin. Potion is a traitor — a vile traitor, Monseigneur!" "Monsieur, please!" "Pardon, Monsieur! But Barnave! I have warmed to him since he brought back the King from Varennes. I saw him that day with the Dauphin on his knee. He was kind, he was human. I trust Barnave, but no one else!" "And what may be the next act in the drama?" said the statesman, bending his gaze upon the yovmg officer. "Ha! That's just what brought me hither," said Maurice. "Something must be done now. Monsieur, and quickly. Anything," and he threw out his hands in a gesture, "anything may occur now, and at any mo- ment. The mimicipaUty of Paris is totally corrupt. The National Assembly is afraid of the municipality. The army — oh, my God! there's the worst of all — is not to be relied upon. If only one squadron of dragoons had been faithful, the King and his household would now be safe beyond the frontier." "And Lafayette?" said the minister with a meaning smile. He knew all far better than his excitable young friend. He was in touch with the municipals and the Girondists on the one hand, with Danton and Marat on the other. He had nieasured and weighed the charac- ter of each, and knew exactly what part each was to play in the dread performance that was being enacted around them. And he knew that once the army proved faith- less, the King and his monarchy were doomed. "Sapristi!" said Maurice, as if he spat on that distin- guished Republican, "he is the worst of all. One charge of the National Guard on that twentieth of June, one rush of a few dragoons — and the mob would have run like rabbits. But no! That perfumed petit-maitre would not give the word. They say he wants to become the Wash- 72 THE QUEEN'S FILLET ington of the French Repubhc. If he does, my alle- giance goes elsewhere. But there's now the danger, Monsieur," he continued, laying one finger on the white hand of the statesman, "the mob beUeve now that the army is either afraid of them, or disposed to fraternize with them. In either case, this passivity is fatal." "Exactly. But where's the remedy?" said Talleyrand. "The Royal family prisoners, and under strictest surveil- lance. The army faithless. The municipahty hostile. The people insane!" "Can you trust the National Assembly?" said Mau- rice eagerly. "Well, mon fils, I am sacrificing my character as dip- lomat to please a boy I knew since yesterday. No! You cannot!" "I thought Vergniaud, Claviere, and even Camille Desmoulins would stand faithful, — at least, not proceed to extremities. Let them have a republic if they like, provided the King be spared." "I have said too much!" said the statesman. "And, by Bacchus, it is nearing twelve. Won't you be missed from barracks?" "No! I'm spending to-night at home!" "And all goes well there!" "All! I've the dearest Httle child-wife in the world. Some day she will have the honour to kiss your hand, Monseigneur ■ " "Monsieur, please!" "Pardon! And the good old Reinhard is so kind. A fierce Republican and anti-Royalist. I keep my tongue quiet there, you may guess. But I can tell httle Emme- line everjrthing. She is now as much on the Queen's side as myself!" "The young aristocrat!" said his friend. "But, have you no visitors? Do none of the mighty Romans and Republicans come near you?" "Oh, yes! But I listen, and smoke! This saves me much trouble, thanks to you, Monseigneur!" STATESMAN AND SOLDIER 73 "There again. Some day, our heads will kiss in the basket, Maurice, if you're not careful." "Pardon, Monsieur! But, I hate that vile canaille. They have power now. Oh, my God! What has become of the chivalry of France?" "Over the border!" said his friend, smiling. "If these vile imigr&s had only stayed, and marched on Paris. Fancy one himdred thousand of the nobility of France marching with swords drawn on the city! In twelve hours the King and Queen were safe on the throne of the Capets for ever!" "Ha! Yes! Very pretty — at the vaudeville! But, what of your poetic friend, Ch&ier? Has he come around to your views? Or, is he still writing epics on the Revo- lution and parodies on the King?" "No! I fear he is now too engrossed with Camille to heed politics. But Andr6 is true, Monsieur! A poet, a dreamer, yes! But his voice rings true. He has faith in humanity, more than I; thinks we are all moving on to the millennium — the perfection and summit of our race — and that France is in the vanguard. I throw a cold douche on his enthusiasm. We almost quarrelled about the Champ de Mars affair. I held 'twas banal, absurd, a miserable burlesque -" ' 'Fi done, Maurice ! ' ' said Talleyrand. ' ' And I there ! ' ' "But that was the most absurd feature of the whole travesty, Mons Yes! Yes! I understand! But really, now, pardon the impertinence, was it not absurd to see three hundred clerics in tricolor vestments? And Mass celebrated amongst a hundred thousand unbe- lievers?" "Ah, you're a sad youth," said Talleyrand, smiling. "But that wasn't the chief absurdity. The chief absurd- ity was the rain, that comedian who spoils everything. It was all right until that polichineUe stepped in. Then it became ridiculous. The glorious cassolettes went out; the drums were only wet sheepskin; the cannon fuses were ex- tinguished; and — Madame de Genlis' hair was unfrizzled." 74 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "I see we agree!" said Maurice, laughing. "But we have reversed the order of things. The farce comes after the tragedy. But now, the tragedy has succeeded. Come! I am asking the greatest intellect in Europe to avert it!" "A pretty speech! No wonder you won your Emme- line. But you are wrong. There were only two in the world that could avert the Revolution. One is dead!" "Mirabeau?" "Yes! And the other? Is he living? For if he is, I'll seek him out!" "You needn't seek him far. He's your prisoner!" "The King!" "Precisely!" Maurice's face fell. "He hasn't the courage," he said. "At least, he's not a coward. No! In the midst of that horrid excitement a few weeks ago, with pikes and sabres touching his breast, he wasn't even flurried. Robert, one of our fellows, told me that the King took his hand and put it on his own heart to see if it palpitated. ' It was as steady as my own,' said Robert." "Of course. I knew that. The King is no coward!" "Then why cannot we get him to throw off his apathy, and take his place at the head of his army?" "Because the King of France is His Most Christian Majesty. He wouldn't purchase his throne with one drop of blood." "Then it is all over," said Maurice, rising up to depart. "But His Most Christian Majesty may see blood shed." "Aye!" said Talleyrand mournfully. "And the Seine red." "Ha! so said the Sibyl of the Woods. It is the inevi- table then. A Sauve quipeut!" " So it is," said the statesman sadly, and, taking down candle after candle, he extinguished them. " So shall many lives go out. But, you have a wife, Maurice?" STATESMAN AND SOLDIER 75 "Yes! And soon I may have another responsibility," said Maurice, his eyes filling with tears. "Then, see to them and yourself," said Talleyrand. "Kings have short memories." "If I could save the Queen!" said Maurice doubt- fully. "Is there no hope, Monsieur?" "There's always hope, mon brave," said the statesman, laying his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder, "when France can rear a son like you! Good night!" He dismissed the lad, and, turning, folded up his papers and locked them in a safe, murmuring: "I wonder what the Fates have in store for him!" X The Castle by the Sea The same evening another group was gathered on the terrace that fronted an old mediaeval chateau that was perched above the sea at a point that jutted southwards from the Vendean coast towards where the long, rude shore of the fie de R6 stretched itself, east and west, towards RocheUe. The terrace, with its huge granite flags, was protected by a parapet of granite pillars, beneath which, in a sheer perpendicular, the grey rocks shot down- wards and pierced the waters that were seldom still. The chateau itself was a rough, massive keep, made for strength and protection against sea-rovers. Behind and below it stretched away the grey, salt, silent marshes of the Marais. To one who, Uke Ren6 Pereyra, had seen the beauties of the South, and whose eyes had been filled with the blue splendours of the Mediterranean, the land and seascapes were inexpressibly melancholy. But to him who was born there, the Marquis de la Rouarie, and to his daughter, the dreary scene had an inexpressible charm, although this July eveniag both were plunged in sadness. The evening, which was intolerably hot in Paris, fell cool and grey and solemn on the veranda where the three sat above the wastes of the western sea; and Ren^, who had the heat of the South in his blood, shivered so much that his host had flung a heavy sable over the boy's shoulders and feet. "You cannot understand," said the Marquis to his young guest, "how I, amidst all the excitement and glory of the American Revolution, did ever and ever dream of my old castle here, and the dreary sea before it, and the still more dreary marshes behind. Yet, it was so! In 76 THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 77 tent and barrack, I dreamed of this old Vendean land; and nothing but the glorious cause of human freedom withheld me from it so long." "Aye, it is a glorious cause," said Ren6, shivering, "when it isn't stained with crime. I see your American commonwealth moving on from growth to growth, until it develops into a vast empire, whose extent and influence no man can measure. I see our Revolution, choked with blood until our country is dwarfed into a province, and our people are slaves unto themselves." " It may be that God and La Vendue will save it? " mur- mtired the young lady, whose faith sprang higher than that of man. "It may be!" said her father. "All the traditions of French bravery are here. But the victory will not rest, I fear, with bravery, but with crime. And our poor people cannot commit crime." "Oh! that wretched Drouet!" said Ren6. "What a brute he miist have been not to have saved the sad King when he saw him in such a pitiable plight. And those dragoons of Bailly's! They say they were loyal and only waited the mot d'ordre to disperse the National Guard. But there was nothing but blunder after blunder from the beginning." "Yet you say your young friend has told you that the Swede had plotted all carefully." "Fersen? Yes! He was quite entM6 about the poor Queen. She seems to have a singular fascination for every one that sees her. Fersen risked life and liberty to save them that awful night. He saw them safe half-way towards the frontier, and then escaped to Belgium." "Have you seen the Queen?" said Genevieve, opening her eyes widely on the young man. "Nay!" he said. "I haven't yet had so much luck. I hope I shall never see her as my friend saw her, as the barouche passed beneath the gate of the Tuileries. It was a most tragic sight. Not a hat was raised. Nothing but scowling faces all around. There were nine human 78 THE QUEEN'S FILLET beings packed in that barouche, and the heat was dreadful. It was said that the mob had torn to pieces a gentleman who had saluted the Royal prisoners at some village on the way, and it was Barnave that saved from the same fate an old priest who had raised his hat, as the carriage rolled by. I believe one true soul at the Tuileries did remove his hat. They shouted at him to cover his head at once. He flung his hat amongst the canaille, and, strange to say, he was unmolested!" "Yes! our poor countrymen," murmured the Marquis. "Impressionable, always impressionable! Capable of the greatest, capable of the basest things! But, you leave to-morrow, Ren6?" "Yes, Marquis! I have stayed too long already." "Not too long for us," said the Marquis. "Eh, Gene- vieve? " The girl blushed and said nothing. Then, as if to divert attention from herself, she pointed seaward to where, in the offing, a brigantine with aU her sails set was moving down from the north-west. "How lovely that ship looks in the setting sun! All her sails are gold, and there is a track of gold in her wake." The Marquis looked long and anxiously towards where the full-bosomed vessel was bearing down on the coast. And, as he looked, a courier was annoimced. He had come on direct to the terrace — a strong, burly peasant, saUow of feature as all the marshmen were, from the constant agues that were breathed into them from the salt sea-pools that seemed to cover the whole land. But there was no sign of languor or delicacy there, and the strong, hairy hand that held his cap, seemed fit to clasp plough-handle or sword-hilt with equal ease. He handed a packet to the Marquis, and stood nerfectly still. The missive was short. It ran: "Monsieur le Mabquis, "The hour has struck! Cathelineau, my bearer, will tell you all. "d'Elb^e." THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 79 The Marquis folded the packet, and looked up. "Cathelineau! my brave fellow," he said. "And is it you? Allow me to touch your hand." The peasant, with a slight blush mantling his pale face, came closer, and touched the extended hand of the Marquis. "Ren6, Genevieve!" said the Marquis. "This is the bravest man in La Vendfe to-day — Cathelineau ! You've heard of him?" The peasant bowed beneath the compliment, but seemed uneasy. "Well, mon brave! and what is the news?" But Cathelineau looked anxiously from the Marquis to his daughter. And the Marquis understood. "Ha! some message not fit for young ladies' ears? Very good! Genevieve, Cathelineau is weary and tired. Don't forget our hospitality!" "It is this. Marquis," said Cathelineau, speaking sternly, as the door of the western turret closed on the departing figure of Genevieve, "yesterday, eleven French noblemen perished under the guillotine in the market- square of Nantes. They died like Christian gentlemen, with a smile and a prayer." "My God! Their names? Do you know their names, Cathelineau?" "Not all. But Sourdeval, Champignon, Bersin, and Detigny were amongst them. There was no trial, or but a mock trial. They were arrested on Sunday, and are in heaven to-night." And the peasant raised and bowea his head reverently. The Marquis was dumb. Some of these were amongst his dearest friends. "But that is not all!" said Cathelineau. "Mademoi- selle Desilles was also a victim. She was mistaken for her sister, Clotilde, who had scorned the overtures of a young officer in the Guard, and he had sworn revenge. The sisters were alike. Louise refused to declare herself, and she perished in place of her sister." 80 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Go on!" said the Marquis, with knitted brows, and a stem eye sweeping the darkening sea, where the brigan- tine was cutting up a river of foam. "The worst is to come!" said Cathelineau, crossing himself, and his pale face grew paler with emotion. "They — I mean, the miscreants, those devils of the Revolu- tion — burned to death two priests in Chdtillon yester- day!" "My God!" said the Marquis, startled into a panic of anger and horror, "this is too much. Two priests burnt to death!" "Yes, Marquis, so it has been. I did not see it, thank God for that, but my comrade did. Both were flung into the flames amidst the jeers and scoffs of the multi- tude. One died a martyr's death nobly. The other " He stopped, as if he could not say the word. "Well?" said the Marquis. "He wasn't to blame. He was young, and the fire was terrific. He begged to be taken out, haK-suffocated and burnt as he was; and he promised to take the oath. They dragged him out, the brutes, and laughed at his agony and contortions under the fire. The oath to the Constitution was administered, and — they flung him in again!" "Horrible! Horrible!" said the Marquis. Ren6 had turned away his face, and was watching the .vessel that seemed to be steered close to the land. Then, after some thought, the Marquis arose. " Come, Cathelineau ! Come, Ren4 ! The hour has struck ! " he said. They were about to leave the Terrace, and enter the Castle, when looking down and across the dark sea, they saw the brigantine yawing to; then came a puff of smoke, and in a second, a huge chain-shot struck the crenellated top of the western tower, and brought down a heap of masonry. Stvmned by the unexpected outrage, they hurried forward to the parapet. But the brigantine was again imder way, and heading straight for Rochelle. THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 81 "A visiting-card from the Revolution," said Catheli- neau, without a smile. " I see now she is one of the coast- ing gunboats, watching emigres. France is a huge prison. Marquis, and you failed to salute your jailers' flag." He pointed upwards to where the red flag with a yellow dragon was fluttering from the tower. It was midnight before the three men separated. They had gone into an inner room of the castle, where they were absolutely free from observation, a precaution necessary even there, for the spies of the Revolution were everywhere. They had been studying maps and charts of the country, and the Marquis was aston- ished at the knowledge of his peasant friend and his ability in mapping out military situations, which could only be known by an expert. The conformation of the country lent itself admirably to strategic manoeu- vres of defence on the part of a people who had neither cavalry nor artillery. There was but one vast road winding around from Nantes to ChS,tiUon, and from Ch^tillon to Fontenay and LuQon and on to Rochelle. "No heavy guns can be taken off that road," said Cathelineau, "and cavalry cannot manoeuvre on account of the narrow lanes and prickly hedges on both sides. It will be infantry against infantry; and although they are better armed than we, somehow I am thinking we shall make up the difference." "But your poor peasants are untrained," said the Marquis," and I saw what that meant in America, where a handful of trained troops easily dispersed himdreds of country people." "Zeal must make up for training," said the other. "The Revolution has touched us on the sorest point — our religion and our priests, and for these we can die, but never retreat nor surrender. But I teU my poor fellows: Remember, lads! everjrthing in season! More powder and less prayer will suit me best!" 82 THE QUEEN'S FILLET The Marquis laughed, although he well knew that the greatest strength of the peasants was in their faith and their fearlessness of death. "You mustn't think of leaving us to-night, Cathe- lineau," said the Marquis. "It is past midnight, and the night is very dark. We shall give you a room tiU morning, and perhaps new thoughts will strike us. We haven't made arrangements for a courier to Parthenay or Bressuire. It is a dangerous route over the moxin- tain " "Give me the honour then," said Ren6. "I have come hither by that route from Tours, and I know some passes. Give me that honour. Marquis!" "No!" said the Marquis. "You are our guest, Ren6; and the people of La Vendee must fight their own battles, as they have always done. You'll be the trouvere of our crusade, as your friend, Ch^nier, of the Revolution. And, besides " The boy's eager eyes had fiUed with tears at this allusion to his Provengal birth. "The Provengaux, too, could fight as well as sing. Mar- quis," he said. " Our history is not lacking in heroes." "Pardon me the indiscretion," said the Marquis, laying his hand affectionately on the young man's shoulder. "I do not doubt your valour, especially where religion has to be defended. But / must go to-morrow at the very dawn to lead the forces of God against the infidel — is that not so arranged, Cathelineau? " The peasant-soldier bowed. "Well, then, I leave here a precious charge, Ren6. The times are dangerous. You saw a few hours ago how exposed is our coast-line. I think I should have a lighter heart and a stronger hand, if I knew that my child was in safe keeping." The boy raised his moist eyes towards the Marquis. "You think, then, there is danger here?" "Certainly, great danger. So great that it is only at the call of duty I would dream of leaving home." THE CASTLE BY THE SEA' 83 "Then, be it so," said Ren6, "And if I fail in my duty here, may God " The Marquis put his hand over the boy's mouth. "There! No oaths. I trust to your honour. That is enough! Well, Cathelineau! Must you go?" "Yes, Marquis, I must. There is not an hour to lose. The people have to be summoned from the fields, and drilled, and armed. And with such a people, who have never been under discipline, that is no easy task. The fiery cross must be lighted even now." "From here?" "Aye, Marquis, from here. They are on the watch — those sentinels of the Most High; and it wiU give them renewed courage to find the first beacon light stream from your castle." "Good. It shall be done!" And instantly, the great bell of the castle tolled out a reveiUe, and in a few minutes the court-yard was thronged. "You give orders, Cathelineau. They shall be obeyed as my own. But, stay!" The Marquis went over; and from a secret cabinet he drew out two handsome cavalry pistols, heavy and brass-mounted. "Take these!" he said. "You may need them. No man more worthy of them." The stalwart peasant took them, whilst his eyes glis- tened with delight. He weighed them, studied their caHbre and construction, tried their locks, and found them working smoothly. "Thanks! a thousand thanks. Marquis," he said. "These will throw a bullet forty yards. May they never speak but in the cause of the Most High!" He kissed the weapons, as if he were taking an oath, and placed them in his leathern girdle. Then, taking up the long pole, with which the Vendeans leap their salt-marshes and bogs, he led the servants to a high ground behind the castle, and imseen from the sea. 84 THE QUEEN'S FILLET There they piled up heap after heap of resinous wood, until they had built a gigantic pyre. The Marquis lighted it "in God's name," he said. There was smoke and crackling for some minutes, and then a great pillar of flame shot up towards the sky. It lighted all the grey walls and bastions of the castle, until every nook and coign and corbel was clearly visible and well defined, and the flag-staff was ruddy beneath its rays. There was a cheer, and a few cries of "Vive le Roi!" "Vivent nos ■prUres!" and then all eyes were turned hither and thither towards the horizon, now black and sullen under the midnight hour and the dark and lowering skies. For a long time (it seemed ages to Cathelineau), the night was irresponsive. Not a speck of light broke its blackness. Then, far up along the coast, a faint gleam glimmered and went out, gleamed out again, and then shone a steady beacon in the darkness. And, in a few minutes, the whole country was starred with similar watch-fires, from the low mountains far away, across the dismal marshes of the Marais, and from Noirmoutier far up along the coast, down to where La Rochelle and Rochefort guarded the Western Sea. It was a pretty spectacle enough even from a picturesque standpoint — those points of gold on the sable of the night. But the peasant-warrior saw but their martial significance, and, turning to the Marquis, he said proudly: "Was I not right. Monsieur le Marquis? My brave watch-dogs never sleep. Many a bark and bite they'll give before we see the towers of Notre-Dame!" They instantly made preparations for departure. Cathelineau went first and alone, Ughtly leaping down the slope and across the marshes. The Marquis selected ten of his retainers to go with him. He could not spare more from the castle defences. He bade them to rest, and to awake with the dawn; and turning towards where Ren6 and Genevieve stood, hand locked in hand, watching the strange scene, he said: "And you, too, go to rest! The summer morning will THE CASTLE BY THE SEA 85 soon break and we must be afoot. Are you afraid, Genevieve," he said with a smile, "to remain behind with such a defender?" "Father!" was all the girl could say through her tears. "I leave Ren6 in command here," said the Marquis, "because this is a post of danger, and because here is my pearl of great price" — he folded his daughter in a long embrace and kissed her forehead and her lips. "Never fear! I think this is only a mere skirmish. I shall be back in a few days. Adieu!" Then calling Ren6 aside, he said: " I know you too weU to doubt your fidelity and courage. The castle is impregnable, except they batter it down with artillery from the sea, and this is not likely, because Nelson's watch-dogs are along the coast. It is unap- proachable, except by one secret path known only to my people. Come, let me show you!" He led Ren6 down through a deep thicket where a thick underwood barred all progress except along a narrow footway. At one angle, where the path led down to the beach, a hoivitzer was placed, lightly con- cealed by the brushwood. Farther down, another gun commanded the tortuous path; and still farther down, another was placed so as to sweep the beach. The three guns were carefully covered with tarpaulin; near each, in a recess, were piled heavy shot and grape and canister. "Twenty men can defy a thousand here!" said the Marquis. "Now, good-bye! I shall not be long absent." He went down to the beach, where he remained tiU day broke. An hour after he rode with his retainers through the castle gates. XI Camilla In the tumult and noise of great political struggles, certain spirits burst into song, just as a canary sings best when the sounds of many voices wake it to melody. Such was the song which Rouget de Lisle dreamed of, when he slept over his harpsichord that eventful night in the house of Dietrich, and woke with immortahty on his lips. Such, too, was the Royalist song, Richard! mon Roi! which the victims of the Revolution sang in chorus in the prisons of Paris, when their names were called for the tumbril. And such were the songs which Andr6 Ch^nier composed amidst the seclusion of the woods of Versailles, whilst his father and brother were deep in the terrible plots of the Jacobins and Montagnards; and that gloomy church of the Cordeliers echoed night after night to such sanguinary speeches that even their authors shud- dered during their delivery. But they were songs of inspired ignorance. The poet saw the Revolution afar off and as in a vision. He never looked at his feet. He heard the triumphant march of Himianity towards its final goal. He never saw the corpses that strewed its victorious and suicidal path. None of his poems touched the heart of the people. They were too fine for popularity. He was the poet of the few, not of the many. He was a class-poet. He never stirred the heart of the great masses of the people. He pleased a few, however — principally himself and Camilla. His friends were glad he kept out of the way. It would not be worth the while even of such a sanguinary 86 CAMILLA 87 ruffian as Marat to set the woods of Versailles on fire to scorch the wings of a singing-bird. But there was one whom Andr6 offended deeply and unknowingly. Prob- ably he was a brother-poet, but a bad one. And probably Andr6 had chastised him, as is the wont of poets, about some defective, metre, or some banal expression. But Collot d'Herbois never forgave him, and it was just the time when private enmities had every chance of public satisfaction. Collot d'Herbois had been a comic actor — and had failed. He had been hissed off the stage at Geneva and Lyons. History tells what a fearful revenge he took in after years. These comedians, in public and private life, are dangerous people to meddle with. Was not Nero a comedian? And Andr6 Ch^nier should have been better advised than to write pasquinades on a man who, side by side with the cripple, Couthon, was just then moving on to the sanguinary stage of the Revolution — to make history. At least, those in the secret were alarmed at the audacity of the young poet who glorified the Revolution, but satirized the actors in that terrible drama. And hence, the evening before the memorable tenth of August, Maurice had leave to absent himself for an evening from barracks; and he sought an interview with his friend. "How does the pretty game go on?" said the latter, after the interchange of a few courtesies. "Well and ill," said Maurice. "No one knows what a day may bring forth. The mob is a wild beast and has tasted blood." "Yet, there is a Divinity in them," said Andr6; "blind it may be, like the Furies or Bacchantes, but it is a god that speaks through them." "You would be glad to see the old gods reinstated, Andr6?" said Maurice. "Yes, you would! You never liked the pale starvelings of Christianity. But what if, with the ancient gods, we were to bring back the ancient demons also?" 88 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Impossible!" said Chdnier, tossing his head. "Hu- manity that has power to evoke whatever is beautiful and noble has power also to chain whatever is demonic." "I wish it did then," said Maurice, "because I have seen quite enough of the nether element abeady; and now, the Southern demons have come up, swarthy, black- visaged, singing the wildest song, the maddest conjura- tion that ever ran to music." "Who are these? I have not heard," said Andr^, with fresh interest. "Provengals, with the Uquid Langue d'Oc on their lips, or Gascons, with their gutturals and boast- ings?" "Neither!" said Maurice. "Only the sweepings of the quays of Marseilles — half-Asiatic, half-European. Ma- dame Roland, who has views of her own, has brought them up to counteract the efforts of the Montagnards; but wiser heads than mine think that her pets wiU yet bite her hands. But this awful song — dithyramb, war-song, threnody — is dreadful. They sang it as they marched into the city through the Faubourg St-Antoine, and all Paris is ringing with it to-night." And Andr6, like a good vain poet, bit his nails in jealousy. "The strange thing is," continued Maurice, "that it is said to have been composed by a young officer, over there in Strasbourg, who remained up to write something at the request of a few young ladies, and fell asleep over his harpsichord to wake up, not with a love-ditty on his lips, but with a Resurredion^Mardi, or Murder-Song, that will go down the ages and for ever!" "You pique my curiosity, Maurice," said Andr6, bit- terly, and with a slight tone of incredulous sarcasm. "The song of France's regeneration has not yet been written I think." "You don't believe! Listen then!" And Maurice, going over, leaned over the harpsichord and sang that tumultuous song that will echo around the streets of Paris as long as her towers and temples are mirrored in the Seine. CAMILLA 89 Andr6 had gone over and buried his head in a sofa. He was the poet of the Revolution, was he not? It was his mitier to put into immortal verse the dreams of the world's regenerators. Who was this young officer who dared usurp that proud position? His face was buried in the sofa-pillows as he thought these things. But, scarcely had Maurice sung out the trumpet-tones of the first verse, than Andr6 started up, his face pale with emotion, and every nerve trembling beneath the awful music and still more awful words of the hymn. In a few moments, the tears were running down his face; and, when Maurice, lowering and softening his voice, sang the last strophe: Amour saarS de la patrie Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs ; Liberty, liberU chSrie Combats avec tes defenseurs, he put his fingers in his ears, and ran out of the room. "Poor fellow!" said Maurice, laying aside the instru- ment, "it is really too bad to have snatched the laurel from him thus. Perhaps I should not have sung that in- fernal hymn, because it is the composition of some demon. And now he will be in no mood to hear or give ear to my warning." He waited, waited, until his patience was exhausted. Then, he touched the bell, and bade the servant tell his master that he was going, but he had a message to deliver. Andr6 came in, quite pale and with dishevelled hair. "I should not have disturbed you with that wretched song," he said. "And, Andr6, I have an important mes- sage to you from a friend." "Say on!" said Andr4. "I'm quite calm now. I have broken all my reeds. I have done with poetry." " I want you to have done with prose also," said Maurice. "It is your prose that's dangerous. These articles in the Journal de Paris, in February, have caused a deeper sen- sation than you think — " Andr6's eyes kindled with pride. 90 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Ha!" he said. "You are a friend to say so, Maurice. And so the barbed arrow has stuck. Mon Dieu! but this is good news. Did they suppose, those midnight assas- sins, that France spurned the heel of a king to place on its neck the hob-nailed boots of a hundred scoundrels? The slave is always the tyrant. And those slaves of the gutter and the pothouse, do they think they can, by violence and intimidation, trample on the liberties of twenty-five milhon Frenchmen? Par Dieu! but their in- solence is almost amusing. Louis Capet must go; but Marat and Couthon, the friends of the people, are to reign! Do they think the people mad? " "The people are mad," said Maiurice gravely. "You don't know them, Andr6. You have brought with you the atmosphere of Languedoc. The air here is more sulphurous." "True! I find it difficult to breathe," said Andr^, tearing open the coUar of his coat. "The limgs that have breathed the air of the mountain and the ocean gasp in this fetid atmosphere above the sluggish and filthy river. But, I cannot go, Maurice," he said, tenderly laying his hand on his friend's shoulder. " I cannot go. The voice of humanity is calling, calling; and whether the tyrant has a crown or a Phrygian cap, I wiU strike." "They wiU strike back," said Maurice gravely. "Now, let us be grave and talk sense. I have come here to- night, sent by an exalted personage who knows the ins and outs of Revolution to say to you, beware! You have already deeply offended many who may be in power to-morrow, and who are utterly unscrupulous in their revenge. Some spirits never forget. The hiss of scorn never ceases to pain their ears. Joseph " "My brother?" "Yes. He has sworn to destroy the King, because he thinks that Louis hissed his wretched play off the stage — " "And Louis was right. I have never said so much for a king before." "That's not the point. I am advised to show you CAMILLA 91 what these actors aud orators are. Louis has earned his enmity. You have earned the bitter hatred of your brother and Collot d'Herbois." "I know," said Andr6, "and I am proud of it." " Quite so. But pride goeth before a fall. In the name of God — in the name of your mother — stop!" "My mother? She knows? What does she think? " "I need hardly explain." "But you must, or we shall quarrel, Maurice. You know, hers is the only opinion I set the least value upon. It will be a bitter struggle between my mother and the cause of freedom, should she interfere. But she won't. She has the old Greek blood in her veins — the blood of Aristides and Leonidas. She cannot — she dare not — stop me in my fight for humanity. She would be recreant to aU her instincts — to all her history." "She loves you!" "I know it. She was even jealous of Camilla, who was my Egeria." "That is over?" "For ever. I have but one mistress and mother now, and that is my country." "I fear I shall have to take back a sad message." "If you mean that it is sad to say that I am wholly impenitent for what I have done — wholly impatient to do more — Yes! I shall never cease to protest against tyrants and brigands. I am proud to have as enemies the slaves that have just emerged from prison or have been raised from the gutter. I have unmasked their corruption. If they succeed, I shall esteem it an honour to be done to death by their hands, rather than grasp those hands as friends and comrades. If they fail, as they wUl, I shall esteem it an honour and a privilege to have helped to hurl them from power." "You are lost!" said Maurice sadly. "No matter if France is saved!" "At least, let me put you on your guard against Joseph and Couthon. They are fast friends.", 92 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "I know it." "And your mother? What shall I say? " Andr6 was silent for a few minutes as the tears welled into his eyes. Then he dashed them aside. "Tell her that it is from her I have inherited the love of Uberty — the hatred of oppression. I cannot be false to her!" "Andr6," said Maurice with emotion, "you were always brave — braver than I, even though now I see with your eyes. Let no words of mine help to move you one inch from your path. And I am with you, Andr6, even unto death!" The two friends embraced each other and separated, Andr6 going back to his pen, his brain seething with the ambition of rivalling that hated song he had just heard. Maurice drove back towards the city. Yet, he had not gone far from Versailles when he made a shght detour, and driving rapidly through a leafy lane, he drew up at the door of a handsome viUa, built much in the style, and evidently in imitation, of the Petit Trianon. He knocked modestly; and though it was late, he was promptly admitted. There were three ladies in the room into which he was ushered. One, of more mature beauty than her two companions, came forward and addressed him. It was Madame de Boimeuil — the famous Ca- milla, who inspired most of Ch^nier's immortal songs. "I am late, Madame," he said, bowing low over her hand, "but I come on a mission." "Your caged birds are flown?" she said, whilst her face lighted with animation. The young ladies bent for- ward eagerly. "Alas, no!" he cried. "The chains seemed tightening, rather than loosening. But I have been to see Andr6." Camilla sank into a chair, and waited. "I went to him with a double commission, from one in high place and — from his mother,' to conjure him to be cautious in his attacks on the revolutionists, if he heeded his own safety!" CAMILLA 93 "And he — ?" "Why, he converted me to his views. I have not won him over to the Queen's side, but he is the declared enemy ' of the Jacobins and even of the Girondists. He is the only man in France that occupies the intermediate posi- tion of enemy of kings and rebels." "But he is in danger, you think? You warned him! Against whom?" "Against the evil men that are provoking the people to madness — and most of all, against his brother, Joseph." "Then they are no longer friends?" "No longer. Politics and literary jealousy have dug a deep gulf between them." "But Andr6 can defy them. He has right and justice on his side, has he not?" "Alas! dear lady, he has. But what do these avail against passion and lawlessness? His life and liberty are in extreme danger. And yet, I could not, I dare not in the end say. Stop!" "But, pardon. Monsieur le Capitaine," she said with a smile, "what then are we to expect? If Andr6 will rush to destruction, who can save him? " "Your heart answers for me," he said. "But if I, too, think with Andr6?" she replied. "That's impossible!" he said. "How? Impossible?" she asked. "A woman doesn't Usten to reasoning and principle imder such circumstances," he said. "She tramples under foot such things. She only thinks of the safety of her beloved." "Ha! Complimentary!" she cried, turning to her com- panions, and with a pleased expression on her face. "Men always follow the white hght of reason, women the blind instinct of love. Your acquaintance with the Court has not mended your manners, young sir!" " You have not contradicted me! " said Mam-ice. "That means you'll go and save Andr^. He wiU argue, reason, 94 THE QUEEN'S FILLET plead with you as with me; but you'll conquer where I failed." "How?" " You'll listen, and reply not. He will argue profoundly, reason like a Greek sophist, expostulate like a preaching friar, plead Uke a venal advocate, against the iniquity of laying down his pen and seeking self-protection in silence. And you'll listen gravely and say nothing. And the arguments and pleadings that silenced and converted me will fall heedless upon you, because " He stopped suddenly. And a deep flush rose up and tinged the forehead and cheek of Camilla. "Because?" she said simply. Maurice looked at the two younger girls, who were smiUng. " Because your love for him is too great to be influenced by mere dialectics. You will listen patiently, and then you wiU say, 'Stop! Cease from these terrible philippics, Andr6,' and — he will obey you!" "Alas! my dear young friend, you are quite wrong. At one time, perhaps, that might have been. That time is past and gone. But, at least, it is pleasant to hear such words about a woman's fidelity. Some day again, per- haps " She did not finish the sentence. "It is late. Monsieur. Let me offer you some refresh- ments against your journey." But Maurice decUned, and pursued his journey, revolving many things, that seemed to clash against each other, in his mind. XII A Night Attack The long days of the summer time would have passed drearily for Ren6, locked into the Castle by his pledge of fidelity, but for one thing. He was Genevieve's cousin, and they were betrothed. And so between his duties as warder and guardian of the ancient Castle and its mistress, and such pleasures as shooting and boating, and the evenings spent in singing his Provengal songs flud writing Provengal poetry with the young Chitelaine, the days sped merrily by, and Ren^ had long since ceased to suffer from throbbing nerves and the aching sense of responsibility. The news from afar filtered slowly and doubtfully across the Marais. Sometimes came word of an engagement in which the Revolutionary troops were badly defeated; sometimes came news of a reverse to the peasant armies. But, clearly, little advance was made on either side. The government in Paris seemed not to have made up its mind as yet to crush the Vendeans; and the Vendeans, when they had driven back the troops, and won a few trifling engagements, immediately dis- banded, and went back to the work of harvesting and the vintage. Every morning and every night Ren6 made his rounds punctiliously. Every day he had his sentinels posted in a place where the coast-line could be swept by a glass far, far away to the north, where the white breakers could be seen flashing on the Sables-d'Olonne, or, farther still, agleam of silver around the Island of Noirmoutier; and down to the south where the long lie d'Ol^ron formed a natural 95 96 THE QUEEN'S FILLET breakwater across the mouth of the harbour of Rochelle. He got his men to polish and clean the howitzers, to ex- amine the ammunition, to keep sword and lance and har- quebus in ever ready condition. And then he went back to the Castle to ride abroad with his cousin, or read for her during the long autumn days, when the hot sun beat down remorselessly on the sparkling granite of the terrace, and his men were in the fields gathering in the golden com against the winter. Ah! these were happy days, so happy that Ren6 had no pain, except a certain consciousness of inutiUty whilst the aged Marquis and his compeers were battling for rehgion and country, and a certain longing to hear some- thing from his former companions, Maurice and Andr6, who, he knew, were in the midst of dangers in far-away tumultuous Paris. Once he expressed his scruples, his self-contempt for this happy hfe he was leading, to the good curi, who came nearly every morning to celebrate Mass in the chapel of the Castle. "It seems," said Ren6, "that I am always destined to a safe and luxurious life, whilst others are fighting the battles of their king. This ease is inglorious, and I am impatient of it." "We shouldn't complain, my son," said the priest. "I, too, feel that I should like to get away from the peace and sohtude of the country, and throw in my lot amongst the priests and people who are endangering their lives and Uberties far away. And, sometimes," the old man said, with just a little flush of modesty mantling his withered cheek, "I envy my brethren who are seeking and finding the glorious palm of martyrdom amongst their people. To live for such a people is a pleasure; to fight their battles is a privilege; to die for them is glorious. But, then, I say. Wait! Perhaps your time will come, and God won't permit you to rust out in ignoble security. And I say to you, my dear young friend, Be patient! Perhaps, your time will come, and the trial of your strength A NIGHT ATTACK 97 is before you. So far as my weak eyes can see, we are but in the beginning of the struggle. Soon, very soon, every brave Frenchman will be summoned beneath the Cross and the fleur-de-lis!" "You think, then, the RepubUcan troops will advance again into La Vendfe ? " "Most certainly. Their leaders are sworn to level every church and castle, to burn every priest and noble in the land of France. And our people," continued the old man, his eyes kindling with enthusiasm, "are sworn to die to the last man ia defence of their faith and their priests, their country and their God!" "But the Constitutional priests," said Ren6, "will they not seduce the other priests from their allegiance, and the people from their faith? They are numerous and powerful." "Not here, thank God!" said the old man. "Not in La Vendue. One or two weaklings have apostatized, when brought face to face with death; but the people have sternly punished them. In Saumur and Clisson, hotbeds of revolution, the people have refused bread or lodging to apostate priests, and these have had to fly the country for ever. But we are not blind enough to suppose that all is over. The struggle is only commencing, my son. God grant that we shall be equipped and prepared for it." And Ren^ knew the priest was right; yet the words left a little sadness and desolation on two hearts that day. For, dear and pleasant as were those golden days spent there above the glorious Western Sea, it was now clear to Ren6 that these were not to last; that the dream of a life spent here with Genevieve as his wife, with the Marquis and his dependents, with the village cure and the faithful people, must be abandoned; and that, if such things were to come in the evening of life, it would be only after the storm and tempest, the battle and the trial. And the thought of her beloved father, far away up there across the salt sea-marshes, in dangerous cities, amidst a hostile 98 THE QUEEN'S FILLET population with all its dreadful propensities, was always haunting the young Chitelaine. She had heard enough to make her shudder at possibilities. She had heard of ancestral castles razed to the ground, and grand seigneiu-s, who traced their blood back to Charlemagne, slowly roasted over the fires kindled at their own hearths, to compel them to hand over ancient deeds and parchments, even to their serfs. She had heard of nobles, fleeing from this land of desolation and horror, arrested at the very frontiers under shameful disguises, brought back amidst the jeers of the frenzied populace, and done to death without trial. She had heard of priests, by the hundred, who had been beheaded, burnt, hewn to pieces by the mob, because they refused to take the oath to the Constitution. And she had heard even of ladies, like her- self, torn from their homes and executed, amidst name- less horrors, for no crime but that of noble birth. And she felt that there was no fleeing, no escaping from this horrid prison of guilt and shame. Behind were the illimitable marshes, and beyond them every road was guarded by Republican troops, every bridge, every avenue lined with spies of the RepubUc. And in front was the sea, guarded by the gunboats of the Republic, with just the ghost of a chance that on the deck of some English vessel there might be immediate safety and perpetual banishment from their home. With that strange, mysterious instinct with which women, who live closer to nature than men, seem to feel the presence of danger, Genevieve, these latter days of August, felt uneasy. There was a vague sense of alarm hanging around her, which she was shy of expressing, even to Ren6. Once she hinted at the possibihties of treachery: "Monsieur le Cur^ says that, even in families where the servants seemed to be most devoted to their masters, a strange feeling of suspicion had crept in; and it was notorious that several leading notabilities in Paris and elsewhere had been denounced to the Revolutionary A NIGHT ATTACK 99 Tribunal by their domestics. What would happen, Ren6, if we harboured such here?" "Fear not, mon &me," he said. "The poison of the Revolution has not filtered so far. These are all faithful peasants and excellent Catholics who would shed the last drop of their blood for the Marquis and you." "But," she said, with a woman's forebodings, "we know nothing nowadays about the people. Their faith may be undermined and their fidelity shaken without our know- ing it. Ren6, I have great fear." "The fear of great love," he said. "Console yourself, Genevieve," he said, with greater earnestness. "Look! That vast plain is a greater barrier than a thousand fortifications, and behold! There's not a white wing on the sea." "Ah, the sea! the sea!" she said, sadly. "It is the sea I dread." Another evening she spoke of a strange hght that flashed into her chamber at night, flickered, flamed out, and was extinguished. "Summer lightning," he said gaily. "It is most fre- quent all along the coast, where the electric fluid seems to gather. If you are nervous, Genevieve, get your maid to close the shutters. But there is no danger in summer lightning — positively none!" Yet her fears communicated themselves to him, and he redoubled his precautions; and to make assurance doubly siu^e, he examined closely the Castle retainers. They were quite unanimous. There was no danger! And treachery? Pah! Who could name such a thing amongst them? One peasant stood aloof, and was silent. Ren6 called him towards him, dismissed the others, and looked the man all over. He was a tall, thin, sinewy fellow, his face of that slaty and sallow colour which, as we have said, comes from dwelling near the salt marshes. He had a leathern jerkia and leathern breeches. He fumbled with his cap when his young master called him. 100 THE QUEEN'S FILLET* "Jean Baptiste, I have more faith in you than in these, not that I doubt their fidelity, but their discernment. On your word, as a Christian man, do you believe that all these men, the Marquis's retainers, are to be trusted?" "Absolutely, Monsieur!" he said, looking down at his cap. "Then it is your opinion that there is no danger of a surprise or attack in the absence of the Marquis? " "I did not say so, Monsieur!" "Ha! Then you think there is danger?" "Yes, Monsieur, and very grave!" "What? Cease to be enigmatic, Baptiste, and speak out! I cannot conceive danger here, where so many precautions are taken, unless there is treachery. And you assure me there is no treachery." "I am not aware that I said so. Monsieur," said the man, half angrily. "But you said that all the Marqxiis's retainers are worthy of trust and implicit confidence. Where, then, can treachery come in?" "In the Chateau, Monsieur!" "Among the servants?" "In the heart of one. Monsieur!" "Name him!" "I hesitate. Monsieur! You'll be displeased!" "Displeased to have a traitor exposed? What do you mean?" "I mean. Monsieur, that when you compel me to speak, you had rather I kept silent!" "A truce to this folly, Baptiste! Come! There's a traitor in the Castle! Who's he?" "Your valet. Monsieur!" "What? Salvador?" "Precisely, Monsieur. He has been signalling across the bay during the last five nights!" "Mm Dieu!" cried Ren6, in a paroxysm of fear and anguish. "And I trusted Salvador as a brother. You're sure, quite sure of what you say, Baptiste? " A NIGHT ATTACK 101 "Absolutely, Monsieur! I tracked him, and saw him signalling from the corner of the terrace beneath the flag- tower across the bay." "But why, then, did not the sentinel perceive him?" " He was hidden from view by the trees and the comer of the tower. If Monsieur would be pleased to come with me, I will show him how." They ascended the declivity that sloped down into the deep glen that cut off, as by a kind of natural moat, the Chateau from the surrounding cliffs. On the top, a sen- tinel stood motionless. Looking back, they saw that only the south-eastern angle of the terrace was visible. All the rest was hidden by the great flag-tower and the thick umbrage of the trees. "You see. Monsieur?" said Baptiste. "I see," said Ren6, still unconvinced. "But could not the answering signals from the bay be seen from here?" "Certainly, Monsieur! But no answering signals have appeared as yet. It is for those I am watching and waiting!" Een6 was silent, looking downwards, meditating. He began to recall the circumstances in which he had met Salvador, and how and where he employed him. He remembered then that he had been caught by the fellow's manner, rather than assured of his integrity by his papers. "Monsieur is still doubtful?" said Baptiste, misin- terpreting Rent's silence. "Then would. Monsieur be pleased to come and see for himself?" He led Ren6 downwards through the one secret path that led to the beach. Everything was right: the howitz- ers in position, the ammimition piled and covered close by. The man swept off the tarpaulin, and then threw it back. " All is right, Monsieur ! Is it not? " "Yes! all is right," said Ren6. "Is not the place examined twice a day?" "Certainly, Monsieur, but now, please, come with me!" 102 THE QUEEN'S FILLET He led him to the donjon of the Castle, where the powder was piled in barrels, carefully covered against the damp and rain. He flung off one cover, opened the lid of the barrel, and grasped a handful of powder. It caked in his hands. "Feel, Monsieur!" he said. Ren4 touched the powder. It was quite wet. And every pound of gunpowder in the vault was foimd satu- rated through and through. "It cannot be the rain. Monsieur," said Baptiste. "We have had weeks of fine weather, and the vault is damp-proof. What is it?" Utterly stunned by such a revelation of treachery, Ren6 was silent for a moment. Then his Southern blood boiled up, and a paroxysm of rage shook him. "I'll have the scoxmdrel arrested at once," he said, "and hanged from the tower. Go, Baptiste, and sum- mon help. There is no saying what such an infamous wretch may not do!" "Pardon me. Monsieur," said Baptiste, "but that would spoil the game. Permit me to see the play out to the end." "Yes, but consider, Baptiste, the stakes at issue. If anything should happen to yoiu- own mistress in the absence of the Marquis " "Put your mind at rest. Monsieur," said Baptiste. "There are many eyes watching Mademoiselle, many hearts beating for her. Let us have the pleasure of seeing the play out, Monsieur. It will console us poor peasants a Httle for the burning of our poor priests over there." And he pointed with his rough hand to the mountains, that lay like a thin cloud on the horizon. Ren6 thought for a moment. And then considering how the wits of these poor peasants probed farther and gauged deeper than his own trained intellect, he said: "I shall be uneasy, Baptiste. But I see that your intelligence is greater than mine. I conclude the same for your prudence and courage. I leave the matter in A NIGHT ATTACK 103 your hands. Only let me know when the dSn(yAment Gomes; I should Uke to be even a spectator at the end." He grasped the rough hand of the peasant, who bowed low before him, and then strode away with a Uttle pride. The end was not far off. Ren6 now slept on a sofa, and without being undressed. His sword was always by his side, and his pistols, ready primed, were near at hand. Sometimes he would start in his sleep, dreaming that he heard strange sounds of alarm; sometimes he would see, across the groined roof of his chambers, the sudden gleams of lantern flashes. Then he would find that his alarm was vain, and sink into a disturbed sleep. These repeated vigils made him pale and worn of feature. Genevieve noticed it. "You look weary and anxious, Ren6. You have lost your Ughtness of heart. What has happened?" "Nothing, absolutely nothing!" he would reply. "I think the Marquis should soon retmn. The campaign, I believe, is nearly at an end." •But she was not deceived. Neither by word, or sign, or look, however, did he betray to his valet the terrible suspicions that were now haunting him. "We must get back to Languedoc for the winter, Salvador," he would say. "I want to see the C^vennes, and the Aude, and the blue Mediterranean. This cold sea chills my blood, and these salt marshes freeze me." And Salvador, too, would Uke to get away, he said. There was a young Savoyard down there behind the snows, whose black eyes were ever beckoning him for- ward. Yes! When Monsieur would strike his tent, Salvador, too, would be glad to pull the ropes and pack for home. And so the days went on; and to outer seem- ing, there was not within the land of France a more peace- ful or happy spot than that castle above the sea. Then, one night, just in the blackest noon of night, came suddenly to Rent's ears the sharp thunder of heavy guns. He sprang to his feet, buckled on his sword, 104 THE QUEEN'S FILLET grasped his pistols, and tore through the Gothic gate that had been always left open at his command. Again, a gun thundered out, and he saw the flash Ughting up the night and the dark foUage of the trees. Far beneath, near the beach, he heard the sound of a.scuflBe and the hoarse voices of men in anger. The sharp rattle of musketry succeeded; and then, no more but the cries of the wounded and the dying. Thoroughly alarmed, he crept down in the thick dark- ness along the secret path that led to the beach. He had reached the angle where the first gun was placed, but was instantly arrested by a sharp voice: "Halte-ld! Contresigne!" Fortunately, he was careful enough to fortify himself every night with the watchword, and now he whispered rather than uttered: "Charette!" "Step forward, friend! Ah! 'tis Monsieur Ren6! You're late. Monsieur! All is over!" "Why was I not summoned?" said Ren6, angrily. "Where's Baptiste? The command is taken from my hands, I see!" He descended further in an angry mood. He felt he had been superseded and humihated. Evidently these peasants did not deem him quahfied to lead them in an emergency. Again he was challenged, and again he replied, and angrily demanded: "Baptiste! where is Baptiste?" "On the beach. Monsieur — with the boats!" He descended further, and now, from the faint light of the lanterns that were swinging to and fro in the hands of men beneath, he found that he was stumbling over dead bodies, some shockingly mutilated; whilst from the thick undergrowth beneath the trees came groans and curses from many wounded wretches who were writhing in agony: At the last gun he was again challenged, and then directed to the sands, where a group of men were A NIGHT ATTACK 105 gathered around three fine men-of-war boats, in which again were a couple of dead bodies and a few prisoners bound in ropes. He went over and said, in a half-angry, half-triumphant voice: "Baptiste! Why is all this? Why was I not sum- moned?" The man he addressed turned around and doffed his cap, while he grounded his musket. "Cathelineau!" said Ren.6, in surprise. "Yes, Monsieur Ren6, at your service!" "Why, I thought you were away beyond the Marais with the Marquis?" "And so I was. Monsieur Ren6; but that campaign is over, and I was needed here!" "Then you were summoned?" "Yes, Morsiem-, I was summoned. The matter was serious, as you see." And Rene could answer nothing. Clearly, these rough peasants regarded him but as a child. He swallowed his mortification in silence. "Monsieur Ren6 will have abundant opportunities for showing that he is brave," said Cathelineau. "But this was a serious matter. Come, Monsieur, and see for yom-self!" He took Ren6 first to the boats, which were now hauled up, high and dry, on the beach. The four dead men stared upwards with sightless eyes, their arms flung here and there in the agonies of death. They were splendid types of French seamen, the strong red flesh of their breasts showing yet more ruddy in the lantern light. Lashed to the thwarts were five sailors, some badly wounded. They scowled at their captors, and cursed beneath their teeth, and then turned away, ^their faces distorted in agony. Two of the Castle retainers stood by, leaning on their muskets, grimly and silently awaiting orders. Cathelineau and Ren^ went back towards the wood. As they passed up along the narrow path, they had to tread Ughtly over the bodies of men, horribly 106 THE QUEEN'S FILLET mutilated by the grape-shot from the gims; and again from the deep imderwood came groans of pain and cm-ses of anger from wounded wretches, who had dragged them- selves in from the footpath. "Something must be done for these poor devils!" said Ren6, compassionately. "Certainly, Monsieur. We are but waiting for the dawn to have them brought in and tended." "And some must have escaped? Surely, all were not killed or captured?" "A few!" said Cathelineau, sententiously. "But these few will have surrendered before twenty-four hours. They will not die of starvation in the forest." "I am deeply grateful; yet I am annoyed, Cathelineau, at the secrecy with which this defence has been made. Siurely, I might have been trusted?" "There was no question of trust, Monsieur. The whole thing burst upon us, and left no time for anything but action. I had been at home for a few days; and then got a mysterious summons hither. I came across the marshes, and reached here at night. Baptiste met me. 'Just in time, Cathehneau,' he said. 'Come!' We mounted the hill. The sentinel was .there. He pointed downward. A large vessel was signalling shorewards. We understood. The sentinel got his orders at once, and he executed them. In half an hotir every gun was manned, loaded, and pointed. Baptiste and I crept on to the terrace. From under the flag-tower a lantern was flashing down into the bay. We knew all then. We crept up behind the traitor and seized him. He resisted furiously. We tore the lantern from his hands and put it down. Then we took the wretch in oiu" arms, and, without a word, we flung him over the parapet on to the rocks beneath. There was just a heavy crash as he struck the black boulders two hundred feet beneath, and displaced a few small stones. To do the wretch justice, he never cried out. Then Baptiste took up the lantern and the signalling. In a few moments we knew from the sound of the paddles A NIGHT ATTACK 107 that they were coming. By our Lady, they came — ■ never to return." Ren6 grasped the strong hand of the peasant. "Cathelineau, you are a brave, honest man. I shall tell the Marquis all. I am satisfied now. Perhaps, after ■all, I should only be in the way of brave men." He said it so sadly that the heart of the soldier throbbed for him. "Never fear, Monsieur Ren6," he said. "Your time will come. We have beaten back the forces of the Revolu- tion here and elsewhere. But we should be fools to sup- pose that they will not come again with seven other devils worse than themselves. Our La Vendfe for many months to come, mayhap years, will see nothing but blood, and hate, and vengeance. And then God will be the victor, as he always is. Go now. Monsieur, and reassure Made- moiselle that all is right. She and her maidens will have something to do these days in binding wounds and watch- ing with care those who would have destroyed her and all she holds dear." XIII August the Tenth When Maurice reached the house of his father-in-law, Reinhard, late at night, he thought he heard the sounds of far-off tumult in the city and he had hardly dismounted at the door, when from far and near the discordant clangour of church-bells rang out on the midnight air. He knew well what it was — the tocsin that called to arms the entire city. He did not know that it was the death-knell of the French monarchy. "Forestier sent here an hour ago," were the first words his father-in-law spoke, whilst Emmeline stood by in tears, "to summon you at once to the palace. There is no need to ask reasons. Hark! The joy-bells of the Republic and the funeral bells of the Monarchy!" "'Tis serious then!" said Maurice. "I suppose the twentieth of June again?" "Yes!" said the old man, "with two months' interest added." "It pieans the deposition of the King!" "And more. And hark, young man! You're going into danger to-night," said old Reinhard sternly. "No sentimental nonsense now, no foohsh compasssion! You're the soldier of the Republic of France. Let your duty be to her, and to no one else!" "I shall remember," Maurice said. "But, by Heavens, if they touch so much as a hair of the Queen's head, I'll send the whole canaille to hell!" "I thought so!" said the old man. "Blood will speak. You're still the aristocrat, de Brignon! But, if you don't care for yourself, look at your wife! In a few weeks she'll be the mother of your child. But, take my word 108 AUGUST THE TENTH 109 for it, there are those in Paris to-night that would think Uttle of sending you and her to the scaffold if they sus- pected you of treason!" " N'importe ! " said Maurice. "Good-bye, little one! Pray softly for me. I shall return!" He kissed his wife tenderly. She clung to him passion- ately. Old Reinhard sat by sulkily. And still the tocsin rang out tumultuously, and in the street was the sound of many feet hasting, hastening to the great storm-centre, where this night in agony and fear the last of the long line of Capets was to be degraded and deposed amidst every circumstance that could lend horror to the scene. Maurice, full of anxiety, yet full of determination to defend his King, hurried along the narrow streets that led down to the river. At the same moment two hun- dred gentlemen, their swords concealed beneath the even- ing dress they^wore, were rushing from supper table or evening pleasaunce across the city, with the same deter- mination in their hearts. They were the gallant remnant, the one solitary phalanx that had remained undemoral- ized, of that recreant crowd of French noblemen, who had scurried away to the frontier on the first whisper of battle. The whole history of the Revolution, chapter after chap- ter, seems to hinge on: It might have been! But it is easy to conjecture what would have been if one hundred thou- sand of the flower of the French nobility, with the hardy peasants of Brittany and La Vendue behind them, had marched on Paris these dread days, rescued their King, and driven the wretched vermin of the Revolution into their holes. So thought these gentlemen as they moved amid the maddened crowd towards the Tuileries; so thought the brave Swiss guards that welcomed them; so thought Maurice de Brignon, as he avoided the Pont du Carrousel, where the lamps showed nothing but a swirl- ing mass of people, and crossed over at the Pont Royal, and tore his way along amidst many obstructions, and with ears deafened by the frightful tumult, to his quar- ters near the Cour des Suisses. no THE QUEEN'S FILLET Here apparently all was right. Every precaution seemed to have been taken to protect the Palace and its royal occupants. The Swiss mercenaries, the grenadiers of the Guard, the gendarmerie — all were in their places. The carmoniers stood by their guns with lighted matches. And, as was becoming in such a crisis, the vast array of soldiers took on all the solemnity of great silence. "Who's in command?" asked Maurice to a yoimg offi- cer, dressed hke himself in the imiform of the National Guard. "No one!" was the answer. "Lafayette?" "He is not here!" "Mandat?" "You haven't heard? He was murdered on the steps of the Hdtel de Ville this afternoon, and his body flung into the Seine." "My God!" said Maurice. "H6tel de Ville! What took him there?" "Ordered by the municipals — Danton, Collot d'Her- bois, Billaud-Varenne, and Tallien!" "Scelerats!" muttered Maurice. "Have these demons assimaed power?" "Hush!" said his friend. "Keep a silent tongue to-night, mon ami, and a sharp look out. You're going to see history." Presently an oflicer came along, looking anxiously around him. "Ha! You, Brigneau! Come with me!" He led Maurice into the corridors of the Tuileries. They were crowded. Gentlemen in evening dress, officers of the Swiss Guard, hussars, officers of the Royal house- hold — were crowded pell-mell together. There was quite an uproar. From afar the deep thunder of artil- lery, guns, caissons, tumbrils, dragged up along the Place du Carrousel by the insensate and maddened mob, was drowned by the terrific yells of a hundred thousand people. The heat in the corridor was stifling from the AUGUST THE TENTH 111 motley crowd of human beings assembled there. Ser- vants and couriers were rushing backwards and forwards, forcing their way through the dense and disorganized mass. By the gleam of lanterns the serried masses of the soldiers outside were distinctly visible, the men stand- ing to attention, their muskets resting on the ground, the officers moving to and fro anxiously. And still the tumult in the streets outside from the crowds that were now cramming every street and avenue all along towards the Feuillants on one side, and by the river on the other, con- tinually increased; and above the clangour of the tocsin that never ceased, and the shouts of the insurgents, who were shrieking "Aux armes!" "Aux armes!" came the blood-curdling cry: "Deposition!" "Mart!" "Deposi- tion!" "Mart!" "You hear, Brigneau," said the officer of the Royal Guard, at least of the sad remnant of that famous Garde du Corps that now seemed to have melted away as by magic. Maurice bowed. "They mean it," said the officer. "To-night will wit- ness the death of the King and Queen, or their release. Can you trust your men?" "A few," said Maurice sadly. "I see now why Potion sent the two Swiss battaUons and the five regiments to the frontier." "Yes!" said the officer, "'tis treachery everywhere. There is but one hope, that the troops will stand steady till the wolves devour each other." "If the artillery hold fast, and the few battahons of the Guard are not corrupted, we should be able to hold our own. But why are the mob holding back? " "They are seeking to demoralize the men with drink, and their beastly women are cajohng them. Every hour we are losing something." "If the King, or, better still, the Queen appeared, it would help the loyalty of the men," said Maurice. "Let the King come a^d speak to them." 112 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "I shall see!" said the officer, moving away. It was neaijy dawn when the King did appear. He had spent a terrible night, full of all kinds of hopeless anxiety, wavering between firmness and weakness, deter- mination and resignation. He came down along the great corridor and the great staircase now, siuroimded by the few nobles who had come to die by his side — the Duke de Choiseul, the Prince de Poix, the Duke de Rohan- Chabot, the Marquises de Tourzel and Nantouillet; they formed, even there in that awful plight, a circle of loyalty around expiring majesty. The little procession moved out into the courts where the serried ranks looked grim and silent. The grand question was on every lip, but unex- pressed: "Will these men keep their oath?" The King approached. The hearts of his nobles sank when only a faint " Vive le Roi " arose from the ranks. They sank deeper when, instead of a few ringing words that would touch their soldiers' hearts, the King, in a weak voice, preached some paternal wisdom about peace and his horror of bloodshed. The officers turned aside in despair. Maurice muttered between his teeth: "Bambino! Bambino!" The King dared not go beyond the court. Outside the walls the vast surges of a bloodthirsty mob were beating up furiously. Sadly, mournfully, expecting every moment that the feigned resistance of the military would be understood by the populace, and that death in its most horrible shape might at any moment be their lot, the little! procession returned to the royal apartments. And then the Queen emerged. She came along the same corridor, surrounded by her ladies of honour, and holding in either hand the young Dauphin and the Princess. She was surrounded by a group of ladies — Madame Elisabeth, the saint of the Revolution, Madame de Tourzel, the Princesse de Lam- balle, whose awful fate a few weeks later crested and crowned with its infamy all the other unspeakable things of the Revolution. The glittering throng came slowly AUGUST THE TENTH 113 along, the great, calm eyes of the Queen surveying her cavaliers and seeming to question and probe their honour. The response was immediate and unmistakable. A mighty shout of enthusiasm shook the walls that were already trembling under the fearful din from without. Noble after noble stepped forward and begged the Queen merely to touch his sword to render it victorious. A few knelt and kissed the royal hand; and a vast wave of loy- alty and enthusiasm seemed to surge down amongst the masses that were wedged in the corridor. A thousand oaths were taken to die in defence of the Royal lady, whose name was mingled just then with fiendish imprecations by the mob outside. And when Maurice, with just a Uttle apology, raised in his arms the Dauphin and showed him to the soldiers, as if he were raising a flag or standard around which all should rally, a shout of triumph ran along the ranks, and the soldiers broke away from discipline to salute the future king and to assm-e him of their loyalty. When Maiuice, after this signal triumph, modestly restored the Dauphin to his mother, she said: "And you, Monsieur le Capitaine — does the King know you?" "I fear not, Madame!" he said, with bent head. "Then he shall!" she said, extending her hand. He bowed low, and touched it with his lips; and felt that even death, so often threatened that night, would be sweet. And then the pageant faded; the men stood to arms once more in their ranks; the shouts and tumults outside seemed to be growing. Some one said: "They're only waiting for more guns to enfilade the troops in front!" And the thought of Uttle Emmeline and his child came back once more; and the desire of life contended for the mastery with his sense of chivalry and devotion, but did not conquer. Not for a moment did he waver in his resolution to die, if needs were, in the protection of his sovereign. And it seemed likely enough that this would be de- manded. All night long the terrific tumult, instead of 114 THE QUEEN'S FILLET lessening, seemed to increase. Every moment it was expected that the guns of the Swiss guard that were placed in front of the great western entrance would ring out, and that the conflict, which could only end in the death of the King or the dispersion of the people, would conmience. But the dreary morning rolled on; and it was hoped that perhaps the fright- ful paroxysm would have spent itself, when at half- past six, Rcederer, the procureur general, appeared at the head of the directory of his department, demanded at once to see the King, and in accents of absolute terror declaimed that the lives of the Royal family were no longer safe for a moment; the National Guard had been won over; the cannoniers had drawn the charges of the guns; and the mob was ready to pour into the palace. "And where do you propose we shall take refuge?" asked the King. "In the National Assembly!" was the reply. "The representatives of the nation are sworn to^defend their King." "Never!" said the Queen emphatically. Well she knew what the National Assembly were — weaklings who had the will, but not the power, to strike. "I shall die here, rather than amongst my enemies." But Rcederer insisted. "One moment, Madame, and you may be too late. Listen!" And up from the front court, where they had now pene- trated, came the hoarse cries of a maddened populace. "Death to the Austrian! Death to the Austrian!" Clearly there was not a moment to lose. "Monsieur Rcederer," said the Queen, calm amidst the universal terror, and thinking only of her husband and her son, "you answer for the lives of the King and the Dauphin?" She spoke not of herself. "I answer, Madame, that we shall defend those lives with our own." AUGUST THE TENTH 115 And forthwith, the Royal house of France was ready to leave that palace which not one of them was ever to enter again. It was a mournful procession — that which wended its dangerous and sorrowful way along the Via Dolorosa that was to end only on the scaffold. The King came first, leaning on the arm of his sister, Madame Elisabeth; then came the Queen with her two children; the Royal suite followed, two and two. The procureur general with his department formed, not so much a guard of hon- our as of defence, for the moment they passed outside the precincts of the palace they were in the midst of the maddened mob. Just at the gate Maurice, who had kept close all along to the Queen, snatched up the Prince Royal in his arms and held him aloft — a symbol of innocence and loveliness in the midst of vileness and hate. Rcederer turned around. "Sire and Madame," he said, "not one word now if you value yovu- Uves, no matter what you hear or see. Remember!" The monition was needful. The moment they passed outside the gate, they were face to face with all the furies of the Revolution. They were instantly walled in by a vast and terrific crowd that swayed and surged beneath a forest of pikes and sabres, some of them already red- dened and dripping with the blood of hapless victims. And no imagination, not even that of him who painted the horrors of hell, could picture the hate and rage, the insane fury that twisted and distorted those innumerable faces that were all now turned, with curiosity and revenge, on those before whose eyes, a few weeks before, the foi:e- heads of the highest nobles in France were bowed to the ground. The dark visages of the men, blackened ivith toil and sun, were hardly deeper in colour than their thick beards, and moustaches, and the long lank hair that fell on their shoulders and was crowned with the red bonnet of Liberty. Their shirt fronts were open, showing hairy and shaggy breasts; their arms, thick with powerful 116 THE QUEEN'S FILLET muscles standing out in relief, were bare, and some were bloody to their shoulders. Nearly all carried pikes crowned with filthy Phrygian caps. Here and there, instead of the Phrygian cap, was a ghastly and bleeding human head. Yet, even these frightful types of human- ity were less savage and revolting, less grotesquely insane, than the women. Here human nature, with its mixture of ape and tiger, touched its lowest limits. Even the strong soldiers shuddered and turned away when they saw those frightful furies, bare of breast and with tangled hair and frightful distortion of feature, gesticulate like wild, obscene animals, and uttering such utter abomina- tions in human speech that even the roughest grenadier present wondered at their devilish originality. These swayed to and fro, apparently seeking to break through the municipal guard that was drawn around Roederer and his Royal cortege, whilst shouts of "Death!" "Death!" "Give us the Austrian woman!" ran from rank to rank, and was echoed far down along the streets even to the clubs, where the evil instigators of all this madness were still plotting both against the King and the National Assembly. "How will the eloquent Vergniaud answer this, I won- der?" said Danton to his colleagues. He had pocketed six thousand pounds of the royal money — a foolish bribe. "With his own head," cried Couthon, twisting his para- lysed body in his bath-chair. "Come!" said Danton, "and let us see the comedy played out. 'Twill need all the ingenuity of our friends to save Capet and themselves!" It took an hour and a half for that sad procession of royalty to reach the National Assembly. The heat was great without; it was unbearable within, because every inch of space was occupied by the great unwashed legions of the people, who filled the galleries, and even the seats usually occupied by the members. The King and Queen were first accommodated with seats near the tribune, above which the President sate. And then the Queen AUGUST THE TENTH 117 found that, amidst the frightful tumult, her party had been separated, and the Dauphin was nowhere to be seen. But in an instant, and as if in answer to her cries of an- guish, the tall figure of Maurice was seen pushing through the crowd, with the young Prince in his arms. Before placing the boy near his mother, Maurice lifted him for a moment high in the air. The beautiful face of the child, surrounded with a crown of yellow ringlets, caught the fancy of this mercurial people; and they shouted: "Vive Louis dix-sept!" "Vive le Dauphin. ' " until one would suppose their madness had taken a noble turn. Alas, no! A minute a,fter the King rose to address Vergniaud: "I have come here," he said, in his gentlest and sweetest manner, "to avoid the commission of a great crime, and I think I could not be more secure than amidst the rep- resentatives of the people." "Sire," replied Vergniaud, "you may rely on the firm- ness of the National Assembly. It knows its duties; its members have sworn to die in support of the rights of the people and the constituted authorities." Fair words, with little meaning. Yet the great orator might have been but little to blame. He knew that down there in the Cordeliers, men were holding counsel against himself as well as against the King. A moment after he uttered the words, the King and Royal Family, on some hypocritical pretext, were taken down and placed amongst the very lowest ranks of the populace, and shut into a reporters' box, where they were kept during the three days the Assembly were in session. There, gasping from the frightful heat, without refec- tion of any kind, under the stare of malignant eyes, exposed to the jeers of the populace, and compelled to hsten to accusation after accusation of crimes that never entered their imagination to commit, these hapless creatures had to wait, until the sentence of final deposition was passed, and they were committed as prisoners to the Tower. - 118 THE QUEEN'S FILLET During these days Maurice never stirred from hia post of honour near the Royal captives, and at night, when they were committed to the old convent of the Feuillants to sleep, he asked to be allowed to remain on guard outside their doors. Once only he left their side. It was when, in the midst of the tumult of that first fearful morning, word came to the Assembly that the Swiss soldiers who had been left at the palace, and the remnant of the volunteers and the National Guards, threatened every moment with a dis- honourable death, were now preparing to defend themselves against the rabble. It was true. The two hundred gentlemen volunteers, two hundred and fifty National Guards, and nine hundred Swiss, who had been left in charge of the chateau, had already taken the law into their own hands, and under the chances of a terrible and immediate death, they had swept with their few cannon and their muskets the whole square of the Carrousel, until not one of the mob remained. It was now quite clear that they could easily have defended themselves and the Royal household if the King had not yielded to timidity and treacherous counsels. But just at this point word came in that the Swiss were massacring the people, and that fresh forces were coming up from Cour- bevoie to swell the loyal ranks of the army. And then the King gave his fatal order that the troops were not to fire, and that the Swiss oflBcers should be summoned to his presence. Too late! Already, in the riding-school, one brave soldier after another had been ruthlessly mur- dered by the mob; already the staircases of the royal chateau were cumbered with the bleeding corpses of the brave Swiss soldiers who, deserted by their King, were fighting, inch by inch, for his rights; already the gentle- men who had volunteered to sacrifice their hves in defence of the monarchy, were being pursued by the vindictive mob from room to room, from corridor to corridor, until the last faint show of armed resistance was over, and vic- tim after victim threw down his musket and sabre, and AUGUST THE TENTH 119 folded his arms to receive the accolade of martyrdom. That day two thousand brave men, who could have saved the craven King and his brave Consort, were done to death by the men, and then mutilated in the most revolting manner by the women, of the Revolution. And Maurice shed tears of rage and despair as he bore that horrfcle command of the King that his very body-guard were not to defend themselves, and sent a courier along the road to order the detachment from Courbevoie to march back to their d6p6t. As he did, he saw in the court of the Tuileries trembling men drop down from pedestals and corbels into the arms of the hungry mob, saw the last blows given, heard the last cries, witnessed the final mutilations. The most pitiable sight the world has ever seen is that of brave men massacred without pity. In the fiercest war quarter is given to the conquered. But not here ! The brave mountaineers would have cheer- fully died fighting for the cause and the King they had sworn to defend. They did not abandon him. He abandoned them to the mercies of his rebellious subjects. They died for duty; and the Danish sculptor, Thorwald- sen, has immortalized their memory in the figure of the dying lion pierced with an arrow, and cut from out the rocks of their native land. Two days later Maurice was one of the escort that accompanied the deposed sovereigns to the Temple, from which they stepped to the scaffold. As he ttirned away sadly, he thought he saw in the horrible crowd a face staring at him intently. It was Dubuisson, the black- smith of St-Remy. XIV Girondists In the same room in which Talleyrand, the Immovable, had interviewed Maurice de Brignon, and under the same chandeher which threw its white light on the blue uniform of the young officer, a different group was gathered a httle less than three weeks after the pillage and burning of the Tuileries and the dethronement and incarceration of the King. They were the leaders of the Girondists — Vergniaud, the eloquent, Clavi^re, with his high, bold forehead, prominent cheek-bones, and curved Roman nose — a civilized Comanche, and Brissot, semi-clerical in face and figure, were it not for that parting the hair in the middle and those locks that fell with studied carelessness on his forehead. A silence, not of the Sabbath, but of terror and despair —the silence that precedes the burst- ing of a thunderstorm — hung over the city, and its con- tagious influence seemed to have penetrated this obscure chamber, and to hold spellbound spirits that, under the excitement of debate, in the Assembly or in the Forum, were fiery and fearless enough. On the table lay many documents of various sizes and one or two open news- papers. The dainty clocks clicked loud amidst the silence, which was at length broken by the master of the place, who, placing his hand on the pile of papers before him, said in his slow, solemn manner: "You are right, Brissot. It is one of those crises that cannot be forejudged or guarded against, because we have no precedent to guide us. 1 am not aware that in all human history such a combination of events ever occurred before." Some one whispered Brutus and Caesar. 120 GIRONDISTS 121 "No!" he said. "What we see is totally different. The subversion of the monarchy that has ruled France for a thousand years; the annihilation of a caste that has been all-powerful, and of a religion that is all-pervading; the demoralization of the army and the gendarmerie, the only forces that could stem the tide of anarchy; and the unloosening of aU the terrific power that lies in the hands of a people that thinks itself, and is, omnipotent. No! This never occurred before. History has not a single light to guide you. You must lean on your own prudence and firmness." "True!" said Clavi^re, his big eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "But the question now is, how to calculate the forces that are breaking loose all around us, how to forecast the trend of events." "Very true!" said Talleyrand. "As to the trend of events, I am pretty sure what this is. You are the best judges of the forces that are at play. I can speak of men in the aggregate, you can judge your peers!" At that word Vergniaud flushed scarlet, and said in a tone of ill-suppresse4 annoyance: "Our peers! Nay, Monsieur, is not that an ill-chosen word? You rank us with would-be regicides and actual brigands." "Be calm, my friend," said Talleyrand. "This is no time to be too select in choosing our words, or to be indig- nant, as at some bitise in Madame de Stael's salon. By your peers," he continued, in a tone in which sarcasm was conveyed, but coxild not be detected, "I mean the men that may be in power to-morrow, as you are to-day." "You think, then, that our hold is precarious? That Danton and Marat will subvert us?" "I mention no names. I think the trend of events — the diathesis of the nation's .sickness — points to a rapid increase of pohtical fever and delirium; and then " There was silence in the room. No one spoke. That simple expression, "I mention no names," seemed to paralyze them. 122 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Look here, gentlemen!" said Talleyrand. "This is a matter that can be calculated with mathematical preci- sion. The power has already passed from your hands — " He was instantly interrupted by emphatic cries of "No!" He rose up calmly and went over to examine the doors. Then, as if he dreaded the presence of spies outside, he drew a heavy portiere over each, and returned to his seat. "There was once a grand vizier," he said sardonically, "who, condemned to death by his prince, had his head so successfully and painlessly severed from his shoulders that he was unconscious of it, and rebuked the executioner for prolonging his agony. Then the executioner gave him a pinch of snuff; he sneezed, and lo! his head rolled into the basket." The three men grew pale. Brissot said: "You are pleased to be facetious, Monsieur!" "Not so much facetious as fdcheux," said Talleyrand. "You tire me, gentlemen, with your folly. I should do right to let you go your own way; but at least let me have the credit of pointing it out. You have no more power than the uncrowned King yonder." "We are the members, the leaders, the Cabinet of the Legislative Assembly of France," said Vergniaud. "The executive power as well as the legislative is in our own hands, and since the King has resigned, even his power is vested in us by a decree of the Assembly." "Then why did you not condemn him to the milder incarceration of the Luxemboiu-g, as you intended?" There was no answer. "Why didn't you get Chabot arrested when he threat- ened the tocsin a week ago?" There was no reply. "Why didn't you send Manuel to the Abbaye? Why didn't you send Gaston to La Force? Why haven't you stopped the domiciliary visits of the last fortnight, and opened the prisons of Paris for the thousands that are awaiting instant death!" GIRONDISTS 123 "It cannot come to that," said Brissot uneasily. " Cannot? It has come to that," said Talleyrand, rising up, and speaking in a menacing tone. "Do you pretend that you do not know that the commune of Paris is now master of Paris; that Marat has been instigating murder, wholesale, promiscuous murder; that the cry, 'The coun- try is in danger!' 'The enemy are at our gates!' 'We are betrayed!' is not circulated amongst the MarseiUais and the mob for a purpose? You have ordered prosecu- tions for the remnant of the Swiss that was left at the Tuileries, and the few gentlemen who sold their liberty dearly. But these are taken out of your hands now. The masters of Paris now are not you, Vergniaud, not you, Brissot, not you, ClaviSre, not Roland, not Dumouriez, not Lafayette, not BaiUy; but Marat, and Couthon, and d'Herbois, and — Robespierre. Go to them, and kiss their feet, because they are your kings and masters." The three men looked away from him. "You say you are the legislative and executive authori- ties of France," he continued. "Very good! Introduce a measm-e to-morrow! Can you carry it in your own Assembly? A word from Danton will throw it out. Give orders for an arrest, for a trial to-morrow. Who will execute it? The army? They are gone over to your enemies. The police? Not a gendarme wiU lift his hand to his helmet to salute you. The forces of the Capital are in the hands of the Commune; the Commune is con- trolled by the mob; the mob are inspired by Marat and his associates. Where are you?" Then, as if remembering something, he said: "I should not have mentioned names. I never mention names. But, gentlemen, your blindness betrayed me." "We cannot go with you in your melancholy forecast," said Clavifere. "The people are not yet so demoralized as you say. Of course we know there is a truculent and turbtilent element amongst them, but that is everywhere. After the excitement of the last fortnight, things will swing back into equilibrium again-" 124 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "You think so? You are gravely deceived, my friend," said Talleyrand. "I prefer my own figure of speech to yours. I prefer to say that the people are in the delirium of fever, and according to the most approved methods of science, it wiU need some blood-letting to get them back to sanity and reason again." "I think if we had courage — " murmured Vergniaud uneasily. " I am not satisfied that we acted either rightly, or wisely, on that tenth of August. Somehow, it seems to me that a golden opportimity was lost. We could have defended the King, or died with him. He failed to defend himself, and I fear we imitated too closely his vacillation." "It doesn't matter now," said Talleyrand. "Hin ist hin, verloren ist verloren. I like that German saying. The question now is, How can you save the city from ruin? How can you stop those domiciliary visits? How can you open the prisons? How can you prevent indiscrim- inate massacre?" He lowered his voice and whispered: "How can you save your own heads?" The three men started simultaneously. Vergniaud, who deeply distrusted Talleyrand, yet had infinite faith in his wisdom, said: "And yours. Monsieur?" "Never fear for me," said Talleyrand, smiling. "I shall pass through the fire, and be not touched." "What do you suggest?" said Vergniaud. "What Danton suggested," was the reply. "What was that?" "You remember his words: 'We must, therefore, main- tain our groimd by all possible means, and save ourselves by audacity.' " "Yes! That referred to our quitting Paris." "He said something else!" "Perhaps so." "He spoke about striking terror into the Royalists!" "Yes, he did. The Assembly were stupefied." "You know what he meant?" GIRONDISTS 125 "But vaguely. He does not take us into his confidence, like you." "Ambiguous, but sincere, no doubt. Well, nothing is lost by truth, and facts will reveal themselves. Just at this moment, gentlemen, Marat, with Paris and Sergent, with Jourdeuil, Duplain, Lefort, and Lenfant, are plot- ting a massacre, before which St. Bartholomew's will pale into historical insignificance. Go! Stand at j''our posts like men, although I feel that you are powerless now. As you said, Vergniaud, at least you can die!" They did not conceal their fears as they left him. Then he tmned to his papers. He took up the Journal de Paris and read. There was a flaming article from Ch^nier as usual — a burning, blazing indictment of the Revolution and all who took part in it, because what the writer regarded as one of the noblest efforts made in the cause of himian freedom had been diverted into a most ignoble attempt to supplant one form of tyraimy by another more hideous and despotic. The article breathed in every line the writer's glowing enthusiasm for Uberty — the God-given privilege of the hiunan race, the privi- lege for which in every age men of the highest rank and talent had cheerfully sacrificed their lives. "And you, Chabot, the unfrocked friar; you, d'Herbois, the abortive actor and artist; you, BiUaud-Varennes, the ci-devant comedian; you, Marat, the hideous dwarf of the fau- bourgs, do you think that Frenchmen, who for a thousand years and more have held aloft the flag of freedom, and dragged their kings in the dust when they dared to flout the majesty of the sovereign people, do you think they are going to bow their foreheads in the dust before youf They have dethroned their God; are they going to worship your mumbo-jumbo, the fetish of the canaille, the little gods of the halles, the deities of the demi-^nonde and the poissonneries? Come back to your senses, you madmen, and learn that in this humanity of ours, however fallen, there is still a hidden divinity that calls for its righteous meed of dignity and justice, of honour and freedom, and 126 THE QUEEN'S FILLET that will certainly annihilate its votaries if they ever prove recreant, and reward its servitors if they prove faithful to the very instincts that prompt them to stand by the fallen and raise them, to puU down the mighty and anni- hilate them!" "Poor Andre — " thought Talleyrand. "How wisely Plato excluded poets from his conception of a republic. Some day these modern Fijians will catch the little sing- ing-bird and drag out and eat his tongue." "But now, ex-Monseigneur Talleyrand," he continued soliloquizing, "what about thyself, mon enfant? Is it not time for thee to get away from those same Fijians, lest they make a banquet of thee? What hast thou to do here, where the pike and the sword are the arbiters? Thou, little spark, that hast yet to illuminate the cabinets of kings, it would never do to have thee extinguished by some beastly and filthy bonnet rouge. No! No! That would never do. I must hie me elsewhere, until the more gracious season of decency and diplomacy returns; and then — Ma foil who shall forecast events? Are they not on the knees of the gods? " He took out a little note-book, and opened a piece of parchment, and read. It was his passport to England, signed by Danton. "Georges-Jacques Danton!" he continued, "a strong hand, letters curving upwards, too, to denote ambition. 'To dare, and to dare, and still to dare' — very fine, Danton! But then one day, just as you reach the Alpine siunmit, your foot slips, and down you go headlong into the abyss, dragging your guides and comrades with you. Is not the old Delphic oracle better: 'Be bold, be very bold; be not too bold'? At least it is good enough for me, ex-prelate, future minister, now ambassador without much of a portfoUo to the land of fog and mist. Ugh! How I hate those English, with their stony faces, and their monosyllabic tongues! And yet, well, a man's neck is fairly safe there, and that atones a good deal for abom- inable cooking and petrified acquaintances. How stiU GIRONDISTS 127 everything is! The air seems weighted with horror. Come in!" He thrust his passport into his pocket. His servant entered, drawing back the heavy portieres with some difficulty. "An old man wishes to see you, Monsieur!" "His name?" "He does not wish to give it." , "Suspicious enough. Tell him I'm busy. I can't see him." The servant retired, but returned immediately. "The old man says it's important. He must see you." "Well, I suppose," said the statesman, "if he must, he must. Show him into the anteroom, and remain within can." He went out after a few minutes, and entered the Uttle waiting-room. Certainly it was an old man, a very old man, that confronted him. A few days had added twenty years to his hfe. "My name is Reinhard," he said, bowing. "I am old Reinhard, the watchmaker near the Rue de Sitires." "Pleased to meet you. Monsieur Reinhard," said Tal- leyrand. "But my clocks seem to be keeping together, which means good time." "My daughter's name is Emmeline," the old man said, not heeding the pleasantry, but keeping his eyes fixed on the ground and speaking slowly. "She is married and about to become a mother. Her husband's name is Maurice de Brignon, captain in the National Guard, whom you know." "Certainly," said Talleyrand, now interested. "Both were arrested last night by the patrol, and are lodged in the Abbaye!" "My God!" said the cold man of the world, horri- fied now into something Hke excitement, "on what charge? " "Ah! That I know not," said the old man sadly. -'But Monsieur must know that it needs but a feeble charge just now to send a victim to the scaffold." The man of the world shuddered. 128 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "I came to you," continued old Reinhard, "because you are the only man in Paris that can save them." Then, as if correcting himself, he said: "That can save her. What is it to me if the head of every aristocrat in France should fall? I want my daughter, my httle Emmehne back. That's' all!" "Then you are a Repubhcan?" said Talleyrand. "Ma foi, what else? What else can any man be? I would tear down every king in Europe from his throne if only I can get back my httle Emmeline. She is with child, Monsieur. Any moment now. And she is in prison." The fierce Repubhcan spirit with which he had pro- nounced the first words died away into the tenderness of the last sentence, and tears roUed down the old man's cheeks. "Then, my friend," said Talleyrand, moved from his coldness and cynicism by the deep distress of the old man, "I think you are more likely to be able to aid them than I. The men who have filled the prisons of Paris to-night are not hkely to do much for me." "Maurice used speak often of you, Monsieur. He said yours was the greatest mind in France." "Poor fellow! He shouldn't have exaggerated. Mau- rice was enthusiastic. I fear his impressionable nature has betrayed him." "And so I warned him," said the old man sadly. "I warned him, when he went out on that fatal tenth of August, to control himself. He seemed infatuated about that Austrian woman. As if I wouldn't see them aU in hell, if only I could get back my little Emmeline. Mon- sieur?" "Well?" "Give me back my httle child, my little Emmeline! Ah, Monsieur! if you could but see her — such eyes, they used light up the whole workshop when the lamp was quenched. I used call her my lampyre, my little glow- worm, and I used say, ' Come hither, my little glow-worm, GIRONDISTS 129 I have dropped a screw, or a wire-spring, and you must throw the light of your eyes upon it ere I can find it.' And such hair — it was just the opposite, Monsieur, dark as midnight. 'Don't let down your hair, Emmeline,' I used to say, 'because it will darken all the sunlight, and my eyes are getting old, and I want to see.' And then she would laugh, such a merry ringing laugh. Monsieur, just like the joy bells of the New Year. Hark! that's the tocsin! 'Sh! I know it well. And it means murder. Monsieur! Oh, for God's sake — do you believe in God still? — well, for your soul's sake, save my child! One word from you, Monsieiu", one little scrap of a note wiU do. Hark! my God! what a rocking and a timiult! All Paris is awake now. Come, Monsieur, there's time yet. Look, here are pens and paper. Say: Liberate old Rein- hard's daughter. That's all!" He took up the silver pen and thrust it into the hands of the statesman, who well knew that he too was in dan- ger. He wrote the required words and signed them. The old man took the white small hand and kissed it, and Talleyrand was alone. XV The Marquis's Pardon The Marquis de la Rouarie returned from the brief campaign in La Vendue, saddened and disheartened. The Repubhcan spirit had penetrated further than he had thought. The large cities were already completely demoralized. Nantes, Saumur, Angers, were in the hands of the enemy. The prefects and mayors were wild Revolutionaries. The churches were in the hands of the constitutional priests. The tricolor floated over every pubhc building. The Marseillaise was sung in every street. And everywhere was a system of espionage, generating mistrust and jealousy. The few gentry, and the fewer nobles, who remained, locked themselves into their residences, puUed down the blinds, closed the shutters, and took their exercise and recreation in their walled-in gardens. It was only in the coimtry, amongst the cottiers and labourers, and the fishermen along the coast, that the least fidelitj'^ to God and country and King could be found. The campaign was short, but so far decisive. The peasant soldiers, satisfied with a few bloodless victories, went back to the vintage and the harvest, put up their weapons, and got Masses said for those they had killed. The Republicans went back to their barracks, swearing terrific revenge on those vile peasants who had dared to oppose the armies of the Republic. The chiefs of the peasant armies met, consulted, and departed each to his own chateau or cabin. ^ It was at the close of an autumn day that the Marquis rode up to his castle gates, and saw the red flag and the golden dragon floating above his watch-tower. He had 130 THE MARQUIS'S PARDON 131 fewer retainers than when he rode out a few weeks ago to battle. He had left some brave soldiers on the field. He had heard of the assault on the castle from the gunboats, the treachery of Salvador, the prompt assistance of Cathelineau, the swift bravery of his men. He embraced his daughter with more than usual affection. Had she not been saved from imprisonment and even death? Ren6 met him with head hung down and abashed. "Nay," the Marquis said, "you have not been in fault, Ren6. I heard of all your watchfulness and care. But the wolves of the Republic are cunning as well as ferocious. Alas! that it should be said of Frenchmen, that they should be ferocious towards their enemies and treacherous to their friends. But, Ren6, I feel I must give you a closer and firmer tie with your cousin now." "If you mean, Marquis, that my remissness has come from the absence of such a tie, I assure you, you are mis- taken. I would gladly have shed my blood for Genevieve, even though — even though " " Even though she were never to be your wife ! " supplied the Marquis. "I believe it! But, Ren6, I am growing old. I shall not see another campaign. And I also see that these sea-wolves will come again. They never forgive nor forget. Mon Dieu ! when they have executed priests, and poniarded women and children, can we hope that their punishment here wiU be either forgotten or forgiven? No! It is only the dread of the Enghsh ships that is keeping them from their revenge. But come! let us see the feUows. They will be silent, but we may gauge their intentions." The Marquis and Ren6 went down the steep stone stairs towards the donjon at the foot of the tower where the prisoners were detained. In an upper room the wounded men were lying on their pallets, slowly recover- ing from the effects of that midnight fusillade. Two armed sentries were at the door. The Marquis and Ren6 entered. The former stopped between the beds 132 THE QUEEN'S FILLET and let his eyes roam across the faces of the wounded sailors. He said: "I am the Marquis de la Rouarie. I hope you are all recovering from your wounds." They held down their heads. Some looked away. One said: "Mademoiselle is an angel. Had we but known!" "Yes," said the Marquis, somewhat sternly, "like most of yoiir countrymen you have been misled by the orators and the agitators into courses that mean ruin to you and your country. But it is idle to speak of that now. Get well as soon as you can, and we'll ship you back to your comrades." "Cathelineau won't approve of that, Marquis," said Ren6, as they descended the stone steps. "He thinks they should Jbe kept as hostages to be exchanged here- after, in case any of our men fall into the enemy's hands." "That is, all through the winter and spring until the campaign opens?" "Yes! That's his idea, I think." "And not a bad one. But these fellows would eat us out of house and home in the interval. No man is half as hungry as a prisoner. You see he has nothing to do but eat." "But they need not be kept here," said Ren6. "They could be transferred to one of our military d6p6ts at Pornio or Clisson, and kept imder surveillance during the winter." " 'Twould be hard on the poor devils," said the Marquis. "After all, we are Christians, and must forgive. Let us see the fellows!" The guard opened the heavy door, and they entered. A foul smell of impure and noxious air smote their senses, and the Marquis fell back. "Get them out into the light and air," he said, "We cannot enter that den." They were marched out under a strong guard into the open. They were like the rest of humanity, a motley THE MARQUIS'S PARDON 133 crew. A few were small of stature and ill-looking and sullen. There were three or four tall, handsome sailors, but the bronze of the sea had paled away under the influ- ence of their close confinement, and their lips were white. It was this last little circumstance that clenched the Marquis's decision. "You are Frenchmen?" he said, eyeing them closely. "Not all. Monsieur," said one of the tall sailors, "these are Spaniards, and that is a Gascon." "A Gascon is a Frenchman," said the Marquis, re- provingly. "Every man born within the confines of France is a Frenchman, and has all a Frenchman's rights." "Merci, Monsieur," said the Gascon. "But these rights do not include the privilege of attack- ing and destroying a place where you knew the master was absent, and where a lady alone was in possession." They hung their heads. "Fie, fie upon you. Frenchmen," said the Marquis. "Hitherto a Frenchman was the protector of the weak and the powerless, and was chivalrous enough never to make war upon women and children. But, I see things have changed. Frenchmen now are only brave towards the defenceless — the priest, the woman, and the child." "In faith. Monsieur," said the Gascon, looking up with a half-comical smile on his swarthy face, "we have begun to think that there were a few men here also. Our comrades upstairs would tell you that it was never a priest or a woman enfiladed us with grape and canister on that fatal night." "Quite so," said the Marquis. "You are right, my friend. And I think your fellow-Republicans up yonder towards the mountains have much the same story to teU. The manhood of France is not extinguished by the orators and politicians of the market-square. There are a few fingers left that can pull a trigger on the traitor and the coward." The Gascon's wit evaporated. He began to pull his sailor's cap to pieces. 134 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "But I have not come hither to reproach you," he said. "Perhaps, but it is only perhaps, your own con- sciences have said more to you than I can say. I am here to tell you that the moment your comrades upstairs can bear removal, you, too, will be at liberty to depart the way you came." The men's faces lighted up. They didn't expect this. "Then," said one of the tall sailors, a fine blond speci- men of the Breton, "Monsieur, perhaps, will add one other favour?" The Marquis waited. "Only to see and thank Mademoiselle," he said. "And," he added, with a blush covering his fine face, "to beg her pardon and yours for the shameful outrage we had meditated." "We shall see!" said the Marquis. "Have you any- thing to complain of?" "No!" said the Breton. "But, Marquis, the air is stifling down there. Permit us a breath of fresh air at least once daily." Genevieve had stolen down, and was standing behind the Marquis. "Impossible!" said the latter. "That means bringing my men away from the harvest to double the guard every day." "Parole d'honneur!" said the man, pleadingly. "Parole d'un cochon!" said one of the guard, who was disgusted at the Marquis's meekness. "Mademoiselle will plead!" Mademoiselle did plead. She placed her hand upon her father's sleeve. That was all. He turned round. "Well, ma petite?" "It is a small favour, father,"and reasonable," she said. "The place is very close and the air fetid. Once a day! That is not too much!" "No, but it means taking my men away from their work to double the guard. That's impossible." THE MARQUIS'S PARDON 135 "Tis only for a few days," she pleaded. "The men upstau-s will be well in a few days." "I must see Cathelineau," the Marquis said. The name seemed to strike terror into the prisoners. They knew if that sturdy peasant and patriot were sum- moned, their liberation were far off. "We withdraw the request, Marquis," said one of the men. "As Mademoiselle says, it is only for a few days. We can bear it." And the matter ended. The few days went swiftly by, days during which the Marquis was uneasy. On the one hand, his Christian disposition bade him keep his word to these misguided men and liberate them. On the other hand, he felt he was letting loose so many desperadoes, who might take revenge even on the head of him who had saved them. But he was old. The end was not far off. He would yield to the promptings of mercy. The rest was with God. And so a few weeks later, the prisoners, some of whom limped from their wounds, were marched down to the beach under a strong escort. One of their heavy boats, provisioned for a week, was placed at their disposal. Under the guns of the guard, and with the howitzer trained upon the boat, they launched her forth. The Marquis addressed a few words to them. "You came here," he said, "to carry fire and sword into the house of a man who never injured you. I could in justice have taken your lives, as your compatriots in Paris and elsewhere are taking the lives of the helpless and the innocent. But the religion I profess, and which you have abandoned, forbids me to do aught but forgive. Go your ways, and remember to exhibit towards others the mercy that has been extended to you." A few took the words well, and were ashamed. A few were sullen and revengeful. The Gascon leaped into the stem and cried out: "Give way, lads!" 136 THE QUEEN'S FILLET They pulled from the shore, and at a cable's distance the Gascon rose to his feet and shouted: "A bas les pritres! A has les aristocrats! Vive la nation!" The Marquis turned away. The men under arms were too disgusted even to ask permission to fire. That evening, as they were gathered around the wood- fire in the library, for the evenings now were chill, word came that the King and Queen, after suffering unspeakable outrages, had been lodged in the Temple, and their brave defenders massacred without mercy. Word, too, came that throughout the country arrests were made day by day of suspects who, without trial, were hurried on to Paris, or Orleans, or Bordeaux. Word, too, came that the National Assembly was growing more and more powerless every day, and the mob more and more tri- umphant. And finally Ren6 opened a letter which informed him that Claude de Brignon, his former friend, having escaped to the frontier with his father, was induced by the frantic letters of his fiancee, Marie Rousselet, who was in hiding with some friends at Auxerre, to come back to save her; that both had been arrested, and were then lodged in the Condergerie. XVI Maukice Escapes So the Fates had willed. Elder brother, disinherited, younger brother, favoured by fortune with title and a further right to the hand of the fair Marie Rousselet, were now on this eventful eve of September 2d under lock and key in Paris prisons, and the vast and terrible uncertainty of their destiny hanging over them. That historical Sunday, the peace that slept over Paris was not a Sabbath peace, as of multitudes hushed into rever- ential silence by a sense of the sacredness of the day; but the peace of a great soUtude, in which the trembling and panic-stricken people hid away from the public eye, and concealed themselves, not only in their homes, but in their most secret recesses. And they spoke in whispers, lest a word should be heard; for now a word, even a look, had carried many a doomed being to prison. All day long the tocsin tolled; and armed gangs of pikemen, fifty or sixty in number, paraded the deserted streets. Here and there they paused, and their chief, reading out from a parchment, called some fatal number, and the dreaded knock was heard, carrying dismay, not only into the hearts of the unhappy occupants, but all along the houses in the dismal and deserted streets. And then, after a search, swift, but minute and fatal, some unhappy father, or brother, or young girl was dragged forth and placed in the midst of that sanguinary gang that marched them to the nearest prison. And then men breathed freely for a moment, till again the fatal tramp was heard re-echoing along the streets, and again the knock resounded; and no family could for a moment be certain that their turn would not come next. And there were no signed or sealed 137 138 THE QUEEN'S FILLET warrants, no charges read or refuted; but the brief words: An order for your arrest! and the prison gates closed on the unhappy victim. In from the country, too, detachments of prisoners were being marched every hour arrested by their municipahties, imtil, as the sun went down that au,tumn evening in a sky of crimson, probably twenty thousand prisoners were held fast behind the bolts and locks of the many prisons of Paris. Maurice and his young wife were amongst the first to feel the revolutionary vengeance. Immediately after the terrible word which Danton uttered in the Assembly, the day before, as if he were determined to drown the eloquent but feeble protestations of Vergniaud, the domiciliary visits conunenced. And, acting on some secret denuncia- tion, the fierce, turbulent Marseillais promptly visited old Reinhard's shop. The old man was working away polishing his glasses; Maurice was upstairs, writing an expostulatory letter to Andr^ Ch^nier, whose fierce pas- quinades on some of the leaders of the Revolution were relished and laughed at by the Parisian populace, even at such an awful time, but were stored up in the memories of H6bert, and Robespierre, and CoUot d'Herbois for some awful revenge. He had heard the tramp of the picket, and had sense enough to fling the paper into the fire, when he was summoned downstairs by the old man. His young wife followed, trembhng. "You are Maurice, eldest son of the Comte de Bri- gnon?" said the captain of the picket, reading from a paper. "Yes!" said Maurice. "I arrest you in the name of the Republic. Prepare to come with us at once!" "But, Messieurs, a, moment! On what charge?" "You will be told later on. This is Emmeline Reinhard, your wife?" "Yes! But, my God, you're not going to arrest her?" "Those are our orders. Be prepared, Madame, to accompany us at once. You, Piron, and you, Ferretier, MAURICE ESCAPES 139 go and make a minute examination of the prisoners' apartments, and make a particular search for incriminat- ing documents. And be quick! We have other work to do!" Maurice and his wife stood transfixed with horror; but the old man lost all control of himself. He raged and wept, threatened and implored the officer, denouncpd the Royal family at one moment, the Republicans and revolutionaries the next. The officer calmly waited, whilst upstairs the sounds of rummaging and breaking open boxes and secretaries went on. Then, when the men came down, having reported that nothing incriminating had been found, but that the ashes of a burnt letter were still smouldering in the grate, he gave the order to fall in. Just then, a soldier, touched with compassion, whis- pered something, and a fiacre was hailed. And that night, Maurice and his wife, separated, he in the men's quar- ters, Emmeline amongst the women, spent the long weary hours thinking, thinking of what the morrow would bring. And the morrow came; and just at midday they heard the g&nerale beaten, the tocsin sounded, the alarm-gun fired. They wondered a little at the unusual reticence of the guards, wondered why there were no knives and forks at the meagre prison dinner, wondered at the silence that seemed to hover in an atmosphere of terror above the city. Sometime, ia the afternoon, Maurice ascended the turret of the prison in the hope of catch- • ing a glimpse of Emmeline in the , court-yard below. He was at once accosted by another prisoner, who, with one of the Swiss Guard, was conversmg at the window. "How," said the former, "how is this? You, an officer of the National Guard, and here?" The Swiss had come over, and taken Maurice's hand, and kissed it. "Pardon!" he said. "But I was at the Tuileries and I saw all. You are a brave man!" 140 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "You?" said Maurice. "I thoughit not one of your brave corps liad escaped the massacre." "Ah, Monsieur, a few — but only for worse. Hark! there below!" There was a sound of tumult in the court-yard, and a creaking of carriage wheels, and a leaping and plunging of maddened horses, as a vast crowd of men, armed with every kind of deadly weapon, women in hideous rags, and even children swept into the yard, escorting six carriages, in which were prisoners for the Abbaye. The September sun, setting in a bank of cloud, threw its yellow radiance along the walls, and on the hideous faces of the multitude. The first carriage stops. The door is torn open. A priest in his cassock descends, and is, in a moment, with dreadful cries and imprecations, stabbed in a hundred places, and his mangled body is trampled into a mass of bloody compost on the ground. Another is dragged forth and meets the same fate. Another and another! And then, the first carriage is ordered to depart. The next moves up, and the same horrible tragedy takes place. Mutely and resignedly, each priest takes absolu- tion from his fellow-priests, places his breviary on the carriage seat, and steps out to be hewed and hacked in an instant beyond all recognition. The assassins are silent in their bloody work. The women cheer and applaud. The children laugh. And so, in the brief space of half an hour, carriage after carriage comes up; the victims step forward and are massacred, until but one of the twenty-four escapes. Then MaiUard, his naked arms bloody to the shoulder, gives word that there are no more victims there, and orders the mob to the church of the Carmes. There are two hundred victims awaiting death there, all priests; and it whets the appetite of the multitude for blood to be told that one at least is an Arch- bishop. Onward then, with MaiUard and Billaud-Varenne at their head — the latter designated in after years by Napoleon as the leading demon — the Lucifer of the Rev- MAURICE ESCAPES 141 olution. There is no opposition here. The doors of the church are broken open; and in through them and the shattered windows pours this awful tide of turbulent humanity. At the foot of the altar, priest after priest, young and old, are ruthlessly murdered. But they want something more than poor, humble priests. Their zeal mounts higher. "The Archbishop of Aries — where is he? Hiding from us, the avengers of an outraged people?" "No!" said the aged prelate, stepping forward from a little band, who were awaiting their martyrdom. "Not hiding? You seek the Archbishop of Aries? I am he." The words sound like a far-off echo of Gethsemane. "Ah, then, it is you who murdered our feUow-patriots at Aries!" The prelate's indignant denial was not heard, for an axe clove his forehead in twain. A second blow cut open his face. A third and he fell. The patriots plunge a pike through his body. It runs through and gets trans- fixed in the pavement beneath. They dance the Car- magnole on the quivering body, then steal his watch, and proceed in the murderous work of despatching the other priests. Maurice and his new-found friend and the httle Swiss had witnessed with easily-imagined horror the murder of the twenty-three priests at the door of the Abbaye. "This, thten, is what we have to expect," said M. Jourgniac, descending the turret-stairs. The little Swiss, brave enough in the field, was completely unnerved. "Ah! Messieurs," he said, apologizing for his terror, "do not despise me! For you there is some chance left; for me, none!" And he was right. At seven o'clock, the hideous rabble, now reinforced, until they numbered thousands, pours into the square. It is night now. The September sun has set in clouds of crimson; the red light has died away from waU and tower. But a vast number of torches, held aloft by men and women, cast down a terrible light 142 THE QUEEN'S FILLET on the multitude, whose hands and garments and faces are stained with blood. Aloft, in the air, and bending hither and thither with every motion, as if in a ghastly resemblance to life, human heads, dripping blood from the severed arteries, are seen amidst a forest of pikes. The pine-torches blaze before them, and show their ter- rible symbolism to the frightened prisoners within the walls. The poor little Swiss prisoner was lying on a mattress, his face turned towards the waU. No trial, no mercy for him; and he knew it. "Ah, Messieurs," he said, "if it were only on the field of battle up amongst my beloved hiUs and for my coim- try, I should rejoice. Or, even if I had fallen on the steps of the Tuileries that day with my brave comrades, all would be weU. But, to be massacred by such devils " His agony did not last long. The mob, or their dep- uties, were already searching the prison. Two enter, their long sabres dripping with blood. The warder points out the Swiss soldier. "Mercy, Messieurs," he pleaded, "here if you please! Don't cast me out there!" And he pointed to the court-yard. But they did not understand. They took him up in their arms, carried him down- stairs, and flung him out amongst the human wolves. In a few minutes he was lying, mere fragments of flesh and bone and torn rags beneath their feet. "I presume our turn is next," said M. Jourgniac to Maurice. "May I have the honor of knowing the name of my f eUow-prisoner? " "Maurice, Comte de Brignon," was the reply, "for I presume my father is now dead." "How is this? The Comte de Brignon was brought into the city last night from the frontier. He has been lodged in the Condergerie with a young lady, who is supposed to be his wife or his fianc6e." MAURICE ESCAPES 143 "My God!" said Maurice in agony. "That is my brother, Claude." And he explained all. "There is little chance for them, I fear," said Mons. Jourgniac. "A returned and arrested emigri will meet with no mercy. These mad creatures attribute all their evils to them." "What is it all?" asked Maurice. "Such madness never broke out in hiiman society before. Hell appears to be empty to-night!" "Ah! Monsieur, the depths of the himian heart have never yet been sounded. But, let me plead a little. These people, that motley mob, down there below, dazed and drunken, are driven mad with terror. They have been told, and they believe, that the enemy, summoned by the King and the imigres, are moving on Paris; and that they will put man, woman, and child to death without mercy. Hark! The very words of their death-song!" And up from the throats of ten thousand maniacs came the terrible words that interpreted their terrors: Entendez-vous dans ces campagnes Mugir ces J^oces soldats ? lis viennent jitsqu'A dans vos bras Egorger vosfils et vos compagnes. The night wore on to the dawn. Without being told the details, they reaUzed that some hideous tragedy was being enacted in that prison lodge just across the court- yard; for all night long they heard the noise of soldiers and citizens scouring the corridors, opening doors, and dragging prisoners across the yard. The prisoners never returned. And yet there was silence. No yells of tri- umph or menace reached their ears; but now and again a cry of "Vive la nation!" They could not understand. They waited. Monday morning broke sombre and dark. Then, by hints and suggestions, they came to realize all. They grasped, in aU its naked brutality, the terrible scene that 144 THE QUEEN'S FILLET. hour after hour witnessed and recorded over there in the silent lodge. A warder said once, and, as it were, com- passionately: "The prisoners seek to defend themselves by holding up their hands and crossing their arms. That is a mis- take. Hold your hands down by your sides. Messieurs. Then it wiU be all over in a few minutes." The two men looked at each other, and shuddered. Precisely at one o'clock the name of Maurice de Brignon, captain in the National Guard, was called. "Courage, mon ami," said Jourgniac. "It may turn out well." The new-made friends embraced, and Maurice accom- panied his guard. This time they were soldiers. It seemed to give Maurice a gleam of hope. Descending the stone stairs, one of these had to go forward a few steps. The other was behind. Maurice instantly heard in a whisper: "Don't look aroimd, mon Capitaine, nor speak, but listen! You have an enemy, whom you'U see. You have also a friend. Talk up bravely to the President, and tell the truth. All will be well." "My wife?" said Maurice, without turning. "She was Uberated this morning. Her father came and took her away." His heart gave a great bound of delight. He did not care now what happened. He was led across the court-yard, and entered the lodge. Here his guards left him. It was a spacious place; and, at first sight, there was nothing to denote it as the theatre of an appalling drama. But in an instant he was seized violently by two ruffians, who, spattered all over with blood and brains, crossed their reeking sabres on his breast, as they led him to the table, behind which Maillard and his two self-appointed Ministers of Justice were seated. There were papers, blood-stained, on the table before them, a few weapons, and bottles of brandy. Maillard was half drunk with blood and drink, and half dead from MAURICE ESCAPES 145 want of sleep, and fatigue. One of the judges was lying, head foremost and buried in his arms, on the table. The other, though stained and hideous, Uke the rest, from the night massacres, appeared to be more alert. "Your name?" said Maillard. "Maurice Brigneau," was the reply. "Beware," said Maillard sternly. "Do not attempt to deceive this tribunal of justice. You are Maurice, eldest son of the ci-devant Comte de Brignon." "That's true," said Maurice. "But I dropped the 'de' and renounced the title of nobihty when I was dis- inherited, and cast in my lot with the people." "Bravo! well said," said the judge on the right. "Explain yourseK," said Maillard. "And, mark you, no falsehood! There are those present who can convict you, if you lie." "I have no motive in lying," said Maurice confidently. "I am the eldest son of the Comte de Brignon; I was dis- inherited by my father in favour of a younger brother, Claude " "To whom the nation did justice last night," said Maillard. "Proceed!" "I was forced into the college at Issy, against my will, to become a priest " "A priest! That's enough," said the drunken ruflBan, waking up at the word. "That's enough! A la Force !" "Proceed!" said Maillard, taking no notice. " I fled from Issy the morning on which I was destined to take Orders. I came to the city, entered the house of Reinhard, watchmaker and, as you know, a stern Re- publican " "Aye! so he is," said the friendly judge. "He keeps good time, does old Reinhard." "Well, I remained there," continued Maurice, "at his request. I joined the National Guard, and was pro- moted to a captaincy. I married a daughter of the people, Emmeline Reinhard, and forswore the title of nobility for ever." 146 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "There is no charge against the man," said the friendly judge. "That's just what we want — to see the nobil- ity fraternizing with the people." "Quite so!" said Maillard, turning to the drunken fellow. "Quite so!" the latter murmured in his stupor; and Maillard was about to give the sign of acquittal, when a man stepped forward. He had been standing near the door and watching the proceedings. He was a frightful object. His huge, burly form was but half clothed, his arms and breast were bare and clotted with blood. The black mane of hair on his breast was tinctured red. His filthy, hairy hands were clammy. He was half drunk, wholly savage. "Dubuisson?" said Maurice as his heart fell. He now remembered the face he had seen at the door of the National Assembly, when he carried the Dauphin in his arms. "Pardon, Messieurs," he said, his dull eyes lighted with hatred. "I demand the punishment of this pris- oner as an aristocrat and a friend of the Capets." "He has already explained," said MaiUard, impatiently, "that he is no longer so. He has thrown in his lot with the people and married a daughter of the people." "But he is still the aristocrat," persisted Dubuisson. " I saw him on the tenth of August, trampling the people and making way for the Capets." "That is a lie, Dubuisson," said Maurice. "I was one of the guard over the prisoners, who were under charge of Monsieur Rcederer, procurator. They were ordered to the Assembly. It was my duty to make way for them." Maillard looked savage. "He says you trampled the people. Beware! And you, Dubuisson! This is the tribunal of justice, where truth alone is admitted and where truth can punish, if assailed." "He is an aristocrat!" said Dubuisson. "A mort!" MAURICE ESCAPES 147 "You are presuming too much," said Maillard angrily, "It is your place and the place of the sovereign people to execute judgment on the condemned. It is our place to pass judgment." "I have admitted," said Maurice, playing his last card, "that I was an aristocrat; but I have also said that I forswore my rights to that order, and became a citizen of France. It is no crime to belong to the National Guard, I suppose " "No, certainly not," said the friendly judge. "And we are here to judge, not what you were by birth, or other- wise, but what you have done." "Then I claim my acquittal," said Maurice boldly. "It was I that carried the order to the Swiss soldiers to cease firing on the people on the tenth of August; and it was I that ordered back the detachment from Courbe- voie that were coming up to the support of the King." / "That's enough," said the friendly judge. "Embrace me, mon brave! "and he flung his arms around Maurice's neck. Maillard seemed to give the gesture of acquittal with reluctance. The drunken savage woke up to sec- ond his colleagues. Dubuisson cried with rage. "And I killed with that arm alone thirty of these aris- tocrats last night," he said with disgust. There was no gratitude amongst men. And then, Maurice, after submitting to the filthy em- braces of his guards, was led by them to the wicket, and pushed forward, as they shouted: Vive la nation! And then, although his eyes swam with emotion,, he saw all. A dense crowd of men and women were before him, thronging the entire square. Immediately beneath the steps which he was descending was a crowd of sans-culottes, almost literally naked, but all covered with blood, the butchers of the Revolution. The Phrygian cap crowned each horrid head. They glared at him with the fury of wUd beasts. They had lifted their weapons, bloody sabres, pikes, short knives, sledges, to strike, when the word of acquittal ran down along the ranks. In an in- 148 THE QUEEN'S FILLET stant he was seized, and had to submit to the frightful embraces of the men and women in that awful crowd. Now and again his foot slipped on the pavement, that was greased, an inch thick, with human blood. Then he was slung aloft, and carried along on men's shoulders, whilst they sang and shouted and gesticulated with joy. Once or twice he had to sit — on the banks of dead and butchered bodies of men and women and young girls that lined to several feet in height the horrid avenue through which he had to pass. "Drink!" and he hastily drank some brandy from a bloody goblet. Finally, and not quite sure whether it would not have been better to have been butchered, he was accompanied to his home by a boisterous detachment of men, who sang and danced the Carmagnole before him until he reached his home. There they left him, after having kissed and embraced him again. Old Reinhard was there; but he refused to look at him. Emmeline, with a cry of joy, flung herself into his arms. That night a little daughter was born unto him. She was named Adfele. But the little waif turned back that night from the horrors of earth, and passed out among the stars. XVII The Gascon's Revenge Whilst these terrible and tragic things were being enacted in the capital, the peace of paradise slept above that chtlteau near the Western Sea. There was peace in the skies overhead, which, though never unflecked with cloud, bore the light and beautiful burden without angry protest' of fierce wind or crash of thunder; there was peace upon the sea, which swelled waveless if not tideless beneath the moon; there was peace around the lonely chateau, from whose loftiest tower the red flag with its yellow dragon hung limp and Ufeless; there was deeper peace in the chapel beneath the turret, through whose stained glass window the autimin sunset was pouring his rays, and making a paradisal pavement of sapphire and amethyst and chalcedony on the floor; there was deepest peace in the heart and on the face of the young girl who knelt motionless before the altar, struck into a hving and beautiful statue by the still rapture of her prayer. The Angelus had soimded some minutes before; and the echoes of the bell were still quivering across the lonely waters; but the girl still prayed; and the red lamp above her head did not carry its lance-head of hght more silently or persistently than the flame of Divine Love quivered above her heart, and drew down the peace of heaven by its own tranquilUty. And for whom did Genevieve de la Rouarie pray there in the twilight, as the dying sun with- drew his light-beams? For her father, first and best always — her father whom her fihal love perceived was sinkii).g under the weight of age and the terrors of the Revo- lution. For Ren6 Pereyra, her cousin and betrothed, whom she was to marry in the early dawn of to-morrow. For 149 150 THE QUEEN'S FILLET her deceased mother, who had passed from life just when her maternal love was most needed for her child. For France, unhappy France, which now was passing through its most frightful ordeal. For herself, least of aU, because she regarded herself as the least amongst her fellow- creatures, and because she had the rare faith, that no matter what trials were before her, or what calamities might befall her, they were God-appointed and not alto- gether incommensurate with her own deserts. The twilight deepened, and the lamp of the sanctuary now threw its ruby light on wall, and pavement, and altar, and on a life-size statue of the Sacred Heart, with all its loving symbolism. She rose up at length as the first bell tolled down along the stone corridor, stood for a moment before the statue, looked up with her own clear, sweet eyes to the brown eyes that stared down at her, whispered: Sacre Coeur de Jesus, sauvez mon pere! Sauvez la France! looked once more lovingly at the Divine Face, then genuflected reverently, touched her forehead and lips with holy water, and passed like a spirit of air from the httle chapel. The second bell sounded for dinner; and very soon after the few guests that had been invited to the nuptials met in the large salon. The last to enter was the Marquis. He looked pale and faded, more from anxiety than labour or old age; but the same winning smile of serenity with which the nobles of the old regime marched to the field of battle, or the guillotine, threw a light across his worn features, and lit them up with a mild radiance that seemed to reflect itself on the faces of all who were present. He walked straight over to where a lady and her husband were conversing in the deep embrasure of one of the heavy muUioned windows that looked on the terrace and the sea. These two had already passed through the fire of the Revolution, unscathed somewhat, but unnerved and dazed by reason of the terrors through which they had escaped to the safety of the hills and marshes of La Vendue. The lady was the daughter of the Marquis de THE GASCON'S REVENGE 151 Donison, who had been employed about the person of the King, and had been born in the palace of Versailles. She was now the wife of M. de Lescure, who had his chSiteau at Clisson. She was destined to become, after the rage and tumult, or rather within the rage and timiult, of the Revolution, the wife of a more famous man — the Marquis de Larochejacquelein. "I think we are all assembled," said the aged Marquis, looking around, and offering his arm to Madame de Lescure. "Ren6!" whispered Genevieve to her father, as M. de Lescure offered his arm to her. "Ha! Late. No matter, little bride! He is making his last will and testament before he submerges himself. Come! we may be quite sure he cannot be long away this evening." The dining-room, too, faced the terrace, and com- manded a view of the long sea-ramparts, that curved along the sea-coast to the south, and the deep, blue waters that flashed or reposed beneath them. This autumn evening it was lighted by several brass candelabra, that hung low from the fretted ceiling and threw a soft hght on the silver and flowers that filled the long oak table. A place was left for Ren6 near his bride, and the dinner proceeded. • The conversation naturally turned upon the events that were then transpiring from end to end of France and, by a natural sequence, to the eventful months that followed the King's flight to Varennes, and his arrest and return. Ever and anon the anxious eyes of Genevieve, made more anxious by the recital of hair-breadth escapes and sanguinary surroundings, sought the door. But Ren6 did not appear. "The attack on the palace on the night of the tenth of August was not expected," said Madame de Lescure. "M. Montmorin assured us that it was arranged for the twelfth, and he had the King's authority for saying so Why it was precipitated no one appears to know." 152 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Then it came on quite suddenly, and you were all unprepared?" asked the Marquis, who was an intense Royalist. "Quite! At midnight there was a tumult in the streets At four o'clock in the morning the massacre had begun. My husband rushed into the street where we were lodg- ing, with the intention of reaching the palace; but it was too late. All access was barred." "You will be pleased to hear, Marquis," said M. de Lescure, "that I figured as a sans-culotte in the crowd, and so did M. de Montmorin." "What?" said the Marquis, in a tone of surprised indignation. "Aye, so it is," said M. de Lescure. "All's fair in war. And this is war in earnest. M. de Montmorin, an imper- fect actor, did his part badly, and was promptly and justly hunted by the mob into the shop of a small grocer. There he was instantly surrounded by a gang of National Guards, reeking from the slaughter of the poor Swiss. The grocer was a better artist, for stepping up to the sans- culotte, he proffered him drink and a toast. Can you guess, M. le Marquis, what it was? " The Marquis shook his head, but looked disgusted. "'Hark you, cousin mine,' said the incomparable green-grocer, 'you, raw from the country, hardly ex- pected to have the pleasure of witnessing the downfall of the tyrant. Drink, mon cousin, to the brave avengers of freedom!'" "And he drank?" said the Marquis. "Ma foi. Marquis, what else? It saved his life and did the King no harm!" But the Marquis was silent. The little incident seemed to reveal many things. But Madame de Lescure went on: "We waited all day long in terror, but when night came, we disguised ourselves again as sans-culottes, grisettes, etc. and stole out into the darkness. Strange to say, across the river on the other side there was abso- THE GASCON'S REVENGE 153 lute silence, whilst the mob raged in thousands and tens of thousands around the palace. We knew there was an old domestic living over there beyond the Pont Neuf, and we felt we would be safe with her. But how to get there, although it was but a few paces across? We stole out, and turned into the Champs-Elys^es. The alleys were silent, although more than a thousand men had been killed there that day; but the roar of the multitude around the Tuileries, the constant discharge of musketry, and the occasional discharge of cannon made night hideous, whilst the conflagration from the burning bar- racks lit up the whole sky, and threw a dreadful glare along the trees and into the avenues. Just then a woman came flying up, pursued by a drunken patriot who insisted that she was an aristocrat, and he should have her life. My husband appealed to the man, and he seemed touched and let the woman go." "Yes, but you forget, Madame, that he turned his polite attention to ourselves and wanted to have a shot at us, as aristocrats in disguise." "Yes! And would you beheve it. Marquis, when we tiu-ned back, I was so demented from fright, I shrieked aloud (as we passed again through the streets, blazing with Ughts and thronged with drunken crowds) 'Vivent les sans-culottes ! a bos les tyrans!' as lustily as the rest. You look shocked, M. le Marquis, and friends. But I tell you, these were scenes to make reason totter in far stronger brains than mine." "Aye, that is so," said her husband musing. "People talk about the King's pusillanimity and cowardice. He is the bravest man that ever lived. He believes in Christ, and doesn't wish to shed blood. But, I tell you, M. le Marquis, and you, ladies and gentlemen, that I have seen him under circumstances that would make the strongest nerve tremble, and he was as calm as in his oratory at prayer. Yes! Whatever other faults Louis has com- mitted, he is passing through this terrific trial with all his majesty undiminished. He is every inch a king." 154 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "But you haven't told us the sequel?" said the Marquis, whose temper was now mollified by the encomium on the King. "I mean how you escaped from the city. We have had the idea here that there was no escape, that a line of fire was drawn around the city, beyond which no one dare penetrate." " Quite true ! And yet numbers do escape by stratagem. We got away owing to the fidehty of a brave man, formerly my tutor, M. Thomassin. He was a furious Revolution- ist, beUeving that he had been neglected imder the old regime, and that a new order of things would open a career to his undoubted talents. He was especially an adept in the art of fencing. He took us up for old friend- ship's sake, but at the peril of his fife; obtained our pass- ports, got carriages for us, mounted the box as our driver, or postihon, fought our way through a thousand obstacles, sometimes unsheathing his sword and swearing like a true ofiicer, imtil he landed us safely at CUsson. Then he went back to join the Revolution. He will become a leader." "Or a victim." "Yes! That is possible, too." " Our Ren4 had a letter yesterday from an old friend, a captain in the National Guard, but, I believe, the eldest son of the Comte de Brignon. He has had a narrow escape. He was arrested with his wife and escaped the September massacres by a miracle. He, too, had a secret friend and secret enemies." "I have heard of him," said M. de Lescure. "A brave man, who will do great things yet. Yes! Absolute fidelity on the part of some, consimimate treachery on the part of others — that is the feature of the Revolution!" "Thank God and our Lady there is no treachery here!" said the Marquis devoutly. But just then he saw the seneschal's eyes fixed with a strange look upon him, and Genevieve gave a little shriek. "You wish to say something to me?" said the Marquis, rising. "Pray be seated, ladies and gentlemen," he con- THE GASCON'S REVENGE 155 tinued, waving his hand towards his guests who had also risen. "I shall return at once. M. de Lescure, continue that interesting recital. You shall repeat it when I return." The Marquis went out into the hall. His valet held out his heavy miUtary cloak, under which he had many times bivouacked in the late campaign. "What is it?" he asked anxiously, bending his broad shoulders. "Ill news, Marquis," said the man. "It does not bear being told. You must come and see!" He descended the steep stone stairs that curved aroimd the flag-turret and led to the donjon. Thence they stepped into the open air. It was a mild autumnal night, starless, yet without those heavy clouds that hang on the earth and promise rain. There was deep stillness all around; only the lisp of the sea on the sands was heard. Flashing a hght from a lantern before him, xhe man led down along the woodland path that curved and twisted along the decUvity and through the woods to the sea. In the angles the heavy howitzers were still in position, their black tarpaulin coverings shining in the lantern light. In a few minutes they were on the beach. Far away across the waters, the lighthouses flashed their signals from island and mainland — ineffectual fires amidst the deepening darkness. A faint fringe of foam illumined the beach. A few hundred yards from the castle they stumbled up against a group of men who were gathered around something that lay prone on the beach. They gave way when they recog- nized the Marquis. He stood still and looked. The dead body lay face downwards. A piece of white paper fluttered between the shoulders. The Marquis stooped to take it. He found it attached to a poniard that was struck deep into the body. He knelt on the sands and read: "Revenge! For twenty dead comrades murdered on these sands! Vive la nation ! a has " "Gascon." 156 THE QUEEN'S FILLET He turned over the face. It was Ren^ Pereyra, the young Provengal poet, whose letter about his youthful bride to his far-away mother was still lying on his desk unsealed, and who had come forth that sweet autumnal evening to dream of that bride, and of his ProvenQal home, and of the mountains and of the sea along the southern coast; and of the long years of uninterrupted happiness they should have away from this fiery and turbulent north, and the fierce tempests of human passion that were now sweeping over it. XVIII A Fbuitless Attempt From that day forward, the health of the aged Marquis visibly declined. The hardships of the previous campaign had told seriously upon him, although he bore himself with an appearance of youthful vigour, not quite con- sonant with his advanced age. The sad disappointment of his beloved daughter, and the tragic circumstances of the death of her young betrothed at the hands of the men whom his clemency had spared, accentuated the ravages of age and life-weariness. The rigours of the winter supervened. Then the new year opened, and after a few weeks the news of the King's execution, which broke over Europe like a thunder-clap, echoed down along the Breton shore and smote the heart of the broken warrior. A few weeks more and he was laid to rest with his ancestors in the httle chapel. The chateau was closed up, doors and windows barred and bolted; the red flag with the golden dragon was lowered from the lofty pole above the round turret; and Genevieve was taken away to the chateau of her friends, M. and Madame de Lescure at Clisson in the Bocage, there to abide until further trials should reveal the riches of her pure and holy spirit. In the mighty tragedy when, as Danton boasted, "France flung the head of a king in the track of invading armies," Maurice de Brignon acted a not inconsiderable part. Every trace of Republican or revolutionary spirit had now been swept away by the tragic events through which he had passed. He saw the wild beast that is in man, even in the midst of the proudest civilisations, and he came to know that that wild beast has to be tamed and 157 158 THE QUEEN'S FILLET chained and subdued by the strong hand of a despot, or the milder discipline of a government acting on the behests, and for the benefit, of humanity. How the fierce ele- ments, now let loose and apparently uncontrollable, were to be drawn once more into the orbit of a recognized social order, he did not know. But, one thing was quite clear. His lot, although cast in the midst of sanguinary revolutionists, was to aid and abet every effort to free the King from the hands of his enemies. Then, perhaps, order might be drawn from chaos, and the hydra-headed beast driven back to his lair. With these fine instincts there lay, almost hidden and imacknowledged, a more chivabous feeling for that paragon' of stately and suffering womanhood, Marie Antoinette. If we except her proto- type, the Mary of the Scots, no woman ever excited such tender and enthusiastic interest in the breasts of men as the hapless Queen of France. All her grandeur, that had been veiled under the frivolities of the court, shone out in that martyrdom, which she bore with such imiform and unchanging dignity. It was her destiny, like that of loftier beings than she, that death, in a shameful and ignominious manner, should close that long martyrdom; but it will be the eternal surprise of history that, in the words of her Irish advocate, "ten thousand swords did not flash out to save or avenge such a Queen." At least in the hearts of many, it is now quite certain, throbbed feel- ings of loyalty and compassion for their dethroned and dishonoured Sovereign, and notwithstanding the terrors through which he had passed, in none was there a stronger determination to aid and rescue her than in the heart of Maurice de Brignon. In addition to this chivalrous feehng there was another that drove it peremptorily into action. In generous souls fear rapidly rises to fury, and the horrors through which he had passed, so far from daunting his spirit, seemed to have whipped it into a kind of frenzy or ferocity that defied all personal danger. The indignities offered to his wife, the insults addressed to himself, the horrible massa- A FRUITLESS ATTEMPT 159 cres of unoffending priests and women, but above all, the fiendish murder of the young Princesse de Lamballe, drove every feeling of self-preservation into the back- ground, and inflamed him with a kind of Celtic fury that yet was reasoning and cautious. The sight of that beauti- ful and innocent young princess, coming forth timidly from the Temple, where she waited on the Queen, and stepping suddenly from the companionship of all that was gracious and refined into the very midst of all that was most revolt- ing and savage; of her sudden death, stricken down by a sabre-blow across the head; of her shameless denudation and exposure for hours to the lewd observations of a trucu- lent mob; the dismemberment of her body, one leg placed in a cannon, the head struck off and carried, first to a coif- feur to be decorated, thence to the Temple that the Queen might see it; her heart torn out from her mangled bosom and carried on a pike, then roasted and eaten by two can- nibals at a restaurant; and the dismembered and naked trimk dragged with ropes through the mud and fetor of the city, drove Maurice as well as many other Frenchmen to madness. They felt now they had no longer to deal with fellow-patriots, or even human beings, but with fiends hot from hell. Meanwhile, and quite unabashed by the awful massacres of September, the National Convention met every day. The elections took place even during the horrors that filled Paris with consternation from the second to the sixth of September; and lo ! we have now face to face the Girondists or all that was left of them, Roland, Brissot, Vergniaud, Louvet, etc., on the right, and on the summit of the tribunes to the left, Camille Desmoulins, Tallien, Anacharsis Clootz, David, Collot d'Herbois, Billaud-Varenne, Legendre, Couthon, etc., names in prominence now — afterwards to be execrated by a world grown weary of their crimes. Day after day during that eventful winter a terrible duel raged between the Girondists, now Constitutional and somewhat repentant of their pusillanimity, and their fierce opponents headed by Robespierre and Danton, now 160 THE QUEEN'S FILLET confident of victory and dreaming of revenge. Long speeches on both sides, full of charges and recriminations, countercharges and rebutments, the mob of Paris arbiter in the duel and swaying now to one side, now to the other; Vergniaud and Louvet, straining all their powers of elo- quence against the progress of violence, and flinging into the teeth of Danton and Marat charges of complicity in the late crimes; Marat boldly defending and boasting that there would be no peace or safety for France until two hundred thousand heads had fallen; Robespierre, indicted by Louvet and accepting the challenge, fearful, yet confident and relying on his star of destiny; Roland, standing mournful and sometimes weeping beneath the trees in the garden of the Ministry of the Interior; Ma- dame Roland, formulating with that masculine mind of hers a federation of repubhcs into one great commonwealth; and, beneath all the tumult and dust of conflict, a certain Dr. Guillotin, mercifully arranging for a speedy and happy death for the thousands who were to form an inevi- table holocaust; and a certain grim Sanson, steeling his nerves into an indifference as to whether Jacobin, or Girondist, milk-white neck of princess of the blood, or thick red neck of ouvrier, head of mighty king, thin, and grey of hair, or blond locks of little maiden, were to pass beneath the sharp edge of the triangular blade which the Doctor was forging in his laboratory — such were the scenes enacted during that winter of 1792, mild preludes of the tempestuous horrors which the New Year was about to usher in. At last it became quite clear that the vortex of revolu- tion was whirling around one centre — the person of the King. The Moimtain strove with all its might to bring him to trial, knowing that the Girondists would shrink from the final issue — his execution, and this would fling them into the very jaws of the populace. The Girondists, fighting for their Uves, threw every obstacle in the way of his trial. Petitions came pouring in, manufactured in the purlieus and printing-offices of Paris and the other A FRUITLESS ATTEMPT 161 cities, demanding that the "head of the tyrant should fall." Yet, Vergniaud and Louvet, behind a shield of desperation, fought against their ferocious enemies and were almost succeeding, when just then a discovery was made at the Tuileries which precipitated events, and led promptly to the trial of the King. In a deep cavity in the wall of a private chamber, and concealed by a strong iron door, were found docmnents which were not of an incrimi- natory character, but which at that juncture could be used with deadly effect. They comprised the brief but signifi- cant correspondence between the King and Mirabeau when the latter was appealed to and was determined to save the monarchy; the propositions of Bouill6, which, if Louis had shown more determination, would have saved him and France; and, what interested our young hero still more, a letter dated April, 1791, in which Laporte, the King's steward, had reported that Talleyrand was anxious to break away from the revolutionary mob and assist the fallen monarch. Instantly Maurice wrote his old friend, who had been in London since September 14th. It was too late. On December 5th Talleyrand was made an exile and pro- scribed. And on December 11th the King was placed on his trial before the national Convention. Barere, who has fallen under the stinging lash of Lord Macaulay, was pres- ident that day. During the eventful weeks that elapsed between the appearance of the King at the bar of the Convention and his conviction and death-sentence, Maurice went flying backwards and forwards to his friend, Andr^ Ch^nier, at Versailles. The latter had come into the city to see his parents and brother, from whom now he was somewhat estranged by reason of his terrible philippics against Jacobin and Girondin alike. The latter especially he had angered by repeated taunts of cowardice and by repeated predictions of their approaching doom. So great was his danger that he was driven out of the city by his friends; and from his retreat at Versailles he continued to pour forth 162 THE QUEEN'S FILLET poem, article, pasquinade, on his former friends and asso- ciates. Even the comrades of his youth, Lebrun and David, he did not spare. One evening, dark, gloomy, lowering, Maurice found his friend in high fever. He was bent over his desk, and was writing these last lines to the King, whose noble atti- tude and calm dignity tad completely won him over: "May he read with pleasure these expressions of regret- ful esteem on the part of a man without interest as without ambition; a man who has never written one single line but under the dictates of his conscience; to whom the language of courtiers must be for ever unknown. As eagerly passionate as any for true equality, he would yet blush for himself if he now refused a signal homage to the virtuous actions by which our King has endeavoured to atone for all the miseries that so many other kings have entailed upon mankind." He raised his pale, worn face and read the words, with a voice broken by emotion, to his friend. "You dare not, you must not send that paper to the press," said Maurice. Unheeding, the young poet bent down again and wrote: "Let all the citizens whose thoughts agree with the writer of these lines, and he has little doubt the whole of France is with him, at least break silence, for this is no time for silence. Let us one and all raise a deafening clamour of truth and indignation." Again, Maurice, fiercely though he felt about the king, endeavoured to restrain his friend's impetuosity. Ch^nier, rising hastily, said, with eyes that were bloodshot from the fever that burned in his veins: "Come!" The two friends entered the city together. The people were singing in the streets, howling for blood, a king's blood. ' A few days after Ch6nier took his place in the Conven- tion, side by side with the aged Malesherbes, who had chivalrously undertaken the King's defence. Heedless of A FRUITLESS ATTEMPT 163 the faces that scowled upon him from the Mountain with whom he was aheady a marked man, he sat and wrote, and prompted the great advocate, who towered above him. Anxious looks came towards him from his father and his brother Joseph, with whom he was now reconciled. He heeded nothing; but sat there through all those weary- days. And when, at length, the fatal verdict was brought in, and the vote was taken as to whether the King should be executed or exiled; during those terrible forty hours he wrote piteous and pleading words in the Moniteur to save the King's life. In vain! The defection of the cowardly Girondists, who, in the plenitude of their own power, had decreed death to the Emigres and exile to the priests, swept every chance away and, by a singular and just retribution, it fell to the lot of Vergniaud, the most elo- quent man in France, to pronounce the fatal sentence: "Citizens, I annoimce the result of the vote. When justice has spoken, humanity should resume its place. There are seven hundred and twenty-one votes. A ma- jority of twenty-six have voted for death. In the name of the Convention I declare that the punishment of Louis Capet is death!" It was night; and the tumultuous mob, yelling and cheering, broke from the hall. Andre gathered up his papers and looked around. Vergniaud and Egalit6 were passing his desk. He hissed at them: "And I declare, in the name of the Supreme Being, that the punishment of traitors and cowards is death!"' The two men turned pale and hastened away. Maurice was waiting outside. "Now, my friend," said Andr6, "voice and pen have failed. Nothing is left but the sword. Are you pre- pared?" And Maurice said: "I am prepared." The two friends shook hands and parted. Yes! He was prepared. So was de Batz, inheritor of a name that was always loyal to its king; so was Despard 164 THE QUEEN'S FILLET of the national Treasury; so were a few more, quite as loyal, but more timid. On that fatal morning of January 21st the King's carriage came slowly along through lines of infantry and cavalry four deep, ordnance behind and before, and an escort of Marseillais and the commune of Paris. It was a cold, icy morning, and a heavy fog hung down over the boulevards. Every shop was shut, every blind was drawn. Even human curiosity, all-powerful as it is, could not dare penetrate the veil which Nature had drawn down over this supreme tragedy. The carriage reached the Porte Saint-Denis, on the height of the Boule- vard Bonne-Nouvelle. Here many streets converged; there was a steep slope for attack; the cannon could not play upwards. Here, now, or never! De Batz and his comrades looked around, eagerly expecting the heroic and devoted band who were to break through the revolutionary legions and smnmon all the chivalry of Paris to the rescue of their King. Alas! nothing was to be seen but the glistening pikes and bayonets that formed a chevaux de frise along the street. Maddened and enraged the four men rushed forward, shouting: "Help, Frenchmen, help! To the king's rescue!" There was no response. But the violence of the onset of the httle band broke the Une of guards for a moment. There seemed to be a wavering amongst the troops, and de Batz shouted again for help. That moment a corps kept in reserve bore down on the devoted band, and pressed them against the wall of a house. De Batz and Despard escaped down a side-street. It was said the other two were literally hacked to pieces by sabre cuts. One, it was reported, was Maurice Brigneau, captain in the National Guard, and who had been already on his trial for treason. The whole thing was so instanta- neous that the King and his companions were unaware of the attempt. Swiftly the remainder of the tragedy was accomplished. So the official report testifies: "At twenty minutes past ten o'clock, Louis Capet, having reached the foot of the scaffold, left the carriage. A FRUITLESS ATTEMPT 165 "At twenty-two minutes past ten he ascended the scaffold. The execution was instantly performed, and his head shown to the people. "Here witness our hands, "Lefevre, Momoro, Sallais, Isabeau, Bernard, Jacques Roux." {National Archives.) BOOK II XIX A Regicide The conscience of a nation is not easily extinguished; and hence, on that fatal day of January 21, 1793, a gloom of death settled down on Paris. Men went around sadly and dejectedly, their eyes sunk on the ground. They were afraid to speak to each other. They had witnessed the consummation of a great crime. All day long the blinds were drawn in the houses along the principal streets; the street- vendors were silent; the very troops that had marched back to barracks flung aside their arms and accoutrements in self-disgust. "If we could only have trusted one another" they said. Clearly their hearts were with the murdered King. And some said: "Next? Who's next?" for they knew the Revolution was but beginning, and would continue until Saturn had devoured the last of his children. Along with the feeling of compassion and regret, there was also in most men's minds the agony of great fear. The governing power had passed into the hands of desper- ate men; and behind them, and pushing them on to the abyss of more appalluig crime, was the maddened mul- titude. Yes! the country was now in the hands of assas- sins, who to keep their own heads safe on their shoulders would proceed from crime to crime, until the people, exhausted from orgies of blood, would settle down into an apathy of peace again. And yet, such is the chivalry of human nature, even at its worst, it is only true to say, that, amidst all the horrors and desolation of those days, the eyes of many were turned towards that Temple Prison, whence Louis 166 A REGICIDE 167 had emerged that morning for the scaffold; and those eyes were filled with pity and compassion for the desolate women, the Queen and Madame EUsabeth, and the desolate children — the child, who was now, by royal right. King Louis XVII. of France, and the Princess Royal, the only one out of that doomed band who was to survive and tell the tale of its final sorrows. But it was not only compassion, but a determination to save those precious lives at any cost, that now kept in Paris several gentlemen, of the old regime, who were only waiting for an opportunity to show their devotion to the Royal family in a practical and successful manner. They knew that they were risking their Uves in remaining in the city, where at any moment they might be denounced to the leaders of the commune, who were now triumphant; and they also knew that whilst every day increased the possibilities that the Queen and all her family might be summoned to follow the martyred King, yet one false move, one unsuccessful attempt at rescue, would only precipitate the one event which it was now their one desire to prevent. Foremost amongst these secret adherents of the Queen was the ChevaUer de Jar j ayes, who had been with the King all through the dreadful scenes of August the 10th and the succeeding days; and who, when he saw how the vacillation and timidity of Louis XVI. had already im- perilled the safety of every one coimected with him, would have left Paris, but for the King's formal command that he was not to go, as he was his majesty's "best, bravest, and surest friend." Hence, after the King's execution, he remained in Paris, not knowing from hour to hour but that he might be arrested as a Royalist; and then nothing remained but death. He was too wise a man, however, to expose himself unnecessarily to danger; and he hved with his wife in close retirement, keeping up, however, a secret correspondence with the Queen. On the evening of February the 2d in this terrible year of 1793, he was alone, brooding over many things, and 168 THE QUEEN'S FILLET speculating whether it were not better for the safety of the Queen that he should go away, and spur on the lag- ging energies of the armies on the frontier, when he was told that a man requested to see him. The times were dangerous; spies were everywhere; no man was to be trusted; and it was with hesitation Jar- jayes consented to see his visitor. He was not prepos- sessed by his appearance. The man was young, strong, dark, and supple of frame. His black eyes were restless, darting here and there, as he stood before the Chevalier. His dress marked him at once as a Revolutionist. But when he gave his name as Toulan, the Chevalier drew back in alarm. The man was one of the leading regicides in the city and had made himself remarkable by his insolent and shameless demeanour towards the Royal captives. Toulan noticed the shrinking attitude of Jarjayes, and smiled. The Chevalier drew back, and took refuge in silence. "You distrust me? Well. You have reason. Yet I come to you on behalf of the Queen. Nay, I have come to you to help me to rescue her from the Temple, and — from the guillotine." The Chevalier stood gazing at him, incredulous and alarmed. "Quite so!" said Toulan, interpreting his thoughts. " You think I am leading you into a trap for your destruc- tion. You have reason; but it is not so. For five months I have been in the Queen's confidence. She has sent me to you." "But " murmured the Chevalier, and he dreaded to say more. "Yes! I know what you would say. I have been a Revolutionist, a Montagnard. I have been conspicuous for my attitude of hatred and dislike towards royalty. My name is coupled with Bernard and Marcereau and Michonis. I know it all. Yet I teU you I am the Queen's most loyal and devoted servant; and I have come to A REGICIDE 169 concert with you a plan of escape for the Royal Family. For, mark you, Chevalier, I know what I know; and that is briefly this: No power on earth can save the Queen, Madame Elisabeth, the young King, and the Princess, from the guillotine, unless some means are found to rescue them." The Chevalier knew it was true; but he still drew back. How could he trust this man? Toulan smiled, and drew a paper from his pocket. It read thus: " You can have confidence in the man who will speak to you on my behalf when giving you this note. His sentiments are known to me — he has never changed for the last five months. Do not trust too much the wife of the man who is imprisoned with us here. I have no confidence either in her or her husband." The handwriting was tmmistakably the Queen's. Jarjayes knew it well. Yet he hesitated. " And who are these? he asked, pointing to the last lines. "Tyson and his wife," was the response. "They can- not be trusted." "Sit down!" said Jarjayes at last. He also took a seat, and remained buried in meditation. Then, as if a sudden memory struck him, he said bluntly: "If I mistake not, Toulan, it was you that stormed the Abbaye, and rescued the mutinous soldiers?" "Yes! It was!" said Toulan unconcernedly. "And I think I heard your name as one of the chief assailants of the King on the tenth of August?" "Monsieur's information is perfect," said the Revo- lutionist.' "And you are still a member of the commune?" "Yes! and shall remain so! The commune of Paris has honoured me by making me one of its commissioners at the Temple to visit and guard the prisoners." "Then!" said the General, "how am I to account for this strange conversion from Republicanism to Royalty?" 170 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Mm, Dieu, General, you are numing away with the question. I am a Communist, and a Repubhcan; and shall die so!" "But then how explain your devotion to Royalty?" "It doesn't exist!" "Then aU this," and he pointed to the paper, "is a sham or deception to snare the innocent and the unwary?" "By no means. I hate Royalty, and shall always hate it. But, that woman has conquered me. I have sworn she shall not die!" And the Chevalier was conquered. He saw all in the flash of a s\idden revelation. He held out his hand. "Yes! I see," he said. "She has conquered us all." "Alas! not all," said Toulan, "there are those who hate the Queen as much as we — we — love her." And the tears started into his black eyes. He brushed them aside, and said brusquely: "This is no time for sentiment; but for action. General. May I count on your co-operation?" "Certainly. You have a plan? But stop!" A sudden thought struck him. He would see the Queen, and take his instructions from her own lips. Could Toulan manage? Yes, he could. He would bring them face to face. This was no time for false pride. "And you. General, will you give me a note that I might hand the Queen to show her that I have performed her commission?" And the Chevaher, without hesitation, placed such a note in the hands of the Conmiissioner. It might be his death-warrant. But brave men understand each other. He had no qualms of fear in sealing and signing the note. And so it happened that a few evenings later, it was not the ordinary lamplighter, who came around and through the Temple between five o'clock and seven o'clock each evening, but a strange official, dressed in very dirty clothes, who could hardly control his emotion, when, entering the room of his Sovereign, he saw the faded, broken, and scanty furnishing of her rooms, and saw the Queen her- A REGICIDE 171 seK, pale and composed, with that aureole of white hair that was blanched under the terrors of that awful journey to Varennes. But she had composure enough left to re- assure him that he might trust Toulan implicitly; and she had time, amid her own troubles and those of the fearfullest, to ask soUcitously about hidden or absent friends. Here then was an alliance of two brave men, sworn by silent adjuration to do all that men could do to rescue that devoted woman at any cost. It was an enterprise so hazardous as to be rash even unto madness; so difficult that it seemed impossible. For the Temple was not only guarded, night and day, by a strong force of the National Guard; it was not only visited, at all times, by commis- sioners from the commune of Paris; but it was literally swarming with spies, who noted everything and reported everything to the commune, or the officer of the munici- pality. But the devotion of these men was intense. They saw difficulties and dangers only to conquer them. One Saturday evening, cold and wet and dark, two commissioners came on duty at the Temple. They wore the tricolored scarf — the passport that was never ques- tioned. The commissioners on duty were dismissed gladly enough for they hated to be locked up in that gloomy prison on Sunday; and when the guards were changed, the new commissioners visited the Royal pris- oners. As usual, in the presence of Tyson and his wife, Toulan, who was one of the visitors, was uncivil and rude to the Queen; but when these jailers had departed, he dropped on one knee, and kissed the Royal hand. Then turning, he said: "Allow me to introduce, Madame, another of our sworn friends, Captain Maurice Brigneau!" "Brigneau! Brigneau! I have heard that name be- fore. Where?" And the Queen stood silent, as if trying to recall the circimistance. 172 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "I had the honour of escorting your majesty to the National Assembly on the tenth of August," said Maurice simply. "Ha! mon brave," said the Queen, her whole beautiful face lighting up with pleasure. "I remember. You were with us those three days. How could I forget? But you are changed, mon capitaine ! I should not recognize you ! " "The Captain Brigneau is dead!" said Totilan. "He was cut to pieces in the attempt to rescue the King with de Batz and Despard, who escaped. Hence he appears under a new form — a kind of reincarnation, where he is unrecognizable, except by his friends. But time presses, Madame! One thing more! It is absolutely necessary to secure the help of one of the Passport Committee. Other- wise we cannot leave Paris. We must get the chairman of that committee on our side — one Lepitre. He is a professor and a fool; but he is loyal " "I know him," interrupted the Queen. "He used to exchange quotations with " She could not say "the King." They understood. "Yes!" said the practical Toulan. "But can he be trusted? I have the profoundest dislike of these book- worms. But we want the pen as well as the sword. The Chevalier does not Uke him, either." "We must trust him," she said. " He means well. He is a Republican only to save himself. The man is a Royalist at heart." "Then I shall denounce him to the Commune," said the fierce Toulan, "the moment our work is done, and — " "No, no!" said the Queen in accents of terror. "I am most unhappy. I seem to bring trouble on all my friends." "Very good, then," said the irrepressible Gascon, "we'U use the fellow for all he's worth. But I don't trust these bookworms. And then, he's half blind and wholly lame >i "But, we shall have carriages, shall we not. Monsieur Toulan?" said the Queen. "Monsieur Lepttre need not walk!" A REGICIDE 173 It was a little gleam of fun, lighting up the gloom of the horrid room, and the deeper gloom that hung over their fortunes. But time was pressing. "Monsieur Lepttre is indispensable," said the Queen. "I shall give you a letter to the General. And," she continued, while her lips whitened at the thought, "time presses, gentlemen! If I am to judge by our nightly serenades, the people are clamouring for further revenge." Even as she spoke, the hoarse murmur of a thousand voices penetrated the thick walls of the Temple. They were singing the Carmagnole; and, as the two men passed downstairs and into the open court, where the sentries were pacing up and down, they saw the towers of the Temple reddened by the reflection of countless torches; they heard the heavy tramp of a maddened people; and they could distinguish between, the strophes of the revo- lutionary hymn, words that sounded fearfully like: "Mart a I'Autrichienne! Mart a I'Autrichienne!" "Ma foi!" said Toulan. "The Queen is right. Paris is recovering from her fit of repentance. There is no time to lose, mon ami! Not a moment. WUl you see the General at once about Lepltre? Good! The Com- missionaire is unwell," he said to Tyson, as he ushered Maurice to the gate. "Another will take his place to-morrow!" Tyson growled something between his teeth, as he hung down his head. "Why, you old watch-dog," said Toulan, slapping the surly jailer on the back, "you scent treason everywhere. You'U suspect our Marat next. Cheer up, old Cerberus! The pretty birds are safe. I saw them myself. The Austrian woman will hardly wait for Saint Guillotine, I think, unless the friends of the Fatherland are quick about it." "Monsieur le Commissionnaire," said the old savage, "if I suspected treason, I would open these gates on the instant; and you know what that means. Hark!" 174 THE QUEEN'S FILLET The tumultuous crowd was surging around the prison, their torches flinging a curious red glare into the dark court-yard, and Hghting up window and turret and parapet on the dark walls. The men's hoarse voices were chant- ing the revolutionary song; the women's drunken shrieks almost drowned the words of the hymn. "Throw us the Austrian woman, and we'll make short work of her," they cried; and Maurice, who remembered the September massacres, shuddered as he passed out the postern gate, and emerged amongst the mob. As he took off the tricolor scarf, he thought there was a gentle tug from behind. He looked around in trepida- tion, for, although carefuUy disguised, he always dreaded detection. The sentry on duty had presented arms and recovered. But, quite close to the sentry, and talking to a comrade with an air of assumed unconcern, Maurice saw by the reflection of the torches a burly figure who stared at him curiously. It was Dubuisson, the blacksmith of St-Remy. Maurice hurried away. Yes, verily, the Queen was right. There was no time to be lost. He made his way to the Chevalier's, to whom he was already known. "We must get Lepltre at all hazards," he said. "They are the Queen's commands. He alone can give the pass- ports without exciting suspicion." "But the creature is a coward," said General Jarjayes. "He may shrink at the last moment, and all would be lost." "He is only a coward in his pocket," said Maurice. "He can always prove his Republicanism by quoting Cato and Brutus to these savages. But he fears losing his chair of rhetoric. If he is promised compensation, he will consent." "I don't like that," said the upright old General. "I don't like bribery at any time) and I always distrust those who take bribes. Look at Danton!" "Yes, yes," said Maurice impatiently, "but there is no resource; and it is the Queen's wish!" A REGICIDE 175 "She said so?" "Yes, and commissioned you to draw on M. de la Borde for any amount." "La Borde has left Paris," said the General. "Never- theless, her majesty's wishes must be obeyed. Toulan would accept nothing." "Ah! yes, Toulan is an old Roman. But we have to deal also with common clay. Chevalier!" "True. WeU, then, as I risk my life, I risk my fortune. You or Toulan may call upon me. And yet, I mistrust these misshapen creatures. LepJtre's a dwarf, and blind, is he not?" " He is very ugly," said Maurice, " and deformed. But, mon Giniral, these things don't count in Republican days. Marat and Couthon are not Apollos. Yet they are both powerfiil. The people like deformity. It flatters them." He was thinking on the instant, of his own patron, who just then was choking in the fogs, and poisoned by the cooking of London. But his head was safe. And was he not predestined to be an arbiter between nations and to sit in the cabinets of kings? And so in the Rue Saint-Jacques, during these dark nights in February, it was arranged that the one and indivisible Republic was to be cheated of at least four of its victims, in spite of its lynx eyes and its long arms that stretched around France like the tentacles of the devil-fish, and like the latter never relaxed its hold until it had sucked the life-blood of its victim. And the con- spirators were, as we have seen, a Chevalier sans peur et sans reproche; a fierce Republican and anti-Royalist, whose stem radicalism was conquered by a woman's tears and the sight of helpless children; a classical pedant, short, corpulent, deformed, and blind, believing in Brutus' and Cassius' methods, but yet eager to fill his pockets, and go down to posterity as the liberator of a Queen and King of France; our Maurice, converted from Royalty to Republicanism, and back again to Royalty by this "for- eign woman," who seemed to drag every noble thing in 176 THE QUEEN'S FILLET her train, and be the unconscious destruction of all; and a certain mysterious Guy, alias Ricard, who has been drawn into the magic circle by the imperious mastery of a sensation, called love — quite out of place, indeed, when Sanson was letting his axe fall daily on white necks, and gathering up shorn tresses. XX The Haute Noblesse Andb6 Ch^nier stands out prominently against the thunderous background of the Revolution as a figure of light and beauty — the perfect type of a true Republican, sympathizing with the masses, hating tyranny, loving and singing of Freedom, and yet overwhelmed with agony at seeing that sacred name dishonoured and that glori- ous figure desecrated by being made symbol and type of all the shame and ignominy and brutality into which France was now plunged. There is something quite heroic in this young figure, with the chestnut locks cluster- ing on his forehead, and his grey eyes now lighted with enthusiasm, now filmed with sorrow — the Provengal suns yellowing and bronzing his cheeks, and the Greek passion for loveliness and freedom coursing through his veins. Alone amidst aU the horrors of that awful time, he raised his voice against the wretches who were drag- ging France through the bloody mire of the Revolution. Absolutely fearless, he seems to have courted death. His magnificent defence of the hapless King should have marked him at once for assassination at the hands of the maddened mob, but no one seemed to have touched him. And after that fatal January 21st, when thousands were fleeing from Paris in terror, and no one knew who was next to be called to suffer, Andr6 remained in the stricken city, showed himself on the public boulevards, and wrote letter after letter, each one more scathing than the other, to the Journal de Paris or the Moniteur, denouncing the murderers of the King and clamom-ing for a just revenge. But the special objects of his contemptuous hatred were 177 178 THE QUEEN'S FILLET the Girondists — those weak and vacillating enthusiasts who, having drawn France intd the vortex of Revolu- tion, were now unable to check it, and were pushed on, on, from crime to crime, until in the October following they perished, one by one, on the scaffold. For the King's trial was only the first crossing of swords in that fearful duel between the Girondists and the Montagnards, which those who watched the signs of the times foresaw could end only in one way. At last, and under great pressure from his father and brother, with whom he was now completely reconciled, Andr6 was got away from the city; but his nerves were unstrung, his physical health was shattered; he was a wreck in mind and body. For a few days he sojourned at Rouen, and then he returned to his beloved retreat at Versailles. Here, at the Lucienne Hill, and in the person of Madame Laurent Lecoulterne, he met his Egeria, and she became to him what Vittoria Colonna was to Michelangelo, or Beatrice to Dante. And here one evening, towards the close of the month of February, Maurice found his friend. The latter was still in a state of high nervous excitement. "Then you were not killed, as was said?" he asked, in an angry tone. "No," said Maurice, smiling. "I had not that good fortune." "Yes," said Chenier, "it would have been a glorious martjrdom. How did you escape the crown?" "My iU luck," said Maurice. "Or a Providence that has saved me for better things." "But de Batz and Despard! Was there a genuine attempt at rescue, or is it only a canard f" "The attempt was certainly made," said Maurice. "We bore down on the ranks, four deep, just as the King's carriage passed, and broke through them. But, then, there we were, four of us against sixty thousand!" "And not a man responded?" "Not one! The men looked sulkily at each other, as THE HAUTE NOBLESSE 179 if each man mistrusted his neighbour. A single move- ment of a few officers and a hundred men would have changed the situation. But no one moved. Then a re- serve force bore down upon us, pushed two of us against the wall of the house, and literally chopped them in bits. We got into a by-street, and in the confusion, escaped. I hope we are reserved for better things!" "There is no better!" said the young poet sadly. "There is nothing now for France but to pass through its heU of shame! Maurice, I'm sorry you were not killed!" "Thanks for the wish!" said Maiu^ice, not too well pleased. "I provoked the wretches!" continued the young poet, as if he were speaking to himself. "I threw myself in their way. I implored them to do me the honour of assassinating me, but they would not. Oh, Ren6, Ren6, what did you do to merit the honour?" "Ren6? Honour? What do you mean, Andr6?" "That Ren6, my friend, our friend, my Provengal singer, was miu-dered on the sands near the castle, on the very eve of his marriage with an angel. Angel? Why do we mention such beings now? HeU is empty. And aU its black denizens are flooding the earth." "Poor lad!" said Maurice, horror-stricken at his friend's murder. "Then the Sibyl of the Woods was right that night?" "Yes! 'Twas she bade him go into La Vendue! Is it not true that demons walk the earth? But a truce to such superstitions. They are not for men. Hast thou any news, Mainice, from the Inferno? Is there aught that a man can do?" "Much," said Maurice, sententiously. "At least, there is a something that men are trying to do just now. But, I must be silent. Even to thine ears, Andr4 I may not speak!" "Be it so!" said the young poet sadly. "I only live now for one thing — to see the regicides meet their de- serts. I have warned two abeady — Vergniaud, our 180 THE QUEEN'S FILLET French Demosthenes — oh! how my blood boiled when 1 heard the fellow talk his platitudes about humanity and the Republic when he sentenced that old man to death to save his own miserable skin. And £lgaUt4! Oh, shade of Dante, come down from thy immortal throne and try if thou canst not invent a lower deep than thy very lowest and most noisome dungeons in thy Inferno for this inhuman wretch!" "But," he continued suddenly, taking on a milder tone, "I have been reconciled to my father and Joseph, Mau- rice. Who knows? I shall win them over yet. But, friend of my soul, thou must now see my friends. For I am ashamed, Maurice, to have to teU thee that, whilst the plague rages yonder, we have a Decameron garden here. Only, we are a little chaster than Boccaccio's party. It is enough to make a satyr chaste to have seen the women of the Revolution!" He led his friend across the hall of the villa and intro- duced him to Madame Pourrat and one of her daughters, who were working and reading by turns in a spacious salon, where a feeble February sun was trying in vain to extinguish the wood-fire that burned merrily in the grate. All around the room was every little dainty thing that feminine taste could suggest as adjuncts of a grace- ful and leisured life, and Maurice understood, or rather witnessed without understanding, that greatest mystery of the Revolution — French life with all its grace and sweetness and frivolity going on side by side with those tragic horrors that wiU fascinate mankind to the end of time. For these fine ladies — and one of them, the mother, had attracted Voltaire by her singular beauty — seemed to take but a languid interest in that terrible drama that was being enacted only, twenty miles away. So far from sharing the enthusiastic fervour of Andr6 Ch^nier, his fierce ardour, and his fiercer hate, they seemed more concerned about the quality of his verses and his distinction as a trouvire. It was a curious feature of French life at the time — a feature reproduced under THE HAUTE NOBLESSE 181 more ghastly circumstances in which the young poet, too, had a part. Maurice was almost shocked. Then, under the influ- ence of such sublime unconcern, he began to ask himseK whether the Revolution was really so horrible as he had imagined. Perhaps it was all but a passing phase of human infirmity — a something which all nations have to pass through on their way to freedom. Madame Pourrat had been admired by Voltaire, and felt herself, therefore, boxmd to be a philosophe. She seemed to have but a languid interest in the King's death, but a languid curiosity about the imprisoned Queen. "After aU, he was but a mechanic," she said, "inter- ested in locks and bolts and keys, as if he had a forecast of his future fate. His court? What was it to that of Louis XV. or, greater still, the brilliant comt of Louis XIV? Ah! they were kings! Louis XVI. was but a mechanic, and a stupid one! Why, he used to fall asleep at the theatre, with 'Cinna' on the stage, and he was reactionary enough to deem Moli^re irreligious and immoral " "But, Madame," said Maurice, remembering St- Remy and the beaux and wits that used to congregate there, "surely Molidre was irrehgious!" "Why, no!" said Madame seriously, "Moli^re was a wit and a dramatist. He was a supreme artist in his own line. He used rehgion as he would use any other subject, as good material for his art!" Maurice was shocked. It threw a gleam of light on the ancien rigime. He was beginning to understand the Revolution. He did not wish to seem either impolite or reactionary, but, he could not help saying: "The people seem to have learned that lesson, Ma- dame. If they use religion for the furtherance of their art, we have no right to object. But I have seen some singular instances of it." And he narrated as graphically as he could the mas- sacre of the priests on September 2d. The younger 182 THE QUEEN'S FILLET lady seemed slightly shocked. Madame shrugged her shoulders. "It is only an incident!" she said. "After all, what wiU you have? Kings are ia power, and, if they are kings, they know how to keep it. If they lose it, well, then, the canaille come uppermost, and they exercise in their own brutish way the power that has come into their hands. Who has a right to complain?" "But, Madame," said Andr^, breaking in, "where then is Freedom, where is Liberty, where is Fraternity, if it is aU brute force and only a see-saw between the tyranny of kings and the tyranny of peoples?" "Freedom? Liberty? Equality? The dreams of book- worms and doctrinaires which never have been, never can be realized! I teU you, mon ami, the canaille are wild beasts, and the kings of the earth their keepers. Woe to the latter when they leave the claws of the beasts vmcut! Still greater woe when they leave the cages open, as did yonder hapless mechanic!" "I know he could have done better," said Maurice. "But, Madame, you must consider that the King was deserted by the Church, by his army, and by his nobles, before he succumbed to the mob." "But why, Monsieur, did his nobles desert him? I make no account of cassock or sword. They can be sold to the highest bidder. But the nobles of France, the sons of the Crusaders, do you think they had no cause to desert the standards of Louis? Do you think it was the revolutionary mob of Paris frightened them? If so, Monsieur, you are mistaken. The nobles of France had deserted royalty when they found royalty in a smithy, and this foreign woman gambling with speculators and adventurers, and watching the dawn break over the green baize and the dice. We could forgive her if she gambled away a kingdom with the gentlemen of France. We can never forgive her for touching the hands of stock- brokers and gamblers, even though they were gilded ten times over!" THE HAUTE NOBLESSE 183 It was not tne first time that Maurice had seen the ter- rific pride of the French nobility that disdained even kings, and would challenge royalty itself. He had seen a good deal of this in his paternal home. But, he stood aghast at this sudden manifestation of it. He thought of the King drawn to the scaffold a month before, and, somehow, so terrible is the force of contempt, particularly from a woman's lips, he began to feel that Louis had not acted the King either then or before. He thought of the hapless Queen, and, somehow, his loyalty was weakened, as he remembered the huge bribes that she gave to Mirabeau and Danton, and how, even now, she was bribing a wretched schoolmaster for a treason- able passport. Was Madame right? Was it true that Louis had not acted royally? Was it true that the Queen had sunk from her royal estate to tempt the cupidity of those whom she never should have noticed? And yet, was she not yet the imperial woman, the peerless sover- eign who had the power of transforming her deadliest enemies into vassals at her feet? Maurice flared up a little and said, with some heat, and yet with some mis- giving: "I do not know what the Queen was in the days of prosperity. Perhaps I, too, had a little score against her. But I have seen her in the midst of adversity and misfortune, and it is these things that bring out the truth of character; and I assure you she was every inch a queen!" Madame shrugged her shoulders; and just then the door opened and Andr6 started to his feet and bowed low to his divinity. And, surely if womanly perfection could ever rightly command such obeisance, it was there. Maurice had seen nothing like it before. He stood dazzled and stupefied, until Madame Lecoulteme, the "Fanny" of the young poet, advanced and said, in a tone of interest: "You have seen the Queen?" Here there was sympathy, and Maurice grew eloquent. "Yes, Madame, I have had that privilege. I was on 184 THE QUEEN'S FILLET duty at the palace on that terrible tenth of August, and I saw all. The King was no coward, but he was weak, and feared the shedding of blood. If the Queen had had her way, she could have commanded a thousand willing swords of the first gentlemen of France, and the troops would have perished to the last man to save her. I saw her in the National Assembly during the next three days amidst a mob howling for her life, and they quailed beneath her contempt. I saw her a few evenings ago in the Temple. It was a prison. Thick walls, heavy iron or iron-studded doors, a miserable pallet, and her wardrobe was furnished by tlie municipality of Paris. And yet I swear, she was never more beautiful, never more compassionate, never more of a queen than then. If all trace of man- hood is not stamped out of the hearts of Frenchmen, they will never suffer Marie-Antoinette to ascend the scaffold." "Ha, Monsieur Ch^nier, what a poem you could write had you seen this apparition like your friend," said Ma- dame Lecoulterne. "He would take up his sword and let his pen rust!" said Maurice moodily. He did not like the tone of these people, yet he was impressed. He looked towards Andr^, who rose up and made his adieux; and the two yoimg men passed out. "Incredible! Impossible! Intolerable!" said Mau- rice to his friend. "I never gauged the depths of human pride before. It explains all. But, Andr^ how can you stand it, and how can you be loyal to the Republic, to the Queen, and to these people together?" "I suppose I gather them aU in in my verses," said Andr6; and he began to sing: J'aime; Je vis. Heureux rivage ! Tu conserves sa noble image, Son nom, qu'A tes forits j'ose apprendre le soir, Quand, I'ame doucemsnt emue J'y reviens miditer I'instant oil je I'ai vue, Et I'instant oil je dens la voir. THE HAUTE NOBLESSE 185 Maurice gave a little gesture of contempt. But hia friend continued in an altered tone of voice: Mais, souveni tes vallons tranquilles, Tes sommets verts, tes frais asiles. Tout & coup d mes yeux s'envelopperd de deuil. J'y vois errer I'ombre limde D'un peuple d'innocents qu'un tribuncd perfide Pr&cipite dans le cercueil. XXI The Queen's Passport Maurice de Brignon returned to the city in a sad and bewildered condition. His loyalty was sapped. What terror and horror and the shadow of impending death could not do, a woman's tongue had effected. The sarcasms of the salon rankled in his heart. A "bour- geois King," a "bourgeois Queen" — who could draw a sword in their defence? He had seen them from the level of the democracy, and hated them — for frivolity, levity, wantonness, extravagance, injustice. He had come close unto them, and pitied them. He now saw them beneath him, as they were presented to the eyes of the haute noblesse oi France; and, alas! a httle of their contempt had crept into his soul and poisoned his feelings. All that he had ever read about the Queen — the story of the "Dia- mond Necklace," the " Livre Rouge," the long nights spent in gambhng to recover her fearful losses, her association with people of tarnished reputations, her frivolity — all came back, and the red revenge of a maddened people took on a more pallid hue. " Is it not Nemesis after all — the retribution that kings and queens must suffer, like weaker mortals?" he thought. He arranged for an appointment with Ermnehne, his young wife. He dared not go to her father's house. ,01d Reinhard would promptly hand him over to the mvmicipal authorities; and that meant death. And he had already seen death twice so closely that he could appreciate the sweetness of living. It was a long interview, because now they felt they could meet but seldom; and they had many things to say to 186 THE QUEEN'S PASSPORT 187 each other, many plans to arrange. Maurice promptly declared his intention of quitting France, if Emmeline could go with him. He had no doubt but that he could secure passports; and he hoped to reach the Breton coast, whence they might escape to England. It was madness to remain in Paris, where the innocent were seized upon at every moment, and dragged before tribunals which held human life cheap, and wanted only victims. But Emmeline could not leave her father; and then she drew her husband's face down to hers, and whispered something. It made him pause. Then she whispered again, and he promptly answered: "'Adele,' none other but 'Adele,' to remind us of our little angel who preferred heaven to the Abbaye." But with a good wife's solicitude she urged him to fly and save himself. God would see after her and her Uttle one. But conscience and the instinct of honour are not easily stifled; and Maurice was ill at ease about his loyalty to the Queen. He found it was one of those many cases where reason is not always triumphant; where prudence sometimes carries its own , shame with it. Suddenly, whilst he was torn asunder by conflicting sentiments, he thought of visiting the old paternal home at St-Remy. At least, he would be safer there than in Paris, with the spies of the Revolution in every street and in every house. He left the city promptly, and took the road l»y Issy which he had travelled that morning, when he broke away from the sanctuary to enter the camp. He called at the auberge, where he had had some refreshments that morning. The same old woman was there, with the same look of suspicion in her eyes, and the same silence on her tongue. But he was disguised; and although he did not affect the filth of Marat and Couthon, he was dirty enough to be recognized as a Revolutionary. And then he talked blood; and was made welcome with a maternal embrace, with which he would have gladly dispensed. The husband, too, was fraternal, so were many of the 188 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "patriots" who came in from their daily occupation of serving the Republic by watching for emigris. Maurice was fraternal also, but he was glad to get away from the too close contact with unwashed people which fraternity demanded. He breathed freely as he proceeded along the highway, and eagerly looked for some brook or rivulet in which he could cleanse himself from the too close contact with the Revolution. It was night when he arrived at St-Remy; and the moon was full, just rising, a great orange ball through the network of the trees that the destructive hands of men had spared. He went straight to the chateau, crossing the httle river which ran through the village. Here it was dark, for the moon had not suflBciently risen to illume the entire landscape. But, instead of the lofty Moorish turrets that shot into the sky, and the stately front to the castle, he had barely light enough to discern a shapeless mass of ruins, crowded pell-mell on the borders of the lake. The destruction was complete. Of the lofty walls, scarcely more than three or four feet remained. Turrets and oriel windows, muUioned porches and sculptured architraves — all were gone. Only the dark expanse of the lake shivered be- neath the night-wind; and the waterfiags and sedges rubbed together and made a melancholy music in the deep and sepulchral silence. An owl hooted from the melancholy ruins; the harsh notes of the night-jar broke across the stillness of the lake; the black wings of bats whirred aroimd him. It was desolation made more deso- late. And when Maurice, seated on a broken boulder, created once more in imagination the picture of that autumn morning when the gay hunting-party congregated just there on the gravelled walk beneath the terrace, and thought how all were scattered far and wide — many nobles, hke his father, trying to eke out a Hvelihood in London or Brussels; and how the gayest of all that train, his young brother Claude and the fair young girl who had mocked himself so pitilessly, were sliunbering in their graves beneath the pavement of the Condergerie, or THE QUEEN'S PASSPORT 189 perhaps lying in the ooze and slime of the river — the pity of the whole thing smote on his imagination, and, bm'ying his head upon his hands, he wept. A curious whizzing sound, as of a night-beetle, woke him up from that melancholy reverie; and he saw an old man standing over him. He recognized Lebreuil, the old ranger, whose shirt front Dubuisson had so fiercely torn open in the forest that night when Maurice came suddenly upon the conspirators; but he was careful not to recognize, hoping that he, too, could not be recognized. "A cold spot for a night's rest, young master!" said Lebreuil. "Yes, Citizen," said Maurice, adopting the jargon of the Revolution, "I lost my way. I crossed the river, and thought the road led to the village. What place is this? " "It IS the place of ruins," said the old man. "It was the Chateau St-Remy, a nest of tyrants and profligates, pulled down by the hands of the sovereign people." "Good!" said Maurice. "The nests have fallen every- where and the rooks are flown. I should have liked to see how Jacques Bonhomme pulled this nest to pieces. Which of the enemies of the coimtry lived here?" "A Comte de Brignon," said the old man, savagely. "I was in his employment sixty years; and do you hear this music, Citizen? " And he drew a breath, and the choked tubes made a dismal response. "Chronic asthma?" said Maurice. "Yes! chronic asthma and bronchitis, caught thirty years ago, when I had to stand to my armpits in the lake to keep the frogs from croaking. Ah! they croak well now. There is no man's sleep to be disturbed. The dead sleep well." "Then the Comte is dead?" said Maurice. "Sacr6 Nom! No!" shrieked the old man. "He is not! He escaped out yonder! But the young Count is dead. He was killed in Paris. And the younger Count is dead. He fled with his father across the frontier; but 190 THE QUEEN'S FILLET the voice of a girl called him back. And Dubuisson, our mighty Dubioisson, put his eye on them. They perished in the people's Carnival last year. The race of the tyrant is extinguished." "But were you here when this robber's nest was pulled to pieces?" asked Maurice. "It must have been a rare sight!" "A sight for a lifetime, Citizen," said the old man, laughing hideously till the cough choked him. "Only one thing was wanting. When the cook had ht the fire, the capon had flown. But it was a gay sight, however, to our old eyes, who had seen the dancing and feasting there, whilst we eat our black bread and shivered in the frosty midnights. Do you know, Citizen, oiu" brave leaders up yonder in Paris are making one mistake. There is a God; and it was He brought it about. He is slow, very slow; but when He smites. He smites power- fully. Look around!" There was no need. The awful picture was burned into the young man's heart. "Ah! yes," continued Lebreuil, "it was a rare sight for old eyes that had watched the stars since childhood. The old bird had flown, as I say; he had heard some things. He had an objection, it seemed, to have his legs roasted over a slow fire. A strange objection, was it not? But Dubuisson, our brave Dubuisson, was enraged. He called us all traitors and spies; as if every man among us would not have enjoyed the sport as well as himself. However, up we marched; and I, with my pipes, played them into action. But you should have seen our surprise when we reached the terrace there silently, fearing a surprise, when the sounds of dancing and music came from the hall as in the olden times. 'We have caught them in a trap,' whispered Dubuisson, 'and we'll have roast chicken before morning.' Then he advanced with his mighty sledge, and smote the door. 'Open,' he cried, 'in the name of the French Republic!' But the laughter became more furious than ever inside, and Dubuisson was raging THE QUEEN'S PASSPORT 191 like a madman, when the door was flung open; and there were all the domestics, dressed up like the seigneurs and grandes dames, and dancing away to their hearts' content. Did'nt they fraternize, those children of the country? You never saw the like. Such dancing, such gaming, such pantomime, such imitating the antics of the great folks whom the people had driven out. Ah, Citizen! you should have been there! But Dubuisson became impatient. They'd have continued the orgy for days. But old Dubuisson wanted his bonfire. So, in the midst of the Carnival, we were ordered out. And no wonder! Because the whole chateau was ablaze from cellar to minaret; and it was a glorious sight! At first, there was only a yellow illumination, such as we had seen night after night for fifty years, as if a himdred chandehers were blazing. But, then, it became red, Citizen! red as the blood of the aristocrats shed up yonder. And then there was a sound of breaking glass; and a great yellow streamer of fire leaped out, and chmbed up the wall, and then another and another. A frightful crash! The first floor had fallen in; and a vast cloud of smoke broke through the shattered window. Then hiss and hiss, and rumble and rumble, and the second floor fell, and we cheered for the RepubHc, and cried: A bos les Aristocrats ! A has les Pretres ! Then hiss and hiss, and rumble and rumble, and thunder-clap after thunder-clap; and down came the third floor, whilst the whole firmament was filled with sparks. At last, towards morning, the roof fell in, — the roof of lead and iron; and we thought the sky would be set on fire and the very saints burned on their thrones! We could hardly tear ourselves away; but old Dubuisson ordered us off, saying: 'Get away to bed, little children, you are tired! Ha, old Lebreuil,' he said to me, 'no more beating for frogs, my child! Rest your old head now! It is stiffer and safer on your shoulders than the old Count's, I promise!' A merry man is old Dubuisson, 'and fond of his joke. But those jesters of the Repubhc are terrible, too." 192 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Thus with many a wheeze and cough and paroxysm of suffocation did the old ranger narrate the destruction of the chateau to its lawful master, who was now eager to get away from such environments. The history of his family had ended. And the last chapter was written in flame and smoke and the ciu'ses of a venge- ful people. He was silent for some time. Then the old man said: "We can break bread with you, stranger, in yonder village. True, it is black bread; but you are welcome to it!" But, though hungry and weary, Maurice thought it wiser to decUne the invitation. "My work is before me," he said. "I have to proceed further. And the business of the Republic does not brook delay! Perhaps, when I am returning, I may wish to see the Chateau St-Remy by dayhght." "Good! And just ask for old Lebreuil. He will be happy to show you the place again!" Back again to the city, and along the same route as that by which he came. Clearly, the city and its pur- Ueus and its hiding-places were safer than the country, where every man was a suspect. He was again recog- nized by the old aubergiste, who now regarded him with- out suspicion, he looked so wayworn and travel-soiled; and, late the following evening, he reached his humble lodgings on the outskirts of the city. There was a message awaiting him from the Chevaher de Jarjayes. It was opportune. He would now break away from this dangerous conspiracy, which could only end in failure and disaster; and he would secure a passport through the General's influence with Lepttre, who was chairman of the Passport Committee. This would carry him safe to the Breton coast; and the chances were that some day he could get away to sea, perhaps be picked up by a British cruiser, and get on to London, where his former friend and patron, the man of the calm blue eye and the closed lips and the deformed foot would take up his old THE QUEEN'S PASSPORT 193 prot6g6 and push him on to fortune. If he felt a momen- tary quahn of conscience, he had only to recall the words of Andre's friends in the villa at the Lucienne Hill; and it was enough. Yes! Why should he throw away his life for a "boiu-geois Queen," who had descended from her throne long before the rabble broke into the Palace at Versailles, and declared the French Monarchy extinct? Deepening his disguise, he went forward, and found the Chevaher at home. The old man greeted him warmly. His first words were ominous. "All goes well," he said, "my dear young friend. We have found loyalty and honour everywhere — in a poor bookseller, a schoolmaster, even in a kitchen-boy. What the haute noblesse of France had not the coiu-age to do has been done by loyal souls among the people!" Maurice's face fell, as he fidgeted on his chair. "The whole thing is now arranged," continued the General, "and it must succeed, if treachery does not intervene. The Queen and Madame Elisabeth are to be disguised as municipal oflicers — my wife and others have been busy with their imiforms. The nights being cold, we have got wadded cloaks made to be worn over the uniforms, which probably they would wear badly. The Princess is to be disguised as the lamplighter's child, loose robe, dirty trousers. Carmagnole jacket, thick boots, very dirty hands and face, — Ma foi ! Marie-Th^rese won't like it. And the young King is to be carried out in a clothes-basket, under a heap of soiled table-cloths and napkins by Tm-gy, the kitchen-boy, the bravest httle heart that ever beat." Maurice took the exciting story rather indifferently, so the General thought. He raUied him. "You are not going to be left out of the play, my friend, by any means. You know the Rue de la Corderie. Well, there we shall wait in the berline, that is to bear our precious burden to Normandy. Of coiu-se, you'll come armed. We must be prepared for surprises." "Pardon me, Chevalier," said Maurice, very ill at ease, 194 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "but I have been away, and have heard many things. Is not the idea Quixotic and dangerous? " The old General drew himseK up, and looked fixedly at Maurice. "Dangerous? Yes. Of course! Who did not foresee that from the beginning? We all understand the danger — all, even old Lepltre, the schoolmaster; even Tiu-gy, the kitchen-boy. Quixotic? If you mean absiu-d, or ridiculous, or unreasonable, no, a thousand times no! Those four lives are infinitely precious to France " "And you would hurry them to the scaffold?" "Sacre, yoimg man," shrieked the old General, in a sudden fury, "you are changed. Had you not time to think of all this before? But, you are right. You are a French nobleman, and you would like to follow your peers, and leave noble things to be done by the canaille of Paris—" "Be calm. General," said Maurice, who was by no means calm himself, "and Usten to reason. I consider this plan not feasible for a hundred reasons. I remember the flight to Varennes. It was better managed than this; and it had a hundred chances to one in its favorn*. Yet, I saw them brought back in shame and defeat. And then came the tenth of August. If they are brought back now, nothing awaits the whole family but instant death!" "I understand," said the old man, musingly, fixing his eye on Maurice. "I understand. It was a Swedish gentleman drove the Royal Family then. No French gentleman could be found to run the risk " "I perceive the taunt. General," said Maurice. "But I am prepared to accept the designation beneath it, for the sake of those whom you would blindly serve. I leave Paris at once. I could not witness a second tragedy. If I can secure a passport, I shall leave promptly, and hurry on to London and thence to Prussia." "And march the aUied armies on Paris?" said the General, contemptuously. "Good evening, my friend! One word more! I am too old to care for life. But there THE QUEEN'S PASSPORT 195 are eight or nine implicated in this noble attempt. Not for my sake, but for theirs, may I beg that you will not denounce us to Marat? After all, you are a French gentleman!" Maurice was choking with shame. He had taken a false step, not through cowardice, but influenced by class-pride, and stung by a woman's tongue. He reahzed, too late, the fatal mistake he had made. He should have kept aloof from the whole thing from the beginning, or seen it through to the end. He felt that his reasoning with the old General was palpably insincere. He dared not tell the old man the truth, that his sentiments towards Marie- Antoinette had changed — nay, that her very artifices in securing the purchased help of treasonable Revolution- aries had only increased his dislike and aversion to the woman who had been the associate of gamblers and specu- lators. There was no room for chivalry there. He left the old Chevalier in a furious temper, and made his way homeward. How to secure his passport now and how to leave France was the one question that rose up to be solved. He would like to see Andr6 Ch^nier again. He would also like to see Madame Pourrat. Her scorn woidd confirm his resolution and ease his remaining scruples. But he dared not run the risk. And now, the angry kings were gathering on the frontier; Dumouriez had gone over to the Austrian lines; hunger had seized on the people of Paris, and the price of provisions had leaped up to a famine standard. The people were howhng for vengeance on some one; and who could slake that vengeance but the Austrian woman? The Temple was besieged, night after night, by a Revolutionary mob, demanding the sacrifice of the entire Royal household. Maurice kept in close hiding. Then, one evening, a letter was pressed into his hands. He opened it. It contained his passport on parchment and signed by Lepitre and another Commissioner. The letter was brief, and ran thus, in the handwriting of the Queen: . 196 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Chevalier, — You are mistaken in the C de B . He is truly loyal and honourable. I have experience. I have secured his passport from L e ! Our little dream is at an end. I could not go alone. Would you have enclosed forwarded to him? He will understand the motto: Tutto per tore (All for them). Something fell on the ground. He took it up. It was a ring; and on the inner surface were engraved the words: Tutto per loro! Maurice read the letter twice. He then kissed the ring, and rolled in an agony of shame and remorse on the floor, cin-sing Madam Pourrat, cursing himself, cursing every one; and weeping when he thought of the noble woman who had defended him against himself. XXII Genevieve and Cecils The cMteau of the Lescures at Clisson was a totally different thing from the magnificent castles that dominated towns and villages elsewhere in France. These Poitevins and Vendeans had grasped the secret of the "simple life," whilst the rest of France was plunging headlong into all the vices of luxury and sensuality, with the dread converse of stajrvajtion and misery amongst the masses. No vast turreted and palatial keeps were here, with the usual appanages of lakes and forests and slave-dwellings. The mansions of the Western nobles were plain, substantial buildings, with their courtyards where the ladies of the house danced with the peasantry on fdte days, or the dependants were drilled by the lord of the mansion, or taught the use of musket or pike. The most absolute friendship existed between these seigneurs and their people, a friendship that was only rivalled by the love these latter bore their priests, who, in turn, were men not only of blameless Uves, but deeply devoted to their flocks. It was a country where, if modern civilisation had not penetrated, there were at least primitive strength and simplicity, incor- rupt morals, perfect faith, and perfect happiness. Hence, when the first rimibhngs of the Revolution were heard from its centre at Paris, and such new words as "Rights of Man," "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity" were heard, the Western people laughed. They had no need of words or phrases when the reality was in their possession. But, when news came, slowly but surely, of the September massacres, and above all, of the brutal murder of their bishops and priests, the Celtic temper of these Vendeans 197 198 THE QUEEN'S FILLET flaxed up and, as we have seen, broke out into open revolt against a government that had forfeited all right to the allegiance of its people. Then the tumult died down during the winter, only to break out with redoubled force when they found that their King had been mxu-dered, and when the order for the conscription of three hundred thousand men was posted up in every town and village of the Marais and the Bocage. One of these days of the early spring of that dread year 1793, the Lescure household were gathered together in the little chapel of their chateau at evening prayer, when some noise in the courtyard arrested attention. Presently, a Republican officer came in, and in the name of General Quetineau arrested the entire family on the charge of conspiring against the Republic, and conducted them to Bressuire, where the Republican head-quarters were located. They did not know but that it was a summons to death, so fierce were the passions of men at the time. The Marquis de Lescure was only twenty-seven years old at the time — a shy, retiring, awkward man, but possessed of invincible courage, which was fortified by his intense faith and personal piety. The last thing in the world he desired was eminence or distinction; but both were forced upon him, and he was worthy of them. In a few weeks his cousin Henri de Larochejacquelein surrounded Bressuire, drove General Quetineau thence, brought back the ladies to Chsson, and placed M. de Lescure in command of one detachment or brigade of the insurgent army. Already, Cathehneau, whom we have known, had raised the standard of rebelHon. On the tenth of March, the day of the conscription, he strolled into St-Florent, in Anjou, from his farm. The Repubhcan guard was drawn up at the court-house. The young peasants had come in, but were determined not to draw for the conscription. The guard attacked them. The commandant ordered a piece of ordnance to be loaded and levelled at them. The young peasants leaped forward, scattered the guard with their bludgeons, seized the piece of artillery, and stood astonished GENEVIEVE AND CECILE 199 at the ease with which they had obtained the victory, and at their own rashness. The same day Cathehneau attacked a Republican outpost of eighty soldiers, disarmed and scattered them by the fierce and accurate fire of his men. Next day he proceeded to Chemill6, which he took, having defeated two hundred RepubUcans, with three pieces of cannon. A gamekeeper, named StoflBetr joined the ranks with a battalion of young peasants whom he had collected. Together the two detachments, under their chieftains, marched on ChoUet, the chief town in the district, and captured it. And thus the armies of the Lord carried their banners trimnphant over all the land. Yet, it was not war. These brave peasants seemed to regard such expeditions in the hght of recreative sallies that pleasantly broke the monotony of existence. Aided by the physical conformation of the country, and splendid marksmen owing to their perfect training, they surroimded and shot down the Republican troops before these latter could even sight their enemy. They went into battle after hearing mass and confessing, each soldier bearing on his breast a badge of the Sacred Heart. When under fire, and even advancing with their pikes and bayonets to take some diflBcult position, if they chanced to pass a roadside crucifix, the whole army knelt in prayer, then watched for the flash of the cannon, and immediately dashed forward and, with irresistible valour, captured the guns and scattered the soldiers of the RepubUc. Then, as if victory were not worth the purchase, they broke up and went back to their homes, to carry on the spring work and look after their private interests. A watchfire on one of the low hills would gather them together again, once more to destroy the scattered detachments of the Republi- can army, and once more to lay aside the sword and the gun for the spade. But all this desultory skirmishing ceased when the Convention at Paris, furious at the repeated defeats of the troops of the RepubUc, ordered up Kl^ber and Wester- mann to the relief, and the guerrilla warfare gave way to 200 THE QUEEN'S FILLET more regular and concerted action on both sides. On the ninth of June, the Vendeans in three colunms, and marching as a discipUned army, attacked Saimiur. They were driven back by Berthier's column, recovered them- selves, attacked the formidable artillery again, put the RepubUcan forces to flight, and entered Saumur at the very heels of the retreating forces. Suddenly, as they had passed the redoubts and were crossing the bridge, a ball struck M. de Lescure on the arm and shattered it. His followers shrank back. Binding a handkerchief around the wovmd, the yoimg leader shouted to his men to return; but just at that instant, the Cuirassiers of the Repubhc bore down on the wavering columns, and scattered them. M. de Dommaign6, at the head of the Vendean cavalry, sought to rally them; but they were demoraUzed, and nothing could have saved the Vendeans from an utter rout had not an accident occurred which changed the f ortimes of the day. For as the cuirassiers rode across the bridge Fouchard, they were suddenly stopped by two wagons which had been overturned; and whilst Lescure was rallying his troops, a brave officer named Loizeau, with a few foot-soldiers, protecting themselves behind this barricade, directed such a heavy fire on the advan- cing cavalry that they retreated. In an instant some fresh artillery fire was poured into their ranks, and they retreated further. Meanwhile Larochejacquelein had attacked another redoubt; and flinging his hat into it, he shouted to his peasant soldiers: "Who will go fetch it?" and immediately leaping in, he was followed by his brave troops; and the whole army of the Blues fled precipitately across the great bridge of the Loire. The Vendeans, be- sides captmring the town, which commanded the river, took eighty pieces of cannon and eleven thousand prisoners. These latter they shaved and dismissed. It was the custom of the Marquise de Lescure to follow the troops with her ladies, encouraging them on the field of battle, and tending those who fell or were wounded, in the hospitals that were then improvised. Whilst washing GENEVIEVE AND CECILE 201 and binding her husband's wound on that evening of such an eventful victory, he said: "There was a strange officer fighting on our side. I wish I knew who he was!" He added: "He performed prodigies of valour at that bridge. But for him I could never have rallied our men. He seemed to have disappeared, just as victory came to oiu- flag. He might have been wounded. Would you inquire?" And on inquiries being made, the young stranger was found in a stable in the city. He had been struck by a cuirassier on the shoulder with a very heavy sabre, and a deep ghastly woimd had been made there. He was in civilian dress, and refused to give any accoimt of himself. He was promptly brought, however, to the house where the Marquis de Lescure was being tended for his broken arm, and here he received every possible attention for the many days he had to remain before his woimd was healed. During his convalescence he was thrown very much into the society of the Lescures, and one evening he half- betrayed himself by starting violently when he heard these devoted people mourning over the capture by the RepubU- can troops of their friend and guest, Genevieve de la Rouarie. "Alas!" said the Marquise, "the chances are that, by this time, Genevieve has joined her father in heaven. There is no mercy up there amongst those furious people for a RoyaUst. I only hope her death has been a merciful one." "Not if she has fallen into the hands of the Commune," said the Marquis moodily. "There is a chance of safety if she is brought before a commandant; but those pro- vincial municipals are rivalling the Jacobins in brutality." "And now that these have triumphed in Paris, I suppose the worst scenes are yet to be enacted." "If a Sibyl is to be believed," said Maurice de Brignon, breaking in, "the worst scenes will be witnessed here. A 202 THE, QUEEN'S FILLET young friend of mine was wise enough to consult one of those pythonesses, and she revealed horrors, such as have not been seen since the beginning of time." "It is quite possible!" said the Marquis. "What we have already seen is but too prophetic of the future, now that the moderates are removed from the scene of action." "The Girondists?" asked Maurice. "Yes! The whole body of regicides has been arrested — Vergniaud, Lanjuinais, Gensonn^, Potion, Brissot, Barbaroux, Loubet, Buzot, Lebrim, and ClaviSre. These are the men that voted for the King's death, sans phrase, as they said — voted, too, against their convictions; and see how Nemesis has overtaken them. Not one of them but will mount the same scaffold to which they sent the King. Ah! my friend, there is a God after all; and He is a God of justice and of truth!" Maurice was deeply interested. Yes! The deluge had come! Maddened by his own treason, Maurice had left Paris, determined if possible to quit the country, and hoping that he might serve the hapless Queen better from a distance than in the midst of dangers. He had travelled north, and had met many disasters and difficulties, challenged everywhere by the emissaries and spies of the Convention. But his passport was regular, and the name of Lepitre had not yet fallen under suspicion. Maurice had learned that it was this poor schoolmaster's weakness that had made the flight of the Royal Family impossible. His ambition was outmastered by his terror; and while Toulan, one of the bravest Frenchmen that ever faced death for a noble cause, was doubly eager to put their scheme of flight into immediate operation, Lepitre pre- varicated and hesitated, saw endless obstacles everywhere, and at last refused to co-operate unless it was arranged that the Queen alone should escape. To this she was forced to consent; but the last night of her imprisonment, as it was beUeved, her mother's heart failed her. She could not leave her beloved children behind her to the mercies of Paris. She sacrificed herself for them. This was GENEVIEVE AND CECILE 203 the significance of the motto on the ring she had sent to Maurice: Tutto per loro! But when Maurice had found that the West had risen in revolution, and that here was a chance of blotting out, at least of his own memory, the stain upon his honour, and perhaps of even meeting a glorious death, he stepped aside, made his way through almost insurmountable obstacles to the ranks of the insurgents, and received his first accolade of honour from the sabre of a Repub- lican cuirassier. He saw now that here, in these undisciplined and irregu- lar troops of peasantry, fighting under the standard of the Cross with the same spirit which had led their fore- fathers to hsten to Bernard's preaching and join the Crusades, lay the only hope of France. But he saw also that owing to their very virtues — the mercy with which they treated the wounded, their contempt for mere material success, and the manner in which they flxmg down their arms after every victory and took up the spade and mat- tock — they had no chance of fimally prevailing against the soldiers of the Repubhc. Hence, when he was invited to remain and take command of a brigade of Vendeans, he declined. Some desperate energy drove him forward into danger. He had a feehng that it was only by exposing himself to death in every shape, he could wipe out the stain on his conscience. He was perfectly well aware that only two persons were cognizant of his treason. One, the most deeply outraged, had generously pardoned him. He could not meet the eye of General Jarjayes again until he had regained his honour by some chivalrous action. And here was his chance. He made careful inquiries about the capture by the Republican troops of Genevieve de la Rouarie. He learned that she was seized on the field whilst performing some deed of compassion for a Republican soldier, and taken away to Nantes or Chdtillon. He also knew that the fact of her being an aristocrat would outweigh in the eyes of the Republicans any deeds of mercy that might be 204 THE QUEEN'S FILLET acknowledged by them. He determined to rescue her if she were still alive. He procured letters from the Marquis de Lescure, which would be a safe-conduct for him whenever he met the Royalist troops, and bidding adieu to these friends, and without divulging the plan he had formed, he hastened northwards, knowing that it was now a recognized plan, of the RepubHcans to send all State prisoners under strong convoys to Paris. Meanwhile Genevieve, who had been seized on the field of battle, and whilst actually tending a fallen Republi- can, had been handed over to the municipal authorities, and kept by them in close confinement, previous to being deported to Paris. She had been sent as far as Angers, and there had been flimg into a stable with five or six other prisoners, with little light, wretched food, and surrounded by every accident of uncleanUness and filth that could torture a sensitive mind. One terrible agony she escaped by her close confinement — that of being stared at and foully insulted by the women of the city, who, imitating their Parisian sisters, poured every kind of insult and vitu- peration on any one suspected to be an aristocrat. And one consolation supported her in the midst of her trials — a tiny ivory crucifix which she had inherited from her mother, and which, strange to say, the Republicans had not seized. There, amidst the squalor, the filth, and the indecencies of that prison, her soul reached up to, and found its comfort in, the great Victim of Calvary, and she was able to impress her own serenity on the souls around her who were tempted to despair. There was one poor child in particular, who wept all day long and was plunged into the deepest depths of despondency. Her sister, Mathilde, had already gone to the scaffold with twelve other young ladies of Poitou, and this girl, who was scarcely more than fifteen years of age, was in hourly expectation that such, too, would be her fate. "Oh! it is horrible. Mademoiselle," she would say. "They take you up a broad stair; and then they take you GENEVIEVE AND CECILE 205 over to where, in its high frame, the heavy axe is dripping with blood; and then they cut off all your hair, so that your neck is quite bare; and then they tie your arms with a strap, and then your feet; and you lie down on the narrow plank; and they push you forward, forward, until your head is placed in the lunette; and then there is a cUck — and all is over. Oh! it is horrible, horrible! And I am so young. Oh! why does not the good God convert these awful men?" And Genevieve would remonstrate with the child and tell her that she should put the dreadful image away, and think of nothing but of God. "But I cannot, Mademoiselle. It is before me at all times. When I awake, I see it all. And it is before me all day long; and if I try to think of other things, of ovu* old chateau, of dear father and mother, of our little chapel and the good cure, of the mountains and the woods, it is only for a moment; and I see the market-square, and the dreadful women knitting beneath the scaffold, and the executioner, and his dripping axe in the guillotine. And even when I sleep, I dream of it all again. Mademoiselle ! " "Well, dear child?" "Why are you so calm and serene amidst all these horrors? Don't you ever think you shall be executed?" "Why, I know it, my dear child. But then I think what a glorious thing it will be to die Uke our dear Lord, amidst the shouts and jeers of enemies, and to pass into the arms of oiu- Divine Lord from the plank and the knife." "Yes, that is quite true. Mademoiselle — please, let me call you Genevieve " "By all means, C^cile! Look, we are now two sisters and children of the good God, and after all, what is the longest life but a shadow that passes away!"' "True!" the child would say, and sit meditating on the filthy straw, her finger on her Ups. "But you know, Genevieve, I'm only a weak, Uttle thing. You strengthen me. Now, I want you to pity my weakness when we are — when we are called, and say 206 THE QUEEN'S FILLET these strong words, for I know I shall weep and cry when these terrible men come for me. Oh! why are men so cruel?" A question that has been asked a million times since that awful outburst of human madness. "And, Genevieve, one little favour more! Oh! I should so Uke to get absolution just before dying. Mademoiselle, if I confessed all my sins to you, could you absolve me? " "I fear not, Cecile," said her friend, smiling. "But you know, you dear simple child, that you have only to make a good act of contrition and of the love of God, and all your sins will be blotted out. That is what God wants — our love!" "True! How often have I heard the good cure say it! And he is a saint now, and perhaps he is praying for me." "Your good cur6 is dead, then?" "Yes, Mademoiselle! He's dead. He died a martyr. He was burned to death in the market-square of Nantes! He wouldn't take the oath. I heard mamma say he never murmured, never complained. When he was tied to the stake, before they lit the fagots, he calmly read his brev- iary. Then when the smoke blinded him, he dropped the book; and he was dead before the flames touched him!" "Happy martyr!" said Genevieve. "How can little C6cile be a coward with s'uch an example before her? " "Ah yes, Genevidve dear; but he was a man, and I am very small, only a little child. And children are so easily frightened, you know!" "Yes, I know, dear! but it is only for a moment. The reality is not terrible. Nay, ours will be an easy death, I know; but, let us not think of it!" " I will try, Genevieve. I will try. But I am so young! I'm going to ask these bold men for one favour. I'm sure they won't refuse me!" "And what is that, Cecile?" "That I am to die first. Mademoiselle. I couldn't bear to see you die! And, then, you will be with me, and you GENEVIEVE AND CECILE 207 will say, courage, C^cile! And I'll ask them to let you cut away my long hair; and then you will kiss me, and I shall smile, and I shall say: 'I forgive you all, poor men! Yes, C6cile forgives all ! ' And then I shall be very happy, and I shall die happy, because vou shall be near me!" ioair The Son of Capet With the arrest of the Girondists, the Reign of Terror may be said to have begun in France. These Moderates were the last barrier against the revolutionary madness which now swept over the coimtry until it ceased from sheer exhaustion. Danton, Robespierre, and Marat were the masters of France; and unscrupulous and blood- thirsty as they were, their agents and subordinates, such as CoUot d'Herbois, Couthon, Billaud-Varenne, and Fouquier-Tinville, surpassed them in cruelty and brutal- ity that outrivalled the deeds of the worst tyrants of antiquity. The people of Paris seemed paralyzed, unable to distinguish friend from foe. The dearest friends passed each other in the street afraid of recognition, which might be observed and become the signal for arrest, which meant execution. Food became scarce; and the people, maddened with hunger and the artificial fears that were raised by the eloquence of demagogues, who persuaded them that the allied armies were in sight of Paris, roamed about savagely, watching, and aiding the troops who paraded the streets all night, making arrests wherever Robespierre deemed that he had discovered an enemy. Fear and distrust were everywhere, and men looked at each other as if in surprise that any one could escape the tribunal and the guillotine. And it became quite clear now that in the rush of revolutionary fury that was sweeping into the prisons the choicest spirits of France, the Queen and the Royal household could not escape. The first attempt, as we have seen, was a failure. Tou- lan and Lepltre became suspect, and were placed under 208 THE SON OF CAPET 209 surveillance; and no one knew at what hour some mis- creant like Chabot or Hubert might demand the trial of the Widow Capet. The trial was certain to be but a mockery and travesty of justice, and then, the inevitable end. A few brave spirits, however, undeterred by failure, determined to make one last effort to save the unhappy Queen. And, strange to say, so wayward is the human heart, one of the most ardent of the new conspirators was a fierce anti-RoyaUst and Repubhcan, Michonis. He was still on the Ust of the Temple commissaries, from which the names of Toulan and Lepttre had been struck, and he was the first to whisper to the despairing Queen the hope that brave men might yet be empowered to free her. At the head of this conspiracy, its mind and ruling spirit, was the Baron de Batz who strove to rescue the King on his way to execution, and who escaped by flight down a side-street when the reserve guard bore down upon himself and his comrades. Amongst all the pic- turesque and dramatic figures of the Revolution, prob- ably the Baron de Batz is the most conspicuous. An element of mystery and romance surrounds his name and career. Little known or recognized under the old regime, he suddenly leaps into notoriety on that morning when the King's carriage moved on slowly through an icy mist and fog between the serried battalions that lined the streets. Then he disappears, no one knows whither. And now again, heedless of detection and reckless of life, he volunteers once more to engage and control the last desperate attempt to save the hapless Queen. He must have been a man of supreme genius as well as of supreme courage, because it was well known to the desperadoes who then had the fate of France in their hands that he had never left Paris, but yet was able to baffle every attempt to discover his hiding-place. Nay, he played their own game with them and beat them at it. He had his own spies in the Convention, who narrated to him 210 THE QUEEN'S FILLET every incident that seemed to bear on the fortunes of the Royal Family. A price was set on his head; yet no one dared betray him. He had won over to his side even many who were members of the revolutionary tribunal; and he was able to evade the strictest searches made to discover his whereabouts, for he had secret information even from the very central executive, and could change his place of hiding at will. His chief retreat was not in the suburbs, but in the city, in the house of a grocer named Cortey, in the Rue de Lot, who had a high reputa- tion for republicanism, and who was actually captain of the National Guard in the Lepelletier section. He, too, had a confidential friend in the person of Chretien, a member of the revolutionary tribunal, whose influence was all-powerful in the committees of his own section. These men and Michonis, de Batz won over to his side by his marvellous address and eloquence, and then he unfolded the details of the daring plan he had formed. He first determined to enter the Temple prison, in order to understand its every feature, and for this purpose he had his assumed name, Forget, entered by Cortey on the list of ofiicers who were to be on duty when Cortey and Michonis were to be on guard. It was absolutely neces- sary that Cortey, as captain of the Guard, and Michonis, as commissary, should be on duty together. This meant a delay of some days, which the marvellous de Batz util- ized in winning over to his cause thirty men of the sec- tion, on whose fidehty he could rely. It was an instance of the success that always attends consummate skill and audacity. At last the day arrived. The officer and the commis- sary were on guard together. Cortey marched in his detachment of thirty men, amongst whom was Forget. Twenty-eight of these men, known to be absolutely reli- able, were to be placed on patrol or sentry from midnight to two P.M. The sentries on the stairs and near the royal apartments were to wear heavy military cloaks over their uniforms. When all was ready, these cloaks were THE SON OF CAPET 211 to be flung around the Royal personages, who were ah-eady to be dressed in military uniforms. Thus dis- guised, and with arms in their hands, and the young King in the midst, they were to reach the court-yard, become speedily incorporated with the patrol; and when they reached the great gate of the Temple, they were to pass through, enter the carriages placed in the Rue Char- lot, and reach ultimate safety. It was a magnificent plan, and was frustrated only by treachery. Up to twelve o'clock all seemed to go well. ' Michonis was on duty in the prisoners' apartments, and his colleagues were in the council-room, resting or playing some game of chance. Simon, the commissary, the one man to be dreaded, and who afterwards earned his infa- mous immortaUty by his brutal treatment of the young King, had left the Temple. The coast was clear, and nothing remained but to give the signal, when suddenly Simon reappeared, entered the guard-room, and demanded that the roll should be called. All answered, and Simon, turning to de Batz, said sarcastically: "I am most happy to see you here. I should not be easy without your presence." It was quite clear that all was discovered. The first idea of de Batz was to blow out Simon's brains, and liberate the Royal party by main force. But he felt that if the noise of fire-arms were heard, it would not only instantly rouse the neighbourhood, but terrify the guards themselves. He determined to remain quiet and watch events. Going upstairs to the royal apart- ments, he presented Michonis with an order from the Council-general to repair at once to the Commune. Michonis, affecting surprise, demanded an explanation, but proceeded to depart. In the court-yard he met Cortey. The latter whispered: "Be easy. Forget is gone!" And so he was. Seeing that all was over, Cortey had ordered out a patrol of eight men. They marched around, and into the street. Only seven returned. De Batz had escaped. 212 THE QUEEN'S FILLET What had occurred to frustrate once more the brave and ahnost successful attempt? An ofBcer, or gendarme, on duty at the Temple, had picked up from the pavement a paper without any address. Unfolding it, he read: "Michonis will betray you this evening. Watch!" The gendarme handed the paper to Simon as he passed out. That worthy instantly repaired to the Council- general, and brought back the order that Michonis should at once repair to the council-chamber. There, owing to his consummate address and coolness, he succeeded in clearing himself of the charge of alleged treason, and convincing the Council that if Simon were his enemy, he was also a fool and an alarmist. But Simon found a stronger and more suspicious ally. Baffled and enraged, for he knew he had the connecting links of the conspiracy in his hands, he repaired to the one man whose dark and terrible mind, capable of infinite suspicion, was seeking to gain power and ward off personal danger by sending every enemy, suspect or proved, to the scaffold. Just at this time, too, a report had reached his ears that a vast conspiracy was on foot in Paris to bring back royalty and overturn the Repubhc. It was known that several influential emigrants had returned and were in hiding in Paris, and that only some most powerful motive could have induced them to imperil their lives by returning and confronting the national proscription. Instantly, Robespierre, trembhng for his authority, instituted the most rigorous investigations. The decree of October 23d of the foregoing year was renewed and republished, condemning to death every emigrant convicted of having again set foot on French soil, every Frenchman convicted of having assisted them, and every citizen who would be convicted of having given them shelter. But the panic increased. The tyrants, who held their lease of power by popular acquiescence or weakness, began to feel that all chivalry was not dead in France; and they saw that it was quite possible that at any moment they might be hurled from power, and meet THE SON OF CAPET 213 the fate of their victims. And they knew that all this conspiracy of honour and manhood had for rallying-point that hideous prison of the Temple and that little weak and helpless child, who was unconscious of everything save that evil men were all around him, that he was suf- fering and did not know why, and that the shadow of some terrible fate had suddenly swooped down, and was blotting out all the gaieties and splendour of his child- hood days, and was wrapping him, and all he loved, in its terrible folds. Then, under the influence of a great terror, it was imagined that the very particulars of the conspiracy were discovered, and they took shape in the maddened brains of men. On the thirtieth of June some mimicipal officers of the Pont Neuf appeared before the Committee of PubHc Safety and deposed that a plan was on foot to restore the monarchy; that vast ramifications of the conspiracy existed in the South and West; that the head-quarters of the conspirators were in Paris where the whole plan of action was arranged, namely, that General Dillon should take command of the insurgent army; that the alarm-gun was to be spiked, and all the heavy ordnance of the city seized and carried to the Place de la Revolution where the army was to assemble, and thence march in two divisions — the one to the Temple to rescue the Royal Family; the other to the Convention, to arrest every official connected with the Committee of PubUc Safety. The immediate result of the panic, into which this deposition threw the Revolutionaries in Paris, was a peremptory order, made on July 1st, to this effect: "The Committee of Public Safety decrees that the son of Capet be separated from his mother, and com- mitted to the care of a tutor, to be chosen by the Council- general of the Commune!" This order was carried out two days later, on the third of July. The Queen, Madame Elisabeth, and Madame Royale, the young Princess, had remained up later that evening. 214 THE QUEEN'S FILLET They were now reduced to almost extreme poverty by the parsimony or cruelty of the Commune, and they used to remain up at night, mending clothes, or trying to keep off, by their own laboiu-, the most abject appearances of poverty. The boy was sleeping soundly, and in lieu of curtains, they had to draw a shawl across his bed to shield his eyes from the lights Marie-Th^r^se was read- ing the Didionnaire Historique, one of the books which, with the (Euvres de Voltaire, was allowed by the munici- pal authorities. Suddenly, and without notice, the sound of many .and heavy footsteps was heard on the staircase, the locks and bolts were shot back, and six municipals, clothed in their scarves, entered the room. "We are come," said one, "to inform you that by an order of the committee, the son of Capet is to be sepa- rated from his mother and family." "What, take my child from me?" said the Queen, rising up, and pale with the horror of the thing. "No, gentlemen, that is not possible!" The yoimg Princess also arose, pale and trembhng, unable to speak. Madame Ehsabeth stood with her hands resting on the back of a chair, pale but composed. "Gentlemen!" said the Queen, as the officers would not speak. "This is impossible! The Commune of Paris could not think of taking my child from me. He is so young, so frail. He needs all the care I can bestow on him!" "The decree has been duly made by the committee," said the officer, "the Convention has ratified it. It is our duty to see it carried out immediately." "Oh, my God! Do not place upon me such an awful trial," said the weeping Queen, her eyes upturned to heaven. But the men were inexorable, and as they approached the couch where the boy was sleeping, the shawl or cur- tain that was shading his eyes, fell down with a clang, and woke the sleeping child. He screamed: THE SON OF CAPET 215 "Mother, mother, do not leave me!" And with a mother's instinct she placed herself before him, as if to ward off the guards. "Let us have done with this fooling!" said one of the municipals. "It does not suit us to fight with women. Go call up the patrol!" Then the weeping women besought them to let ths child rest that night at least. To-morrow, as early as they pleased, he would be deUvered up to them. But they were inexorable. "At least," said the despairing woman, "promise me that he shall remain in the Tower, and that I shall see him every day, even at meal-times." > But this was met with a brutal repulse. "It is not thy place to dictate to the country what is needful to be done for the public welfare. Thou pretend- est to be miserable, because thy child is taken from thee, when every day our children are snatched from oiu* arms and have their heads broken with the bullets of the ene- mies whom thou has drawn to the frontiers of France." There was no use in further appealing for mercy here. They took the sleeping child from the couch and proceeded, with such tears as perhaps were never shed before, to dress him. Dazed with sleep, the child was passive in their hands and they used every little affectionate strata- gem to prolong the time, turning over the Uttle garments again and again, and perhaps hoping against hope that the officers might relent. At last the moment of parting came. And in its solemnity, the mother departed, and the Queen of France took her place. Placing the child before her, she rested her hands on his little shoulders, and calmly and without a tear she said: "My son, we are about to part. Remember your duty when I am no longer present to remind you of it. Never forget the good God who tries your faith nor your mother who loves you. Be good, patient, and honourable, and your father will bless you from heaven!" 216 THE QUEEN'S FILLET She kissed the child on the forehead, and handed him to his jailers. The child rushed back to the arms of his mother, took hold of her dress, and would not let it go. They rebuked her brutally, as if she were to blame. Then they tore the child violently away and slammed the door. It was the last act in the terrible drama. The scaffold and the guillotine were almost welcome now. XXIV C^cile's Dream When Maurice de Brignon set out on what seemed a chivalrous, but decidedly Quixotic expedition, he was animated by the desire to rescue the friend and betrothed of his young friend, Ren6 Pereyra; but the dominant motive seemed to be to do something daring and sacri- ficial, to blot out from his own mind the memory of a treason and a crime. For, argue as he would, he could not acquit himself of a certain pusillanimity in abandon- ing, at the last moment, the one attempt that could ensure the Queen's safety. And the thought was maddening that such creatures as Toulan and Lepttre were chival- rous enough to expose their lives to danger in the enter- prise, whereas he, count and noble, preferred his personal safety to his honour, and such a chance of a mighty act that would stamp his name on the pages of history for ever. Well, blood will wipe out every stain; and he knew that he ran every risk of shedding his blood when he undertook to rescue and save Genevieve de la Rouarie. He had two papers in his possession; and he debated eagerly with himself which he should retain and which sacrifice. The safe-conduct of Lepltre might avail him if he stimibled on the Republican forces. The letter of M. de Lescure would be a passport with the Vendean armies. He had a hope that he would fall in with the latter first; so he decided to hide away Lepitre's safe- conduct, and trust to Lescure's letter, although he knew that if he fell in with the Repubhcan armies, the very name of Lescure would send him promptly to the scaffold. Meanwhile the Marquis de Lescure had been obliged, 217 218 THE QUEEN'S FILLET by the nature of the wound which he received at the taking of Saumur, to retire to Boulaye till he recovered. And there, at the election of general-in-chief, which was necessitated by his own retirement and the absence of Charette to the southward, he voted for the peasant- soldier, CatheUneau. It was an election confirmed by the acclamations of the whole army, which, being mainly made up of peasants and labourers, were honoured by finding the haute noblesse of France voting for one of them- selves as fit for the exalted and responsible position. Keeping aloof from the main roads, which he knew would _ be occupied by the Republican forces owing to the facilities for moving heavy artillery hither and thither, Maurice made his way northward, following the windings of the river. He had to face many hardships on account of the suspicions of the peasantry, who were in a state of absolute terror owing to the atrocities committed by the Republican armies on all whom they suspected to have Royal or Cathohc sympathies. He had to sleep by the ditches at night, and beg his bread from house to house during the day. At last, after a week's privations, he stumbled bhndly into a camp which the outposts of the Vendean army had established for themselves in a sense of fooUsh security, and was instantly arrested. "I demand to be taken before the General!" he said. "The General has something else to do now than to hang spies," was the reply. "But, never fear, you won't be hanged without a trial. There we differ from yom' compatriots!" "My papers are all right!" said Maurice. "Here is one from the Marquis de Lescure!" It was a name of much potency; but incredulity was the order of the day. Yet, he was somebody. That was clear. And he was brought before the General-in-chief. It was the first time he had seen the famous peasant- soldier, and he was impressed. Gaunt and sallow, there was a look of quiet determination in his eyes that showed the young prisoner that if there might be justice hidden CECILE'S DREAM 219 there, there was not much mercy. He instinctively touched his cap. "Ha! you're a soldier! In what regiment?" "I have been Captain in the National Guard of Paris!" said Maurice. "A bad recommendation, young man," said the General. "They bear an evil name, if not for treachery, certainly for cowardice!" Maurice flushed at the words. They seemed to touch his bidden sore. "It would take long to explain," he said. "Would you please read the letter of M. de Lescure, from whom I have just come!" , Cathelineau took the letter and read it. "It looks well," he said. "But these are times when we must be on our guard against treachery." " If you allow me the honour of a private interview for a few moments, I shall make everything quite clear to you." The officers objected. Cathelineau was a name of terror to the Republican forces. What if this man was an assassin in disguise? Maurice read their thoughts and smiled. "I'm a French nobleman," he said. "I am not a Gascon!" The word recalled a certain scene to the memory of the General; and it seemed to bear some subtle meaning. He waved his officers aside; and, walking a little further away, he bade Mam-ice follow him. "What did you mean by the word 'Gascon'?" he said. "I meant that I wasn't an assassin and an ingrate, like that man that stabbed my friend, Een6," was the reply. That was enough. The officers and soldiers were amazed to see their general embracing the spy and, soon after, introducing him as the yoxmg Comte de Brignon, the friend of Lescm-e, the would-be defender of the King. For Lescure mentioned obscurely in his letters the des- perate attempt made by de Batz on that fatal tenth of January; and Maiu-ice, conscious of his subsequent prevari- 220 THE QUEEN'S FILLET cation, had to suffer the humiliation of hearing his valour and chivalry sounded by the lips of the man who was then the foremost man in all the land in the eyes of the Royalists of France. "You'll come with us, of course?" said Cathelineau. "Yes, as a private soldier," said Maurice "If I suc- ceed in finding Mademoiselle, we shall see further." "Alas! I cannot give much hope there," said Cathe- lineau. "If she is yonder in Angers, where we move to to-night, there is Uttle chance. These miscreants are murdering all their prisoners and hostages in revenge!" "That is, when your troops move up, and compel them to evacuate?" "Yes! They fling them into filthy stables and prisons, until our troops appear; and then they massacre every one without distinction!" "Then I shall go on alone before you advance," said Maurice, "and I shall seek out this poor girl before they have time to hurt her." "Impossible, friend," said Cathelineau. "You would be instantly arrested, and only afford them another victim." "But you see I have a passport from the Commune of Paris," said Maurice, producing the safe-conduct from Lepitre. The General's face fell. Was this man a spy after all? He decided on the instant. "No, Monsieur," he said. "It would never do. You could never reach Mademoiselle in safety; and you would imperil both your own life and hers. Remain with us; and, when we've driven out these miscreants, we'll help you in your search. Believe me, Mademoiselle's safety is more dear to me than to you!" And Maurice had to acquiesce. "Then wejnarch on Angers to-night?" he said. "Yes! The moment the moon sinks our men will move forward silently. I only hope the assassins will wait for us." CfiCILE'S DREAM 221 "But they can have no knowledge of your movements? " "We don't know. The Republican spies are every- where." And somehow, Maurice felt that he was not altogether above suspicion. The times were dangerous. Treachery was everywhere, even in the bosoms of families. He had to admit that his sudden presence there might seem to cloak some evil design. No matter. It only gave him another chance to redeem his own honom- in his own estimation. That was the tribunal which he feared. Men's judgments were not to be compared with the terrible sentence conscience passes upon itself. The prisoners in the city of Angers had a terrible night. ^Early in the day the RepubUcan scouts had brought in information of the approach of the Royalist army, num- bering thirty thousand men under the command of Cathe- lineau. The repeated defeats which the Republicans had sustained from the peasant troops of La Vendue had com- pletely demoralized them; and they decided on the evacu- ation of Angers, and the concentration of their forces at Nantes. The shame, however, of their repeated defeats had exasperated them, and now drove them to deeds of ferocious cruelty that were only surpassed when later on that awful fiend, Le Bon, and his rival. Carrier, came up from Paris, and left behind a record of brutality unsur- passed by the worst deeds of Imperial Rome. Early on this day a large number of Royahst prisoners had been marched, under strong escort, to Paris; but in the evening, as the soldiers left the city, the order went around that the remaining prisoners, mostly women and. young children, were to be sacrificed. The soimd of bugles, the heavy roll of artillery, the clanging of bridle-chains and sabres, the shouts of ofiicers, the tramp of battalions, warned Genevieve and C^cile in their stable-prison that something unusual was taking place, and that their fate hung in the balance. The two girls clung together, the elder sheltering the trembling and cowering form of the child, and whispering words of 222 THE QUEEN'S FILLET comfort and strength, trying to lift the too vivid imagina- tion above earthly things and to rest in the eternal. One of the soldiers on guard, moved to compassion by the tears and anguish of the prisoners, had whispered: "We are going, Madame. But I fear it will be bad for you." "Are the Royalist troops coming up?" asked Genevieve. "Yes. But many things will happen before then." "You mean we shall be killed!" "I cannot say. They have miu-dered some prisoners. I would gladly point out a means of escape for you; but you are safer here than on the streets." "That is a good man," whispered C^cile. "Don't you think, Mademoiselle, that he could save us?" " You heard what he said, C6cile. It would be madness for us to go out amongst the infuriated soldiery." "True. And, Mademoiselle, I think that man, even if he were ordered, would not kill us." "I think so. Try and sleep a Uttle, C^cile. We may have to journey far to-morrow." She folded the child in her arms; and, under the sense of such protection, C^cile fell asleep. Meanwhile, the night had come down; and still the rumble of wagons and the tramp of a disordered and fugitive army went on. So far they were unmolested; and Genevieve thought that, in their rage and terror, the good God would keep the minds of these truculent men from dwelling on their prisoners. The dawn broke; and she could see the light, faint pencils of the morning through the sUts in the timber sheeting. C^cile woke up shivering. "Oh! Where am I? Where? Did he come? Oh! Oh! 'Twas only a dream. Oh! what shall I do?" Genevieve soothed her, though her own heart was sinking. "Be patient, Httle one! God is above all. Come, say your morning prayers with me!" "Oh, Mademoiselle, I cannot pray. I thought it was all over and that we were safe. I thought they were CECILE'S DREAM 223 taking us to the guillotine; and that I screamed; and that a great figure on horseback, hke St. Michael — I'm sure it was St. Michael — rode up and scattered all these bad men with his sword; and that he took me up, and placed me on the saddle before him; and that we rode away, away, ever so far away to our own dear chS,teau " "And where did you leave Genevieve, thou ungrateful one? " said Genevieve. "Oh, I forgot! But 'twas only a dream. Mademoiselle; alas, it was .only a dream! And 'tis dawn. Hark! How that rumbling goes on. And such shouting! I wonder is it a battle; and are the men fighting?" It was not a battle, but a rout in a panic. The Royalist troops were entering the city at the other side, and driv- ing the flying battalions of the Republicans before them; and, whilst the larger portion of the latter army were already on the high road to Nantes, the detachments left behind were faring badly. Just at six o'clock an officer rode up, dismounted, and, sabre in hand, entered the stable, the two soldiers on guard standing at attention. He drew a paper from his pocket, and said briefly: "Prison D6p6t, No. 34. Is it not?" "Yes, Su-!" "Detemies: Catherine Vincent, Marie Bessier, Louise- Philomene Didier, Amelie Fourgier, Aline-Th6rese Bressincourt, Marguerite Deshayes, C6cile-Rose-Marie- Amaranthe, Genevieve de la Rouarie, ordered by the Commune of Angers to instant execution on the Place de la Loi. Guard, you look to it. We can spare no more men. Shoot down any of the prisoners that attempt to escape." C^cile gave a little scream of affright, and said, in her tears : "Oh! I thought the good God would not forsake us thus!" "Hush, child," said Genevieve. "Now is our turn to come to Him. He awaits us!" 224 THE QUEEN'S FILLET She folded the child in her arms, and supported her tottering footsteps. The six women first called went forward calmly. GeneviSve and C^cile were last. Just as they reached the stable door it was slammed violently in then- faces. They fell back. There was loud shouting and the sharp crackle of musketry all along the street and men hurrying to and fro. The noise grew into a regular tempest of cheering and hurrahing mingled with curses and cries, and above all was the sharp crack and roll of musketry, and, once and again, the scream of grape and canister, succeeding the boom of artillery. Once or twice Genevieve thought she heard shouts of " Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi!" coming up along the street; but she feared to hope. Yet she said: "Courage, C^cile! The good God has not abandoned us!" But the child had fainted in her arms. She sat down on the filthy straw, and strove to bring back conscious- ness by chafing the cold hands and forehead. She is dead, she thought; the good God has taken her to himself. But it was not so. The youth of the little maiden triumphed over her terror, and she opened her eyes wearily. "Courage, C^cile. Courage, my child. We are safe!" She hardly believed it; and yet were not these shouts of "Vive le Roi!" coming nearer and nearer? She could hardly believe her ears. Yet the words were xmmistak- able: "Vive le Roi! A bos les assassins!" And in a moment once again the stable door opened, and the six women who had been marched to execution came in. "Thank God! Mademoiselle, we are saved! These are the King's troops under the brave Cathelineau. We had hardly entered the street when we saw that oflBcer, who had read our sentence here a few minutes ago, rein up his horse in front of us. He couldn't pass. The Catholic troops were pushing wagons before them, and he was stopped. His horse reared; and he took a pistol CECILE'S DREAM 225 from his holster and blew out his brains. Our guard fled. Praised be Jesus and Mary! They saved us!" "Yes. Praised be Jesus and Mary!" said Genevieve. "Now, you little unbeliever, will you ever doubt again?" "But St. Michael has not come, has he? Until he comes, we cannot deem ourselves safe. He will come, Mademoiselle, will he not?" "There, sleep and dream of St. Michael as much as you please now!" said Genevieve. "The first place we visit must be God's temple, if they have left one standing. He alone could have interfered at the last moment." They opened the door and looked out. There was a scuffle still going on down the street. The crisp morning air was sweet after the stifling and fetid atmosphere of the stable. They saw a few Republican horsemen vainly struggUng against a vast, tumultuous mass of peasants whose pikes and hatchets were reeking with blood. On their breasts could plainly be seen badges of red; on their banners the fleur-de-lis and the cross. As the women watched, they saw, one by one, the Repubhcan officers falling. Then there was a tremendous rush; and, forth from the struggling mass, a horseman leaped forth and spurred along the street. His naked sabre, held down by his side, was dripping with blood, and his horse's flanks streamed with what appeared to be red ribbons. On he came, spurring wildly to where the women were standing. Instinctively, they drew back. He shouted: "Genevieve! Genevieve! Ren^! Ren6!" Genevieve stood forth. "You've called my name and my husband's name!" she said quietly. He lifted up his soldier's helmet and said, "Thank God! I feared I should be late!" He leaped down; and seeing C^cile draw back at the sight of the bloody sabre, he threw it on the ground. "I promised M. de Lescure to find you," he said. "It is a miracle. I feared these fiends would have destroyed you. How pleased Cathelineau will be!" 226 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "He is Here, then — the brave Cathelineau, my father's friend?" "Yes, and at the head of his conquering army," said the officer. "He is general-in-chief!" "ButM. deLescure?" "M. de Lescure voted for Cathehneau; so did all the Vendean nobles; and he deserves it. But come, Madame, this is no place for you. Let me take you to a place of safety!" "I cannot leave this child, Monsieur!" she said. "She is weak and faint with terror and suffering. We were going to execution, when God sent you!" "Ha! To execution? The vile brigands! They have tasted death themselves. But come, little one, you shall ride a trooper's horse with me." And, without further permission, he leaped into his saddle, placing C6cile before him. -^ Genevi&ve walked by the horse's side, patting the animal's neck. They moved slowly along. Sometimes the horse had to step over the dead. "And to whom are we indebted for this courtesy?" she asked at length. "To Maurice de Brignon," he said, modestly. " Ha ! " she said. " I understand ! " The little procession moved forward, the troops every- where giving way. They passed into an open square, filled with troops. In the centre was a scaffold; and on the scaffold, the axe of the guillotine, high up in its nar- row frame, was still dripping blood. Five or six headless corpses were still bleeding prostrate on the platform; It was the Place de la Loi! Maxirice put his hands over the eyes of the child. XXV The Supreme Crime The secret of the French Revolution is not far to seek. The secret of its excesses has never been ascer- tained. The secret of the demonic brutality of the demagogues who successively rose to power has been but feebly guessed at. No civilized state, no matter what convulsions agitated it, was ever before so prolific in monsters. Humanity stiU stands aghast at their brutality and their crimes. And the philosophy of history fails to explain either one or the other. The name of the man who figures as the arch-fiend of the Revolution is Robespierre. That slender and elegant figure, always daintily attired, even when squalor and filth were Republican fashions; that sallow face, deeply seamed with smallpox; that mouth, never in repose, but always twitching, and curved upwards with anger or scorn; that complexion, verddtre, as some one called it, sea-green, as Carlyle describes it, will fascinate man- kind when the Pantheon is a heap of ruins, and the Seine has ceased to wash around the basements of Notre-Dame. And the fascination wiU be one of terror and of sm'prise. It wiU never be explained how the notary of Arras, the ward of a bishop, the pupil of a priest, was transformed into a hellish monster of cruelty and depravity; and how the man who won his first prize by an essay on the im- morality of capital punishment, and whose first speech in the National Assembly strongly advocated its complete abolition, shoidd, in a few short years, send so many innocent victims to the scaffold, that, when his own turn inevitably came at last, Paris -drew a long breath of 227 228 THE QUEEN'S FILLET freedom to curse the wretch who, with shattered and broken jaw, was dragged in an open cart to the very place whence he had sent thousands of the bravest and fairest in France to a sanguiaary and terrible death. Some historians whisper "Vanity!" as the cause of this terrible mutation of a man into a wild beast; some say "Pride!" But those who say that "Terror" was the motive power that inaugurated the Reign of Terror, and changed the entire characters of the unhappy men who were flung to the surface ia the throes of the Revolu- tion, are nearer to the mark. If history holds any sem- blance of truth, "Fear" is the mother of cruelty. It is the cause of all the crimes of humanity. We have seen how the unhappy Girondists, moderate Republicans and law-abiding men, were hurried by their terrors into the crime of regicide. They are now in the filthy jail of the Condergerie, and the axe is already on their necks. They should have known that in revolu- tions the extremists always succeed. The desperate only are safe. Marat, who called for two himdred thousand heads as alone capable of filling the hungry maw of the Revolution, has perished by the hand of a young girl. The rage for power has now resolved itself into a duel between two protagonists, Danton and Robespierre. It is a fight between a lion and a serpent. And the serpent is bound to be victorious. But Danton is popular. He has a massive leonine head, great blazing eyes, and a voice of thunder that makes even the mob of Paris quake when they bring their filth and vermin into the Convention. Some think that Mirabeau, the demigod, has risen from the dead, so like are they. And Danton is popular, most of all because did he not fling the head of a king in the very face of the kings who were marching their multitudinous armies upon Paris? It was a momentous and highly popular expression, like that other of his, L'Aiidace! L'Avdace! Toujours I'Audace! Yes! Danton is the hero. It will take all the ingenuity of his rival to neutralize his popu- THE SUPREME CRIME 229 larity. To all appearance they are close friends, the Damon and Pythias of the Commune. They embrace on public occasions when some imtoward event or unusual burst of eloquence demands a demonstration. But, in the heart of Robespierre there is deadly fear. Danton must go. Besides, is it not whispered that Danton, like Mirabeau, has been corrupted? There is some rumour that there was a bargain somewhere, in which his price was 200,000 francs, or even hvres. And Robespierre is the Incorruptible. No one denies that. The time has come. But he must make a dramatic and desperate move to show his incorruptibility. Danton flung the head of a king in the face of the advancing armies of Europe. Robespierre will show the people of Paris the severed head of a queen. Hence, on the third of October, the decree is passed: "The National Convention, on the proposition of a member, decrees that the revolutionary tribimal proceed without delay or interruption to the trial of the Widow Capet." But, of all men in France, Fouquier-Tinville proposes delay. He is public accuser, and he is in sore lack of evidence against the Queen. Later on, when this san- guinary fanatic, with the long lank hair and the saturnine visage of an Apache, has become more experienced, he will not be fastidious about evidence. Innocent and guilty alike will fill the tumbrils when the single axe of the guillotine will not meet his requirements, but a four- bladed knife has to be invented to chop away four lives at the time. Otherwise, how can he meet his conscientious demand for one hundred and fifty heads daily? But Fouquier-Tinville is particular now; so he addresses the President: " Citizen-President : "I have the honour to inform the Convention that the decree passed therein on the third instant, directing that the revolutionary tribunal proceed without delay or interruption to the trial of the Widow Capet, was conveyed 230 THE QUEEN'S FILLET to me this evening. But, up to this day, no papers whatever relating to Marie-Antoinette have reached me; so that, however desirous the tribunal may be to carry out the decree of the Convention, they are unable to obey this decree until such papers are forwarded to them." Whereupon the Council-general appoint certain lawyers and commissioners to seek out such evidence. But where? In the Temple prison! And from whom? From the little child-king, long since separated from his mother, his frail body broken by hunger, his infant mind de- bauched by brandy, his infant lips already taught to sing the obscene songs of the Revolution. One thing remained — his infant hand was to sign, in trembUng and broken characters, his name as dictated by his jailers — Louis Charles Capet — to the basest and most infamous calumny that ever emanated from the most depraved human imagination. For some months the steady corruption and demoraliza- tion of the child had gone on at the hands of Simon, the cobbler, and his depraved wife. Since his separation from his mother, the child had been confined in a fetid chamber, where he was deprived of light and air and wholesome food, until his little body was lengthened by emaciation, and became, the prey to appalling sores, and vermin, that swarmed in his filthy bed and in his clothes. Darkness, impure air, filth, had done their fatal work physically. Morally, the child's mind became gradually weakened, until scarce a ray of reason was left. How the sweet, pure mind of the child revolted from the blasphemies and obscenities that Simon poured into his ears every day; with what sweet, angelic patience he bore his horrible trials; how he resisted every attempt at first to debauch his mind and wean him away from allegiance to his mother; how gradually the mind, weakened by repeated doses of brandy, became accustomed to all that was obscene and revolting; how the hearts of the Queen and Madame Elisabeth ached when they heard his feeble step on the stairs outside their own room and the plaintive THE SUPREME CRIME 231 voice feebly protesting against the curses and blows of Simon; how their hearts ached stiU more sadly when they heard the child sing Qa Ira and the Carmagnole; how finally Lam-ent and Friry and Heussfe caught the child when he was just recovering from a fit of intoxica- tion (and when, witli head sunk on his breast, and scarcely able to breathe, but with the eternal look of sadness on his features, he was imconscious of the terrible deed he was forced to accomplish) and got the half-delirious boy to answer in a manner that incriminated even his own mother, and then signed the fatal dociunent, the Revolu- tionary records testify, and are confirmed. Yes! all was ripe now. The child would be the one witness that would send his mother to the scaffold. Let the names of those who devised and carried out this most infernal plot be consecrated and handed down to perpetual infamy — Daujon, who hatched and origi- nated it; Hubert, who inspired it; Pache, mayor of Paris; Friry, Laurent, and S^guy, commissaries at the Temple; Heussfe, administrator of police; and Simon, jailer and tutor of the Prince. And finally, Chaumette. But this was not all. Fearing that even the depraved and corrupt hearts of a Parisian mob might still revolt at a confession extorted from a child of eight years, and under terror of his jailers, it occvu-red to these miscreants that it would be well to have the evidence corroborated by some mature persons. Hence, the following day, October 7, 1793, Chaumette and Pache came again to the Temple, accompanied by David, and with a number of municipal officers, amongst whom was Daujon, to whose infamous imagination, prompted by Hubert, the plot is attributable. They ordered Marie-Th^rlse to be brought down to the coimcil-chamber. The girl was but fifteen years old; but the last few months, with their terrible experiences, had made her a woman. Not knowing what to think, what to expect, or what to fear, she clung trembling to her aimt. A summons to the council- chamber had already meant, for all her dear ones, separa- 232 THE QUEEN'S FILLET tion or death. Down these dark stairs her father had gone — to the scaffold. Down these dark staks her mother, a few weeks before, had been taken to the Con- ciergerie. Down these dark stairs her brother had been coerced into sohtary captivity. What now? Death, or another jail? Nay, something worse than either — dis- honour! At the foot of the stairs she met her brother. Horribly transformed as he was, she flew towards him. He was being interrogated again by David, the painter, who wished to hear from the lips of the child a confirmation of the confession which he made yesterday. Simon tore the boy away, and the young Princess entered the council- chamber with David. Pache is the interrogator. "Your name?" "Marie-Th&fee." "Daughter of Capet, already punished by the state?" The girl weeps, but cannot answer. "You are aware of the nature of the crimes which Capet committed, and for which, under the just indignation of the people, he suffered." "I am only aware that my father loved his people and France." "You will be unwise to continue your father's treasons to the state. You wiU confer a favour on yourself and on France if you candidly divulge the nature of the secret commtmications that passed between Capet and the foreign powers who are seeking our country's humiliation." "I am not aware of any such communications!" ^ "Beware! The nation is merciful. It has abeady taken you imder its protection. But the nation is also terrible. It has no mercy for traitors." "I am no traitor, and I fear nothing." "Then you won't divulge to the nation, for the safety of its citizens, the dark plots and secret intrigues in which your parents were engaged?" Then the truth flashed on the girl's mind. She was indifferent so long as they spoke about the King, her father. THE SUPREME CRIME 233 He was beyond their power. But now her mother was sought to be implicated. The girl trembled with appre- hension. They saw it. "Ha! You are deceiving us. Remember, your parents are now the nation. Speak the truth, and you have naught to fear. Betray the country, and you will feel its vengeance!" "I have nothing to conceal, nothing to tell, and nothing to fear!" said the young girl. "Then you refuse to reveal the nature of the secret correspondence carried on between the Capets and the enemies of the country?" "I have nothing to reveal," was the answer. Baffled by her simplicity and truthfulness, they then interrogated her about her knowledge of the incidents that were narrated in the confession extorted from her brother the day before. She gazed at them in amaze- ment. She quite understood the nature of the previous interrogatories. They were now speaking a strange language. She looked from one to the other for an explanation — from Pache to Chaumette, from Chau- mette to David. Pache repeated in somewhat plainer language the dreadful charge against the Queen. Still the girl failed to understand. The brute became coarser, and blurted out in all its hideous enorinity the nature of the crime with which her mother was charged. She then drew back, and with a face burning with shame and indignation she said: "Infamous!" Then her indignation gave way, and the scalding tears ran down her cheeks. But they persisted. "Some things there were," she said in after years, "which I could not understand. What I could compre- hend was so horrible that I wept with indignation." But the patriots had an object in view, and they were not going to be defeated. They ordered the boy-king to be brought in and confronted with his sister. He came in with Simon, and sister of fifteen and brother of eight 234 THE QUEEN'S FILLET confronted each other. If ever there was a human tragedy, surely it was there! The lank, emaciated form of the boy in his filthy garments, the head sunk low on the breast through sheer wealmess, the closed eyes, the sad melancholy on his features, the lank tousled hair, where vermin had built their nests — what a contrast, in the eyes of this young girl, with the bright lad of a few months ago, marshalling his miniature regiments amid the garden squares of the Tuileries! And then commenced three hours' agony for her, for the examination lasted from noon to three o'clock on that day; and the young girl, on whose pure mind at last the awful revelation of human iniquity had broken, had to listen to the horrible ques- tions put by those monsters, and the fatal answers wrung from the half-imbecile lad, and which were, of course, in direct antagonism to her own evidence. It was no longer the thought of her mother's danger, but of the physical and moral degradation of the young Prince, her brother, that agonized the girl's mind. When after three hours' torture she was dismissed, and was allowed to go back to her chamber, she could only fling herself on the bosom of her aunt and groan out, "0 my God!" And then Madame Elisabeth was summoned, put to the same torture, confronted with the yoimg Prince who mumbled out his fatal answers, and was dismissed. Not a word had escaped her lips, or the lips of Marie-Th^r^se, which could be tortured even by these refined inquisitors into a confirmation of the confession that had been ex- torted from the boy. It was his evidence, tmsubstan- tiated and uncorroborated, that was brought out on the Queen's trial, and which made the very women of the holies, and the tricoteuses of the guillotine, blush and cry "Shame!" A few nights after, David, the most famous painter in Europe at the moment, was in his atefier. He had mounted up, after innumerable defeats, to an exalted position in the world of art. His "Horatii," executed in Rome, had been the wonder and delight of Paris. He THE SUPREME CRIME 235 had been patronized by the late King, who had given him handsome orders. He had voted amongst the regicides for the King's death. For alas! genius and honour do not always walk hand in hand. But, had not the Revolu- tion repaid him? Had he not the honour of painting the Jeu de Paume, and is it not reserved for him to be chief designer and organizer in the Feast of the Supreme Being, yet to be ordered by his idol, Robespierre? He sat in his studio, ill at ease. He had drifted into the vortex of the Revolution, and did not know where it would cast him. For revolutions have no pity, no respect for art or science. Has not a Condorcet to poison him- self? and the axe of the guillotine refuses to hang sus- pended over the neck of a Lavoisier imtil he conducts a last experiment. Yes! he had a good deal to thiok of, besides his pictures. And the remembrance of that awful scene at the Temple is haunting him — will haunt him away in exile to his dying day. The door opens and a youth enters. He is excited, and refuses the salutation proffered by the great painter. "It is not true, Jacques? Say, it is not true!" "What, mon ami? It is a vague question. It is the impossible that is true in these days!" "Aye, impossible, and therefore not true!" said the youth. "It is only a word from your own Ups that wiU convince and — kill me ! " "Be composed, and a little concrete," said the painter. "We don't deal in abstractions!" "Quite so. Well, then. Chaimaette has boasted that young Capet has made a confession involving his mother in some serious charge, and that you and Pache were present!" David drew a long breath of relief. Clearly his young friend had not heard all. "Well, and then?" "Why, 'tis infamous!" "You are intemperate, my friend. Infamous for a municipal officer to do his duty to the nation?" 236 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Yes! But there are limits. The laws of nature should not be outraged!" "How?" "In compelling a child to give evidence against his own mother. It was never heard of before. But this Revolu- tion is casting all laws to the wind. Imagine, compelling a child of eight years to send his mother to the scaffold!" "Yoiu" poetic imagination is running away with your reason," said David. "It is my reason that declares that no child would give evidence against his mother, except under com- pulsion; that no decent tribunal would accept the evi- dence of a child at all; and that there can be no motive in all this but to send Marie-Antoinette to the scaffold. It is appalling." "Be composed. Marie- Antoinette is not yet tried!" "Oh, but you, Jacques, you whom the King hon- oured — " "No more of that, friend. It was I that honoured the King by painting the 'Brutus' for him. We have done with Cffisars. Strange that he should have taught the lesson." "What lesson?" "That great nations will not have kings to reign over them. That all that superstition about 'Divine Right,' etc., is only for the infancy of nations; and that France has reached its majority." "And has marked and celebrated the occasion with appalling crimes?" "These are but incidents in the emancipation of nations. You can't make omelettes without breaking eggs." "And smearing yourself with the bloody yolk. What's your next design, David? If Louis XVI. went to the scaffold under Caesar's mantle, why not excuse the forth- coming murder of Marie-Antoinette by painting her a Messalina?" The artist jumped up. Had this poet heard every- thing? THE SUPREME CRIME 237 "My art is my own," he said. " I don't suggest subjects for your verses." "I am unequal to the subjects you have suggested," said the poet. "The Florentine poem is only a printed hell compared with the Revolution." "You have read Roman history to little effect if you are startled by a few incidents, such as an accidental outbreak of popular fury, or the removal of a king," said David. "I have read Roman history badly if I do not perceive what a miserable travesty you, Jacobins and Girondists alike, are making of its heroic periods, of its heroic actions." "What do you mean?" "I mean that the mock-heroics of your mountebanks in your conventions and assemblies; their melodramatic eloquence and theatrical buffooneries; their threats and defiances when every one can see they are shivering in their boots; their quotations from Greek and Roman demagogues who at least had the courage of their con- victions, and could die without making a speech to show they were not afraid; their war against women and chil- dren and old men who cannot defend themselves; their systems of the basest espionage; their suborning of false witnesses; their truculent delight in blood — I mean that all that is but a feeble and contemptible burlesque of all that was great and heroic in the ancient world, just as your paltry paintings and sculpture are but wax images com- pared with the breathing marbles of Greece and Rome." The artist sat down. It was no time for furious anger. It was a time for concealing a deep-seated revenge. The hissing off the stage of his futile play had made CoUot d'Herbois a regicide; a little contempt for his banalities bad turned Joseph Chfcier into a savage Revolutionist. And the "scorn of scorn" which Andr4 Ch^nier was now pouring out on his sculptures and canvases was driving David to desperation. But he would dissemble. "You make me ashamed, Andr4," he said. "Better be ashamed than accursed," was the reply. "It is a poor kind of fame that elicits the plaudits of the 238 THE QUEEN'S FILLET world for your pieces of stone or canvas, whilst it draws down maledictions on yourself." "I would sacrifice all I have ever painted and all that I hope to paint, to see kings and tyrants wiped from the face of the earth." "You deceive yourself. Your art is dearer to you than your country. You are drunk with the wine of the Revo- lution, and cannot see things in their right perspectives." "Perhaps not. But I can see kings and their satellites tumbUng down from their high places. The people have walked over the floor of the Tuileries. No man can ever again dislodge them." "You have read human history, then, in vain. You fail to see the movement of the eternal wheel. You have never read the lines of Ecclesiastes: 'What is tliat which has been? That which is yet to be. ' " "We have done with all that. Humanity advances, it does not retrograde; and the glory of France is that she is the first to place her foot on the necks of kings." "You may live to see the tricolor in the dust, and the fleur-de-lis triumphant!" "Never, never! The rivers don't run backward!" "You may hve to wait in the anteroom of kings!" "When they rise from their graves!" "You may yet paint a despot and immortalize his victories over human liberties!" "You are mad, Andr6! Take care!" "And take a ribbon from the hand that has torn up treaties and bound the human race in fetters of steel!" "Thou art a poet and a dreamer, and must not be heeded." "'What is yet to be? Surely that which hath been,' said the Preacher." And Andr6 went out after his unconscious prophecy, and left David alone. He got up and shrugged his shoulders. "He might escape that fool Collot d'Herbois. He can never escape the 'Incorruptible,'" he murmured. XXVI Victories and Defeats The intense delight of Cathelineau at seeing his young mistress again, when he had given hesr up for lost, did not blind him to the fact that he had to provide for her safety and to follow close on the footsteps of the Repub- lican army. The first duty he confided to Maurice. "I shall give you an escort," he said. "The main army of the brigands is in front; but there may be straggling parties Ijere and there, and they are to be feared. You must not rest until you have placed these children under the protection of M. de Lescure." It was a delightful commission. Yet there was a wist- ful look on Maurice's face. Cathehneau saw it. "Never fear, you won't be disappointed. We have work cut out for us yonder. If you hasten you may have a part." It was an incentive to prompt and decisive action; and in a day or two, Maurice, by the aid of brave horses, had covered the dangerous country that lay to the south, and had placed the two girls safely under the same roof with M. and Madame de Lescure. Lescure was still suffering from his terrible wounds; and, although at Boulaye he felt quite safe, yet the ter- rors through which these young girls had just passed and the dreadful fate they had just escaped made him doubly anxious for their safety. Hence, he determined that the only secure place of refuge for them was in the castle above the sea, with the vast marshes of the Marais be- tween them and the conflicting forces, and the sea- approaches safe, because the chateau was supposed to 239 240 THE QUEEN'S FILLET be deserted, and Nelson's war-ships were sentinelling the coast. Genevieve gently demurred. The recollection of the horrors she had witnessed there and the memory of her dead father were overpowering her instinct for self-pres- ervation. And then, she wished to be in touch with her friends. "Cannot we do something here, M. le Marquis?" she said. " There will be wounded soldiers coming home from the wars, and many widows and many orphans, who will need us!" But Lescure was inexorable. "You have seen enough, and done enough," he said. "I feel it is due to the memory of your dead father that you should be protected. It will mean several days' journey, for the country is almost impassable from the rain; but it is the only place in France where I shall deem you safe. I shall send a strong escort, and, perhaps, Monsieur de Brignon — " But Maurice looked away. He was impatient to get back, and join the forces of his country again. "I am under orders, Marquis," he said. "I have promised the General to be with him before Nantes." "And the General must be obeyed," said Lescure. Maurice wheeled round his horse to depart, when he noticed tears in the eyes of little C6cile. Her St. Michael was leaving her. He dismounted, and bending down he kissed the child's forehead; and again moimting, and wav- ing his hand, he galloped away. "Ah! France has not lost all her chivalry," said Les- cure. "If one himdred thousand of such noblemen had marched on Paris, how different things might have been!" But he immediately took measures to place his two precious charges in safety. Under a confidential guide, and with a safe escort of peasants on whom he could rely, he sent away the young girls at once. " No one can know the chances of battle," he said. "The victors of to-day are the defeated of to-morrow." And he felt that the VICTORIES AND DEFEATS 241 undisciplined and ill-armed hordes of peasants, dragged away from their fields, could never finally prevail over a strong force of drilled and experienced soldiers, particularly when just then the Republican armies that had been en- gaged on the frontiers were now freed, and were marching forward under able generals to crush the insurrection in the west. After a weary joimiey of four or five days Genevieve de la Rouarie and Cecile-Rose-Marie-Amaranthe passed under the castle gates, and gazed once more on the West- em Sea. In the afternoon of a sultry sunamer day Maurice came in sight of the churches and towers of Nantes. He kept on the right bank of the river and spurred eagerly forward, dreading lest he should have no part in the engagement, which the clouds of smoke that hung above the city showed was in progress. He had tasted blood, and was intoxi- cated with martial ardour; and there was always that stain on his honom* which he had yet to wipe out. He was in no danger from the Republican forces, which he knew were marshalled within the city; but he had to skirt the walls of the city before he came to where the Vendean forces were making the chief assault. Here he met some stragglers, and, listening to the frightful tumult that was going on within the walls, he eagerly asked how the fortunes of the day were tending. He was reassured. Thirty thousand Vendeans had been seeking all day some vantage-point through which they could enter the city; Charette was on the left bank and forcing the bridges; and Cathelineau had just pene- trated fropi the right bank into a suburb. The city was all but taken. Such a report stirred him to vigorous action. He could never forgive himseK if the mighty engagement was over before he had time to flesh his sword. He rode right on towards the walls where the smoke was thickest and the txunult greatest. At last signs of battle appeared. Wounded soldiers stumbled out into the fields and fell, 242 THE QUEEN'S FILLET or took shelter beneath the ditches. Detachments in twos or threes came out of the smoke, bearing on crossed bayonets a dying comrade. The crackle of musketry never ceased; and now and again the deep boom of cannon came across the river from where Charette was trying to force the bridges. Several buildings were on fire, and the flames and the smoke obscured the dreadful work of battle that was progressing beneath. Maurice had to pick his way, asking now and again where the General and his staff were located. At last he got into the city. The place was quiet, but the smoke obscured everything but the dead and wounded who lay here and there on the stjreet, and the ghastly pools of blood that were every- where. A woimded soldier leaned against a wall. The badge of the Sacred Heart was on his breast. With one hand he held a crucifix to his lips and was kissing it. With the other, he held up his entrails which were pro- truding from a ghastly wound in the abdomen. In dark corners priests were bending over the dying and adminis- tering the last rites. Sad moans and cries, instantly stifled by rehgious resignation, broke from the wounded. But Maurice could not remain. He pushed forward eagerly to where the sounds of battle were more distinct. Then, suddenly turning a comer, which revealed a large open street, he rode right into a detachment of peasant- soldiers who were bearing between them on a rough board an apparently hfeless form. The men looked dejected. Some had evidently cast their arms aside. Some were shedding tears and wiping them silently away. Some were more loudly moaning.^ Maurice rode on; but he was speedily stopped by disorganized crowds of fleeing Vendeans, who appeared to be rushing hither and thither, apparently under no command. He breasted with his horse the foremost files and bade them go back. They stopped and hesitated; but the rear ranks of their defeated and flying comrades pressed them forwards. Maurice stormed, swore, expostulated, struck them, here and there, with the flat of his sword. They bore the ex- VICTORIES AND DEFEATS 243 postulation, and even the assault, without a word, but still pressed onwards. Maurice saw that it was a com- plete rout. He, too, had to suffer himself to be borne back by the retreating masses, until they again came up with the men who were carrying their senseless burden. He shouted: "Where is the General? Where is Cathelineau?" ; The men silently pointed to the bier. Yes! It was the brave peasant of the Marais, struck down just as he was leading his troops to victory. He had marched from Angers early on the preceding day; but alas! as usual, the peasant soldiers, flushed with tran- sient victory, had melted away from his standard, eager to get back to their crops and vineyards; and of the thirty thousand men who had entered Angers the previous day, only eight thousand had perseverance or courage enough to accompany their victorious general to Nantes. And there the Repubhcan army, imder Canchoux, was strongly reinforced and fortified. Beaten back again and again, Cathelineau made assault after assault; and at length, having made a breach in the walls, he penetrated a sub- urb of the city; and was just hoping to see his forces soon reunited with Charette's after the capture of the garri- son, when he was struck right in the breast by a musket- ball. It was a mortal wound; and the army soon came to know it; and with pure Celtic instability, they passed at once from a victorious army, confident of victory, to a beaten and disorganized multitude that melted away before the night fell, and had not even the semblance of cohesion that would attract the pursuit of the conquering battahons. Maurice looked down from his horse on the silent figure which his weeping soldiers were carrying from the field. He dismounted. A priest had come up; and the men gave way. Maurice touched the eyes of the fallen General. They opened, and gazed steadily and serenely at him. Then closed again. Maturice rode away. And, as he crossed the river. 244 THE QUEEN'S FILLET he could just discern in the dusk that was falling the scattered remnants of Charette's corps fleeing south; and the victorious shouts of "Vive la nation! Vive la Ripublique!" filled the air. Once again he tasted the sweets of victory and the bitterness of defeat. It was on October 11th in that eventful year. Lescure, partially recovered from his wounds, and the young Larochejacquelein had rallied the Vendean forces that had been scattered after the disaster at Nantes, and formed a Grand Army that was to march on Chatillon. Charette had come up from Noir-moutier, which he had occupied with his division, and the allied forces formed a formidable army for the defence of rehg- ion and country. Westermann, the Republican general, was manoeuvring in the contrary direction; and moving out from Chatillon, with his five hundred men, he was met by the Vendean forces and compelled to return to Chatillon, which he again immediately evacuated, and the Vendeans took immediate possession. Westermann, on the evening of defeat, smarting with shame and dis- honour, rallied a himdred grenadiers, and making them mount behind a hundred dragoons, he entered the city secretly at nightfall. The Vendean chiefs were in con- sultation; the Vendean soldiers, flushed with victory, and having found quantities of brandy in the place, gave themselves up to intoxication. Suddenly, an orderly appeared before Lescure and Larochej acquelein. "Captain Brigneau reports that the men are dr unk and the city unprotected." "Go tell him place his outposts as usual; and say there is no danger. The rout was too complete." The orderly left. Maurice obeyed orders; placed sentinels along the approaches to the city, and gathered a few men and officers in the square. "If the Repubhcans were to return now," he said, "they could turn the city into a shambles." VICTORIES AND DEFEATS 245 "They are still flying in a panic," said one of the offi- cers. "Westermann is making all speed for a junction with Chalbos and the MayenQais. We shall not hear from him again till we meet him at Cholet." "Yes," said another, "although he looked black as night when clearing out of the city. Probably EI16ber now will take command. I hope not." "What about Lechelle?" "Ah! Just the man to suit us. A coward and a brag- gart. But Kl^ber is a soldier; and he has a fellow called Marceau with him, a dangerous fellow, too!" "Well, I hope our next meeting will be as merry as to-day's," said Maurice. "Here are some of our fellows returning." So they were, driven back and overpowered by the hussars and grenadiers, whom Westermann had col- lected. In a moment the city was in a tumult; and scenes of the most sanguinary horror were enacted. The sol- diers on both sides were drunk, and could not distinguish friend from foe. Peaceable citizens were dragged from their homes and massacred on the streets. The repub- lican troops massacred their own people, some of their own wives falhng beneath their sabres. For four or five hoiu-s the slaughter went on. It was not, it had not even the semblance of, a battle. It was a promiscuous battue, or massacre, friend and foe alike falling. At length, towards morning, the republicans were withdrawn by Westermann. The city was ablaze and the streets were strewn with corpses of men, women, and children. Next day, the Vendeans left the city and proceeded towards Cholet. Chalbos and the Repubhcan troops entered and took possession. A few days later, in the environs of Cholet, the great engagement of the war took place. All the Vendean chiefs had assembled their various contingents for a final struggle. They succeeded at first; drove back Lechelle's squadrons in confusion; but just in the moment of victory, as u&ual, Beaupuy's squadrons came up, attacked the victorious peasantry, 246 THE QUEEN'S FILLET who stoutly resisted, until their general and idol, Lescure, was struck in the eye by a musket-ball, and fell dead. The officers flimg aside their swords and the soldiers their weapons, and took to flight. It was an utter rout. Maurice was not there. After the defeat and massacre at Chatillon, he ventured to remonstrate with the Ven- dean chiefs on the bad discipline and general demoraUza- tion of their forces. He argued that those undrilled and undisciphned battaUons, no matter how fierce their cour- age and how great their faith, could never be a match for an army of veterans, who had come up from the frontiers after having passed through several successful campaigns; and that their singular practice of disbanding themselves and going back to their avocations after every skirmish was simply disastrous to themselves and the cause they represented. They demanded what was to be done. "Retire," he said. "Get back your troops into the fastnesses of the Marais. The winter is at hand. Yotu- men can never lack provisions. The RepubUcans may. Take time. Drill and discipline your forces; teach them the use of fire-arms and artillery; above all, teach them discipline and obedience; then they will emerge in the springtime, an army of Uons, sure of victory. After one or two pitched battles the road to Paris will be clear; and there are thousands in Paris only waiting the word to rise up and save the Queen!" They shook their heads. They, too, were cursed with the Celtic impatience, the Celtic inability to wait. In one point they were justified. For scarcely had Maurice left the camp, on the night of the fourteenth of October, when the news was spread all over the country that the Queen had been tried that day and sentenced to be exe- cuted on the sixteenth. XXVII The Queen's Fillet So it was. From her dim, damp cell in the Con- dergerie, the Queen of France came forth, no longer the radiant vision that had held in thrall, by reason of her majestic beauty and regal splendour, the chivalry, not only of France, but of Europe; but the prematurely aged widow, broken down by sorrow and humbled by afflic- tion, yet retaining something of the dignity and even hauteur of one who was justly styled the "daughter of the Cffisars." Though clad in the habiliments of grief, and without a single appurtenance of royalty, her queenly manner and carriage marked her out as a sovereign; and the very way in which she received the hostile demon- strations that were organized by the municipaUty of Paris, with an air of patience from which both resentment and contempt were absent, made many a heart ache at the inability of her devoted friends to cleave a path for her to safety, if not back to her imperial throne. Among her judges, one alone was sympathetic — Robespierre. Let us grant him that one word of honour, overwhelmed as his memory is by the vmiversal execration of the himian race. He had not yet climbed to that dizzy height where he could not keep even a temporary foothold except by hurhng thunder-bolts amongst friends and foes alike. The prosecutor was Fouquier-Tinville, the arch-demon of the Revolution. It was he who read the deed of accusation against the Queen. She Ustened patiently. Then repUed to each accusation clearly, calmly, and with heroic self- control. At last they came to the fiendish charge that was made on the strength of the young King's confession 247 248 THE QUEEN'S FILLET in the Temple. It was Hubert who made it. The Queen looked at the man with an expression of sadness; but when he produced the document that seemed to confirm the charge, a hot blush mounted to her cheek, and, though still silent, the whole assemblage felt moved by a strange human sympathy towards her. Fouquier, who now trembled lest the vile conspiracy had outdone itself, and who had not dared to read the document, now advanced, and asked of the Queen: "What reply do you make to the testimony of this witness?" She still maintained her majestic silence. Then, one of the jurors having requested the President to note that she made no reply, she turned on her vile accusers one look of blended majesty and contempt: "If I made no reply, it is because nature refuses to answer such an accusation brought against a mother. I appeal to all mothers who may be present here!" A wave of emotion swept over the entire audience; but alas! it speedily subsided. And the fury of wild beasts towards the wounded and abandoned took its place. But things must be done in legal form. We, members of National Conventions, or Conamittees of Pubhc Safety, or Paris municipality, must keep up the decorum and forms of law. Even a Queen must not be condenmed, but with all legal ceremony and formality. Hence the nation allows the Widow Capet the help of counsel, if such can be found; and even the assistance of witnesses, if any will dare come forward. For every one knows that their path is to the scaffold also; that one chivahic word spoken for that desolate woman, is the self-imposed sentence of death. And yet, to the honour of humanity be it spoken, out from that ragged and murderous multi- tude, and confronting that dread tribunal, certain brave Frenchmen step forward and give the lie direct to the accusers of the Queen. Manuel, once betrayed by revo- lutionary enthusiasm into hostile acts against his Sover- THE QUEEN'S FILLET 249 eign, now makes public reparation. Calmly and with dignified reserve, he declares his belief in his Sovereign's innocence, in the iniquity of her accusers. Bailly, ex-mayor of Paris and amateur astronomer — not one of your mathematical speculators on stars and systems, but poet and dreamer and wonderer at greatness everywhere, whether in star-systems, or the men who marshall them, hke Gahleo — steps forward. He is not popular. The memory of that day on the Champ de Mars, when he flung his National Guard on the defence- less people, is well remembered. But he has a duty now to do; and he cannot shrink. "The facts contained in that indictment," he says, pointing to the document in Hubert's hand, " and to which the declaration of young Louis Charles referred, are utterly and entirely false." Count de la Tour du Pin is ex-minister of war. "Dost thou know the accused?" asks the President. "Ah! yes," he says, bowing lew before his discrowned Queen, "I have the honour of knowing Madame." It was grand, because these gentlemen knew well that they were signing their own death-warrants; and, in a few days, the three mounted the scaffold and perished. It was futile, like so many other noble things, for Marie Antoinette was already convicted and sentenced. So, too, was the eloquence of Tronson du Coudray and Chauveau-Lagarde, unpaid counsel for the Queen, and promptly arrested after the trial. Nothing avails here. Forms of law, and witnesses and pauses and delays are but the cathke play of wild beasts around a victim who cannot escape. The jury convict promptly, giving their verdict "Guilty!" all along the line of accusation. And the President rather foohshly demands if the victim has aught to say. Foohshly, because the reply is given in language that shames them there and for ever: "Nothing in my own defence; much for your remorse to feel. I was a queen, and you have dethroned me; I was a wife, and you have murdered my husband; a mother, 250 THE QUEEN'S FILLET and you have torn my children from me. I have nothing left but my blood. Take it then. Hasten to shed it, that you may quench your thirst therewith!" They are disappointed. They expected a woman's tears. They have met a Queen's contempt. They pro- long the sitting, even, and leave her without refreshment, hoping that her physical strength will be undermined and that she will sink into a condition of feebleness and crave for pity. Such things have been seen, as with that Madame du Barri, for instance, who screams and grows hysterical on the scaffold. Not so now. They are con- fronted with a noble woman, whose last tears were shed on that day when they dragged her child away from her arms, to corrupt his mind and kill his body. They grow tired; and order her back to prison. She is cold. She has been standing all day in that dreary court. She wraps a blanket around her; lies down on the damp straw of her prison cell; and sleeps peacefully for many hours. On the evening of the fifteenth of October, Maurice de Brignon rode up to the villa in the woods of Versailles where his friend, Andr6 Ch^nier, was staying. His horse was covered with foam and sweat, and caked with dirt. He had ridden long and furiously up from the Vendean plains. He had sworn to be present at the death of Marie Antoinette. "So France is about to consummate her crimes," he cried, after the first greetings had been exchanged, and anxious questions had been put and answered. "Yes! and you have come to witness. A true French- man would have remained away. It is not pleasant to witness the nation's degradation." "There may be yet a chance," said Mam-ice, dejectedly, "a few brave men, at the last moment " "Might get themselves cut in bits, like your two comrades last January. No, my friend, the madness of France has not even reached its crisis. To-morrow will mean simply the creation of a blood-thirst that shall not THE QUEEN'S FILLET 251 be soon extinguished. You have no idea of what a wild beast is in men!^' "Has she any defence; was there even one man to speak for the Queen of France?" "Yes. Many. She wasn't without friends. They die with her. It is certain." Once again the consciousness that he was not one of that Royal band smote the heart of Maurice de Brignon. He blushed; then grew pale, although he knew his friend had no sinister meaning. "Jarjayes?" he said. "No, no! He wasn't there. I think he has left the city." Maurice felt relieved. "Fersen?" he said. "No. Not at all. He is either in Belgium or gone back to Sweden. It was Manuel, Bailly, and Tour du Pin who stood out boldly and proclaimed her inno- cence. You know the principal accusation against the Queen?" "No. There is none, except that she is, or rather was, the Queen of France." Andr^ shrugged his shoulders. "The Revolution is more original. In fact, the Revolu- tion is nothing if not original. Do you think this ever entered into the heart of man or devil before? " And he told Maurice all. "Devils in hell!" cried the latter, starting up in a blaze of iury, "and how could they prove that?" "The child was made his mother's accuser. They got the boy to sign a document, and produced it as the mother's death-warrant!" Maurice was silent for a few seconds. He was appalled at the infamy. The very horror of it sobered him. "Yes, Andr^," he said at length, quite calmly, "you are right. Such an idea never entered the mind of man before. It is the most original thing in all the annals of human crime. But, good Heavens! What does it 252 THE QUEEN'S FILLET mean for France? Oceans of blood can never wash out the infamy. What a fate is before our country!" "You'll see Madame Pourrat?" said Andr6. "No, no, I must be up and away. There are twenty miles to Paris; and my horse is tired. I must take him gently. Adieu, my friend! I doubt if we shall meet again!" He mounted his horse and rode out into the night. At eleven o'clock on the morning of October 16th, amidst the somewhat scattered crowd which were assembled before the prison of the Conciergerie, two French gentle- men, deeply disguised in the ordinary dress of the French workman, stood very close to the cart which was drawn up some few paces away from the gate of the prison. They assumed an air of indifference, and spoke uncon- cernedly; but in their hearts was a hope, every moment becoming fainter, that some power would suddenly arise to prevent the accomphshment of France's greatest crime. On the faces of the crowd was a look of wondering expec- tation. That was all. The man who held the horse's head, and who was chosen for his position that morning because he was known to be a sanguinary revolutionist, was scowling with impatience and shaking the harness. At length he was satisfied. Grammont, an ex-actor, now commander of the detachment of the National Guard, rode around and dispersed a little crowd that had ap- proached too near the prison. A word of command rang out; and the infantry and hussars who lined the whole place stood to attention; and, in a moment, the doors of the prison were flung open and a procession emerged. A few municipal officers in their tricolor scarves came first; and then a pale-faced woman, her two arms, bare to the elbows, tightly bound with a rope, the end of which was held in the hand of the man who fol- lowed. It was the Queen, in the hands of her executioner. She was dressed in white; that is, she wore a white blouse or bodice, and a muslin neckerchief covered her neck and breast. Over a black petticoat she had a white one. Her THE QUEEN'S FILLET 253 hair, blanched since that terrible journey from Varennes, was cut short by her own hand, and covered with a white cap secured by a black fillet of silk or velvet. Two similar bands of black velvet were on her wrists. She stopped for a moment, and looked around at the crowd and at the soldiers. Then, at a gesture from Granmiont, she moved towards the cart. Her husband, the King, had been accommodated with a carriage. This was a common cart, muddy and dirty, without even a little straw. A narrow plank stretched from side to side. A little ladder of three or four rude steps was at one end. The executioner offered his hand when they had reached the cart. His victim put it aside, and calmly ascended without assistance. She took her seat on the plank, facing the horse, but was ordered to move around, and make way for the Constitutional priest, who then sat by her side, a crucifix in his hands. She had no need of his services, because already a priest, the Abb6 Magnin, had been smuggled into the Conciergerie by the loving in- genuity of imknown friends, and she had heard Mass and received holy Communion in her dark cell. She needed no spiritual assistance now; nor would she have accepted it from the forsworn and excommunicated priest whom the commune deputed to attend her. He made several attempts to elicit some remarks from her. She kept an imperturbable silence after one retort when he exhorted her to have courage: "Ah, Sir, there is no need. I have been serving my apprenticeship to it for several years. It is not hkely that in the supreme moment when I need it, and that is to terminate my misfortunes, I shall fail." The procession moved on, first in silence, then a hired mob of drunken women began to shout and jeer. Some better-educated persons shouted: "Fr6d6gonde," "Messa- lina." At the Church of St. Roch, a few ladies, in deep mourning, cried out: "Mercy! Mercy!" A faint blush covered the face of the Queen, who, however, continued looking steadily before her, neither to right or left, the 254 THE QUEEN'S FILLET little colour on her temples emphasizing the deathly pallor of her cheeks. Once or twice she appeared inter- ested when, in huge staring letters, some revolutionary emblem or advertisement caught her notice. Once, her eye caught sight of a priest, standing at a window. He raised his hand, as if to give absolution. She smiled, and bowed her head. And once, she saw a lady and a child at another window. The child kissed hands. The lady was weeping; and tears came into the dry eyes of Marie Antoinette. Otherwise, she passed through the tumultuous and shouting crowds, as if she did not see them. Her eyes were bloodshot. They were gazing into eternity. At last they came into the Place de la Revolution, and she mounted the scaffold, whereon a few months before, the King had suffered. The place was dense with a riot- ous and blaspheming and pitiless crowd. The furies of Paris, those dreadful women who brought their stools and knitting with them every day as if to a play and shouted "Bravo!" as each head fell beneath the axe, swayed around the scaffold, shouting the most abominable and opprobrious epithets. She did not see them. She looked over their heads at the palace of the Tuileries. A little emotion of sadness and regret swept over her soul as she thought of the Then and Now. Then, turning to the executioner, she whispered: "Make haste! Quick!" and in doing so she trod inadvertently on the man's foot. He said, "Oh!" as if in pain; and, in that supreme moment, she apologized with queenly courtesy: "Pardon, Monsieur, I did not intend it!"* The next moment, she was laid and tied on the narrow plank, face downwards, and pushed forward till her neck rested in the lunette. Sanson released the heavy axe, which glided downwards, and the severed head rolled into the basket. Marie Antoinette was no more. That evening Bar^re entertained Robespierre, St. Just, and other worthies at a tavern in the city. Some high *" Monsieur, je voua demande excuse! Je ne I'ai pas fait exprSs!" THE QUEEN'S FILLET 255 words passed and Robespierre smashed a plate in indigna- tion. The same evening, a stranger sought out Sanson, the executioner, at his lodgings, and said: "I was present at the Queen's execution to-day. You took off the Queen's fillet from her head and hid it. What price do you demand?" The man mentioned a fabulous sum. In a few weeks the same stranger called and produced the money. Sanson handed him the fillet, which the man kissed and put in his breast. It was Maurice de Brignon. The money was collected across the frontier by Talleyrand and sent by trusty messengers to his friend. XXVIII The Reign of Teebor Andr6 Chi^niek was right. On the death of the Queen, the Revolution embarked on a sea of blood. The wish of Marat, to whose memory fifteen thousand monuments were erected in the Communes of France, that two hun- dred thousand heads should fall, was about to be realized. In Paris, Robespierre commenced his Reign of Terror, which lasted for twelve months, during which the law of nature, "eat and be eaten," was put in savage force, the judges of to-day being the victims of to-morrow. The prisons were full, La Force, the Salpitriere, the Condergerie. Finally the palaces and public buildings, such as the Lux- embourg, were turned into jails where hundreds of all the nobihty, gentry, clergy, young and old, grey-headed generals who had fought the battles of their country on scores of battle-fields, scientists, poets, orators, ladies nur- tured in all the graces and sweetnesses of life, and little children, were incarcerated, temporarily, of course, for the gates of the prisons only closed to be opened on the scaffold. On the thirty-first of October, just a fortnight after the execution of the Queen, the Girondists, who had been four months in prison, were marched to the scaffold. They were the orators and poets of the Revolution. They were the first to pierce the dikes that held back the Revo- lution, hoping that its principles would trickle down in gentle, irrigating streams, and change the whole of France. But the deluge broke, and they were the first to be swept away. They marched to the scaffold, singing the Mar- seillaise, and bowed their heads bravely, yet with some- what of theatricality, under the axe. Vergniaud, Brissot, 256 THE REIGN OF TERROR 257 Lanjuinais, Guadet, Potion, were the most remarkable in that group of victims. How the ex-bishop of Autun, safe away in the London fogs, must have taken a pinch of snuff and smiled. "I told them. I foresaw it aU. They would not be forewarned. Robespierre and Danton are now in the ascendant. Which of these two will fall next?" For " eat and be eaten" — that is the law of revolutions. But, before we select from these two and cast their lots, a few more must marshal and point the way. Hubert, the unspeakable, who procured that document from the child Louis Charles Albert and read it at the revolutionary tribunal, when even Fouquier drew back from the horrible attempt, is becoming powerful. He has a gang behind him called H^bertists, growing a little more audacious and aggressive every day. Better cut the claws of the cubs before they grow big enough to tear and scratch. So, on the twenty-fourth of March in that year of Terror, 1794: Jacques-Ren^ Hubert, substitute of the national agent of the commune of Paris; Ronsin, man of letters, then commissary of war, assistant to minister of war, finally general in Revolutionary army; Momoro, bookseller and printer; Vincent, secretary-general to War Department; Laumur, ex-lieutenant of marines, colonel of infantry, and brigadier-general; Kock, banker; Anacharsis Klootz, man of letters, ex-deputy in National Convention; Armand, medical student; Ducroquet, hair-dresser; Mazuel, shoe- maker, embroiderer, aide-de-camp to Bouchotte, com- mander of squadron of cavalry, etc. ; Descomble, grocer's shopman; and a few women, marched or are marched along the Via Dolorosa to the Place de la Revolution, where Sanson, the imperturbable, the impartial, the one immovable figure in the horrible kaleidoscope of the Revolution, promptly and with consummate ease and sang-froid dispatches them. Sanson is getting used to his work, and performs it with much grace and facility. He keeps the sloping 258 THE QUEEN'S FILLET edge of that axe in excellent order; greases carefully the grooves through which it slides; keeps the lunette clean- washed from its daily bath of human gore; and sees that the basket, when inconveniently full of heads, shall be promptly emptied. He cuts the hair of his patients dexterously, lest the faUing axe should meet the least obstruction in its swift passage through the neck; ties their arms tightly, lest they should mar his operation by any unseemly struggles. But he leaves the rest to his assistant, such as washing away the red torrents in which he daily walks. And he sends an angry remonstrance to Robespierre, and demands a cartload of sand every morn- ing. He wants to stand firm on his feet, and he complains that blood is a slippery thing. Altogether, a supreme artist in his own way, and very proud of his handiwork. Then commenced that mighty duel between Robes- pierre and Danton — the fight between the hon and the serpent to which we have already alluded. They have jointly sent some hundreds to the. scaffold already, have embraced each other publicly with much protestation of fraternal affection; but as they kissed, each wondered, which shall it be? But Danton is prophetic : "All will go well so long as people say, 'Robespierre and Danton'; but, woe to me if ever they say, 'Danton and Robespierre'!" Alas! They have said it. And after a little futile rhetoric about passing away into everlasting nothingness, but leaving his name in the Pantheon of History, Danton, the lion-headed, the lion-hearted, second only to Mirabeau in eloquence, second only to Marat in treachery and cruelty, passes under the hands of Sanson. He has for comrades on the scaffold: Deglantine, man of letters; Joseph Launay, a lawyer; CamiUe Desmoulins, man of letters; Lacroix, soldier, lawyer, and deputy; Claude Bazire, commandant of guard, deputy in National Convention; H^rault de S6- chelles, deputy in National Convention; Despagnac, THE REIGN OF TERROR 259 ex-abb^ horse-dealer; Frey, army contractor; Diederin- chen, barrister in court of King of Denmark, etc. Two other names, with Georges-Jacques Danton, deputy in the National Convention, aged thirty-four, must not be forgotten. They are Frangois Chabot, ex-capuchin monk, and one of the monsters of the Revolution; and Frangois- Joseph Westermann, general of division, who, as we have seen, deluged Chatillon with blood the night on which the Vendeans drove him forth in disgrace. This was the fifth of April. The Revolution, with appalling swiftness, under the hand of Robespierre, is devouring its own children. A week later, on April 13th, another choice band of sanguinary sans-culottes, some of whom are already known to us, pass the same way: Jean-Baptiste Gobel, apostate Bishop of Paris, who had blessed the guillotine with solemn rites, now passes beneath it. With him are Arthur Dillon, ex-general of division; Beysser, brigadier-general of the army of the west; Gaspard Chaumette, agent of the commune of Paris, whose name is attached to that infamous document extorted from the young King; Marie-Marguerite-Fran^ goise Goupile, widow of Hubert; Bucher, commandant of National Guard; B arras, administrator of Toulouse; Lacombe, living on his means; Lebrasse, lieutenant of Gendarmerie; Anne-Lucille-Philippe-Laridon Duplessis, aged twenty-three, widow of CamiUe Desmouhns (she clung aroimd his neck when they were bearing him to the scaffold. The Revolution is merciful. It will not separate them); Duret, adjutant-general of the army of the Alps; LassaUe, naval officer; Nourry Grammont, who addressed to Marie-Antoinette a very shameful observa- tion that morning last October, when he was in supreme command of the forces, and she was led forth to die; Alexandre-Nourry Grammont, aged nineteen, his son; LepaUus, judge of the Revolutionary Committee of Feure, aged twenty-six; Lambert, turnkey of the Luxembourg prison; Lacroix, member of the Revolutionary Committee; 260 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Rameau, priest, aged forty-one; Brossard, secretary to Revolutionary Committee; Ragoudet, commandant of battalion, formerly horse-dealer, etc. Qa ira! Up and down goes the merry axe! How the heroic Vendeans and the martyred queen are already avenged! Clearly, this Robespierre is not a respecter of persons. AU who stand in his path must be set aside. For a moment he looks a little higher. He is sweeping away Girondins, Jacobins, Montagnards, Communists. It would look well to mingle with their foul blood on the scaffold something a little purer and better. He just remembers a certain Chr^tien-Guillamne-Lamoignon Malesherbes, ex-noble, ex-minister, aged seventy-two, who had the audacity to defend the late King, and volun- teered as his counsel. He promptly sends the old man to the scaffold, and, to show his impartiality, his more than Roman equity, he sends also on that twenty-second April the following: Despr^menil, ex-member, aged forty-eight; Thouret, ex-constituent, aged forty-eight; Lechappelier, ex-member, aged thirty-nine; Francois Hell, attorney-general syndic of Alsace, aged sixty-three; Antoinette-Marguerite- Th^r^e-Lamoignon Malesherbes, widow of Rozambo; Aline-Th6rfee-Lepelletier Rozambo, aged twenty-three, married to Chateaubriand; Jean-Baptiste-Auguste Cha- teaubriand, ex-noble, ex-captain of cavalry; Diane- Ade- laide Rochechouart, ex-noble, aged sixty-two; Victoire- Bouchet Rochechouart, ex-noble, aged forty-nine; Louis- Pierre Mousset, carpenter, formerly attorney-general of the commune of Donnery. A little higher still! Robespierre is ambitious. At seven o'clock in the evening of May 9th, certain per- sons appear at the Temple and present a letter from Fouquier-TinviUe to the members of the Council, Mouret, Eudes, Magendie, and Godefroi, demanding that the sister of Louis Capet should be at once delivered up into their THE REIGN OF TERROR 261 I hands. Madame Elisabeth is preparing to retire for the night, when she hears the bolts drawn, and the ominous words: "Citizeness, come downstairs directly; thou art wanted!" "Is my niece to remain here?" "That is no business of thine. She will be attended to afterwards." Madame embraces her young niece, who is weeping. "Be composed, my child. I'll come up again!" "No, thou wilt not come up again," says Eudes brutally. "Take thy cap, and come along!" In the council-chamber downstairs, she is searched with every manner of personal insult; crosses the garden under heavy rain, and is driven to the Conciergerie. Next day she is brought before the Revolutionary tribunal; and almost without the formality of a trial, sentenced to be executed. Chauveau-Legarde protests a httle. Dumas, President, silences counsel and reproaches him with " cor- rupting public morality." There is no more. Twenty- four are sentenced to death with Madame Elisabeth. (En parenthhe, it may be mentioned, that both Eudes and Dumas were guillotined the following July. Verily, Robespierre was no respecter of persons.) All are hud- dled together in the same tumbril, ex-nobles, ex-colonels, ex-canons, ten ladies of noble birth, one servant. They are resigned. The example of Madame Elisabeth has calmed their terror. They reach the scaffold. There are so many victims to-day, they have to be accommodated on a bench, waiting their turn to pass through the fearful ordeal. Madame de S^nozan, the sister of Malesherbes and widow of M. de Montmorin, begs permission to em- brace the Princess. Each victim, as he or she is called to execution, rises and bows low to her. She is the last. She is "the Saint of the Revolution." But the thirst for blood is increasing. Robespierre now sits aloft on his bloody pinnacle, the dread Ahriman of the Revolution. His name has become so terrible that .262 THE QUEEN'S FILLET no one dares even speak it. All Paris, all France, is trembling before him. His emissaries - are everywhere. People pass each other in the street afraid to be recog- nized, afraid to recognize. On the seventeenth of June, 1794, he sends fifty-four to the scaffold. He is wiping out the nobility of France. Such names as Rohan-Roche- fort, de Montbary, Depont, DauteviUe, appear on that dread list. And here is a name already familiar to us ■ — Sainte-Amaranthe. Our little C6cile is safe with Gene- vieve over there in the gray old castle above the western seas. The salt plains of the Marais are between her and the forces of the Revolution. But Madame, her mother, is in Paris, and with her are Charlotte-Rose, aged nine- teen, and Louis, aged seventeen. She is trembling for them. Would it not be well to propitiate this arch-devil? She decides, and invites Robespierre to dinner. She puts before him all that is rare and delicate, for he is a gour- mand and a petit-^maitre. He disdains the slovenliness of a Marat, and dresses like any fop of the boulevards — blue coat and gilt buttons, silk waistcoat falling to his knees, frilled shirt front, sparkling with diamonds, silk stockings and gold-buckled shoes, embroidered handkerchief, with which he wipes away the tears he has to shed over his many victims. Madame Sainte-Amaranthe entertains him royally. But he forgets himself, and indulges a little freely in wine. Next day his intimate, who had been invited to dinner with him, mentions rather casually a few incautious words that the tyrant had dropped the previous evening. Instantly he has the whole household arrested ; and time is precious ! Next day the whole house- hold, children, servants, and all, are sent to the scaffold. They are just twenty-four in number. Were not the people sick of aU this inhuman bloodshed? Some. Some revelled in it. Day by day, just at three o'clock, the tricoteuses assembled as at an out-of-door thea- tre in front of the scaffold. They brought some eatables and their knitting, and whiled away the time by making comments on Sanson and his victims. When the tum- THE REIGN OF TERROR 263 brils approached, they continued knitting, and watched the dread performance just before them with a httle interest. It was becoming monotonous. Yet they always murmured Bravo! when the axe fell, and they would not miss a single entertainment for the world. On the rare days when no executions took place, the gamins of Paris gave due notice: Le jeu ne va pas, aujourd'hui* Once, these "leeches of -the Revolution" were hushed into silence, and once they almost shed tears. On May 28th fourteen young girls, dressed in white as if for their marriage feast, were led forth to execution. They had been brought in from Verdun, and their crime was that, somewhere back in 1792, they had been seen offering bouquets of flowers to the King of Prussia when he entered that town. They were young and beautiful, and they formed a pretty picture, as they appeared on that scaffold, their young opening Uves appearing to many like the opening of flowers in the spring-time. They are allowed to sit down, and the executioner is at once busy shearing away the dark or sunny tresses from their fair young heads. They weep a little as they await the dread moment. One is bidden to rise. Her arms are tied tightly, and her feet, and she is laid, without any rudeness, for the executioners are now quick and expert, on the narrow plank. She is pushed forward. Sanson looks to see that all is right. Then releases the axe, and the fair young head, bleeding from the severed arteries, roUs into the basket. He holds it up, dripping and haK alive. Then drops it. The girls put their hands before their eyes. The body is thrown aside. The white vesture is no longer immaculate; and another victim is called, and another, and another. It took just an hour. It was pitiable. Even the furies of the Revolution forgot to cheer. A few days after^ a strange chant is heard on the streets of Paris. It is the Salve Regina, and it is sung aU the way along the crowded streets by twenty-four nuns of * There is no fun on to-day! 264 THE QUEEN'S FILLET the Abbey of Montmartre, who have come forth from the Condergerie for the scaffold. No one, brutal soldier, or stiU more brutal poissarde, dares to interfere. The vast crowd is hushed into silence. All along the streets, up the steps of the scaffold, and on the scaffold, the mourn- ful, but triumphant music never ceases. They stand calmly awaiting their fate, old nuns tottering into eter- nity, young novices in their white veils, standing on the threshold of life. Reverend Mother asks a favour — to be the last! She wants to spare her yoimg flock the horror of seeing their shepherdess murdered, and she wishes to remain, in order to sustain the faith and courage of all. Once again they commence the solemn strain, as the youngest novice is bidden to rise. The executioners approach to tear off her white veil. Reverend Mother interposes. That is her duty, as it was her privilege to place it in the Convent Chapel on the fa-ir young head. So, too, she demands the privilege of cutting close for the axe the fair hair that has grown somewhat, since she sacrificed it a few weeks ago at her reception and clothing. Then the child kneels down and asks her mother's blessing, rises, and receives her mother's last kiss. She then is passed into the hands of the executioner, and her young life is extinguished. One of the novices shrieks out in terror. The Abbess puts her fingers to her lips, and says reprovingly: "Sister!" But the chant goes on. It is her Epithalamium and Nunc Dimittis, all together. The Ucheuses turn away their eyes. Another, and another rises and passes through the same dread ordeal, and still the chant goes on, tiU at last the Mother Abbess alone remains. She closes the sublime canticle: Clemens! Pia! dulcis Virgo Maria! lays down her office-book, and for the first time looks around. It needs all her faith to believe that God is still in his heavens. The twenty-three decapitated bodies lie around her, in one attitude or another, the severed arteries still pumping out torrents of blood. The basket has been emptied again and again on the dread stage, and the bleeding head^ THE REIGN OF TERROR 265 are everywhere. She closes her eyes and submits herself to the executioner. The horrible carnage is over, yet deep silence holds the hps of the mob around. There is no dancing the Carmagnole to-day. The Salve Regina has conquered. The residents in the vicinity demand that the place of execution be changed. Robespierre consents. He is sensitive to popular opinion. He, who is making France tremble, is shivering on the brink of his own destruction. The guillotine is removed to the Place St- Antoine on June 2d, and to the Barrier de Tr6ne in the Faubourg St-Antoine on the seventh. Dreadful, however, as is the systematic carnage ordered and carried out in Paris by the revolutionary tribunal under the presidency of Robespierre, it is not quite so horrible as the butcheries that take place in the prov- inces. Couthon, crippled and paralysed, and Fouch6 have gone south to erase the city of Lyons on account of some insubordinations, and to decimate the inhabitants. CoUot d'Herbois accompanies them. He has a special grudge against the Lyonnese, for ten years before, they had hissed his play off the stage. His time for revenge has come. Fouch^ has gone before him, and prepared the minds of the citizens for what was coming by writing over churches and churchyards the legend: Death is an eternal sleep! He also canonizes a certain Chalier, who had met a violent death at the hands of the citizens, and had a horrible burlesque of the Mass performed in the public streets, before committing to the flames the vest- ments, crucifixes, and chalices of the churches. Then the destruction and massacre commenced. Couthon, paralysed and deformed, is roUed around in his bath- chair, and marks with a piece of chalk the houses and pubhc buildings that are to be destroyed. Instantly the soldiers and gendarmerie precipitate themselves on the doomed buildings, and with gunpowder and fire, leave nothing behind them but smoking ruins. CoUot d'Her- bois has charge of the executions. Every day, from 266 THE QUEEN'S FILLET fifteen to fifty persons are led to the scaffold. They are the wealthiest or most distinguished people in the city. Wives and daughters watch the tumbrils pass by where streets converge, fling themselves on the ground, and are crushed, or better stUl, are taken up and along to execu- tion. There is no trial. It is their own wish. Some of them, in a passionate spirit of self-sacrifice and devotion, offer their honour to the tyrant in order to save their beloved ones, and then have the horror and despair of finding that, although the horrible bribe has been accepted, it avails nothing. The carnage goes on all the same. But Collot d'Herbois, like Fouquier, grows impatient. The guillotine does its work well; but it is slow. He orders out sixty of the victims who are in his dungeons, has them tied together with a long rope attached here and there to trees beneath which two enormous trenches have been ■ dug. He then has cannon placed at each end of the long file, the fuse is applied, and. the air is filled with human fragments, heads, legs, and arms, and pieces of human flesh; and the ground is covered with writhing and muti- lated bodies which the soldiers pierce with their bayonets or blow to pieces with their muskets. But this is still too slow. Next day two hundred and nine victims are brought out, tied in a similar manner, and blown to pieces in the same manner. Fouch4 and Collot d'Herbois watch the scene from a safe distance, then dine at a public res- taurant with the chief courtesans of the city. In the west of France, Le Bon and Carrier rival their colleagues in brutality. Le Bon selects Arras for his theatre of operations, and Carrier selects Nantes. These westerns, Vendean Catholics, have given some trouble to our Republican troops, and have dishonoured the Repub- lican flag. They have been taught some sharp lessons abeady, but they need something more drastic and em- phatic. In a few weeks, Le Bon sends two thousand victims to the scaffold, and his thirst for blood seems to increase. Here, too, women sacrifice their honour to save their husbands, or children or brothers, only to see these THE REIGN OF TERROR 267 self-same beloved ones instantly ordered to execution. Le Bon not only kills bodies, but corrupts souls. He has infused into the hearts of the little boys the same fiendish spirit of murder with which he is animated, and toy guillotines are sold in all the warehouses, with which the children of the city amuse themselves by chopping off the heads of birds and mice. Le Bon is impartial too. Whilst toying with the tresses of his mistresses, he whis- pers: " What a pretty neck for the knife ! Which shall it be?" Over in Nantes, Carrier outdid his rivals in fiendish barbarity. Here, too, the axe glittered, and heads fell day after day; but Carrier is ingenious. He despises ordinary methods of murder, and devises perfectly novel methods of brutalizing and destroying human life. It was his credit to invent the famous Noyades, with which his name is eternally connected: the junction of the living with the dead, of livid and decomposing corpses with fair young maidens, breast to breast, and face to face; of the old with young, of children with their parents, preparatory to be flung, a living freight, into the river. It was he that drove eighty priests on board a hulk, and then had it moored in the centre of the river. The car- penters of the Republic approach in boats, drive holes through the hull, until it is scuttled and sinks with its freight of eighty hving beings into the mud and ooze of the Loire. It was he * that punished a weeping widow for her crime by placing her, face upward, under the axe that had severed her husband's head, and kept her there, his blood dripping down on her face, until death merci- fully released her. It was he that ordered out five hun- dred children to be murdered. The little ones think it is play until they see the guns of the gendarmerie levelled at them. They shriek, run forward, and clasp the knees of the men, crying pitifully for mercy. The brutal officers thrust the children from them and blow them to pieces, or stab them with their bayonets. Mariners coming in * It was not'Carrier, but Le Bon at Bordeaux. 268 THE QUEEN'S FILLET from the sea, complain that navigation is ahnost impos- sible owing to the multitude of dead bodies that are swept along, josthng one another to where the Loire disembogues into the ocean. For three weeks, the river runs blood; and strange and terrible monsters come up from the depths of the sea — huge conger-eels, hke vast constrictors, to batten on the dead bodies which are swept out by the receding tide. Verily, the nation is avenged. The prophecies of the Sibyl of the Woods to young Ren6 Pereyra have been more than fulfilled. Yet, the thirst for blood is not extinguished. The leaders in Paris and the provinces feel that the moment they stay their hands, an outraged and tortured people will strike back and hurl them in the common ruin. XXIX Exit Tyrannus! It was a kind of fascination, the fascination of seeking death, which ever fled before him, that kept Maurice de Brignon in Paris during the Terror. He was also in touch with the brave de Batz, the one man in all France whom Robespierre was unable to touch; and the one man he most dreaded. It is one of the mysteries of the time that de Batz was able to baffle the spies and mercenaries of the Revolution, who were everywhere. It was well known to Robespierre that he was in the city; but every attempt to discover his hiding-place had failed. And it shows more than any other circumstance the astonishing blending of fidehty and ferocity that animated these RepubUcans, that it was with a member of the revolutionary party de Batz was living all this time; and that his retreat was no secret to many. Maurice and he met often, deeply dis- guised, of course; and there was a hope in their hearts that some day some Brutus-hand would smite this awful tyrant and liberate France. Then again, a little child had been born imto him — another Adele; and he had known it but he had never seen her. He dared not go near Emmehne. The house was watched; and old Reinhard himself would at once denounce him to the revolutionary tribunal. And again, his old affection for Andr^ Ch^nier detained him. He knew that, sooner or later, the net which was spread on every side would enclose the Httle singing-bird of Versailles; and now CoUot d'Herbois had come back from Lyons; and his frightful battues of human beings in the. southern capital had only whetted still more his appetite for blood. The cry of more blood resounded 269 270 THE QUEEN'S FILLET everywhere. Whilst the people who sympathized with the revolution had grown sick of all this blood-shedding, and the very lecheuses forgot their three-legged stools, the leaders of the tribunal seemed to be maddened by this awful thirst for human sacrifices. "Let us put," said Vadier, "a wall of heads between the people and ourselves." "The revolutionary tribunal," said Billaud-Varerme, "thinks it has made a great effort when it strikes off seventy heads a day; but the people are easily habituated to what they always behold. To inspire terror we must double the number." Hence all the prisons and palaces of Paris and the provinces were now full. And here were incarcerated multitudes of men and women, representatives of all that was gracious, or beautiful, or intellectual in France. The iimer dungeons were reserved for prisoners especially obnoxious to the tyrants. No light or air ever entered those hideous holes, which were never opened except for the daily inspection, or to thrust in some unwholesome food. They were never cleaned; and imagination can easily picture the horrors of those dens, the stifling atmos- phere, the filthy floors and walls, the reeking odours, the inky darkness, and the deep despair. Outside of these were the straw apartments, whose occupants were allowed out into the yards for daily recreation, and where at least the Ught of day penetrated. And yet their fate was hardly better, because the yards were simply masses of ordure beds, whose frightful stench infected the surrounding air. There, women as weU as men, all the rank and beauty of Paris, generals in the Republican army, and captains of hostile Chouans, were imprisoned, awaiting, day after day, the terrible hour when the tumbrils will roll into the court- yard, and the municipal officer will take from his pocket the fatal list of the sixty or seventy who are summoned to execution. No one knows on whom the fatal lot will fall. Outside, weeping women with their babes in their arms, stand all day, eagerly watching to catch a glimpse behind the barred windows of husband or father or brother. ;exit tyrannus! 271' But the Revolution is merciful. And that little gratifica- tion is barred by a huge boarding which the municipaUty builds up, and which screens every window in the prison from outer observation. And the first glimpse they receive of their beloved ones is when they behold them, huddled on the fatal cart, that slowly wends its way along the crowded thoroughfares to where Sanson is awaiting them. One httle ray of hope seemed to flicker across this blackened and tempest-tossed horizon. The tyrant whose name shook France to the centre had suddenly become a subject of derision. What the poniard of a Charlotte Corday, or the poison of a Borgia could not do, was done swiftly and effectively by contempt and ridicule. Inflated by a sense of unhmited power, yet shivering over the abyss which he knew yawned on every side around him, Robes- pierre at last fell a victim to his vanity; or was it that his very crimes, hideous and multitudinous as they were, had driven him into the insanity of despair? A certain maniac, named Catherine Th6ot, proclaimed that she was the mother of God; and that Robespierre was the second Messiah. So terrible had his name become, that at once letters showered in upon him from all parts of France addressed to the "Envoy of God," the "New Messiah," the "Modern Orpheus." His portrait was everywhere surroimded with flowers. Mothers had their children called by the dread name. Apparently, he had become the idol of all France. But, beneath all that, were the qxiips and jokes that made merry vnth. their god; and terrible reminders came to him from time to time that his teniu-e of power should be very short. "You yet live," said one letter, "assassin of your country, stained with the purest blood of France. I wait only the time when the people shall strike the hour of your fall. Should my hope prove vain, this hand which now writes thy sentence, this hand which thy bewildered eye seeks in vain, this hand which presses thine with horror, shall pierce thee to the heart. Every day I am with thee; every hour my up- hfted arm is ready to cut short thy life. Vilest of men, 272 THE QUEEN'S FILLET' live yet a few days to be tortured by the fear of ,my ven- geance; sleep to dream of me; let my image and thy fear be the first prelude of thy punishment. This very night in seeing thee I shall enjoy thy terrors; but thine eye shall seek in vain my avenging form." All this time our little poet, Andr6 Ch^nier, was hidden at Versailles, waiting and watching closely the current of events. Yet he was by no means silent. In ode and epode and satire and pasquinade, sometimes writing with the passionate eloquence of an Isseus, and sometimes with all the dainty but penetrating sarcasm of a Pascal, he attacked the furies of the Revolution, and made many of them wince with anger, whilst they shivered with fear. On the memorable day when Charlotte Corday was led to the scaffold in the red garb of a murderess, and when many young Frenchmen would have been glad to stand by her side, Andr6 wrote an ode breathing out ,his passionate admiration for his heroine, his passionate scorn for himself and others. "Thou alone wast a man! Thou hast avenged humanity; whilst we, unmanned, unsexed, a soulless herd of poltroons, repeated a thousand womanly and plaintive cries, for our trembling hands were too weak to grasp the dagger!" It is probable that if he had remained at Versailles he might have escaped the vengeance of Robespierre and CoUot d'Herbois, because both his father and brother, who were members of the Committee of Pubhc Safety, had influence enough to have him forgotten or ignored. But events in Paris were moving in such a whirlwind of ruin and destruction that he could not" keep aloof. Some of his dearest friends had already been sacrificed; and some feehng of chivalrous honour bade him leave his safe retreat and share the public danger. Even in Paris he could have escaped, but he was driven onwards by some dread fascination, as if he coveted the distinction of dying with so many brave men, and at the hands of wretches whom he scorned and despised. There was one friend, particu- larly, who, like Malesherbes, had sternly breasted the EXIT TYRANNUS! 273 storm all along, and who had never ceased to lift his voice against violence and carnage. This was M. Pastoret. One evening in the March of that year, 1794, Andr6 heard that this good man had been arrested. Heedless of his own danger, he flew to the house to offer his sympathy and proffer what assistance he could. A group of commis- sionnaires arrive to make a more thorough search; recog- nize Andr^; and, as his name was on the list of six thousand suspects, he was instantly arrested, and taken to the Luxembourg. Here the jailer refused to receive him, without a duly-signed warrant. He was instantly taken across the city to St-Lazare, where he was promptly put imder lock and key. Just at the same moment his eldest brother had also been arrested. Instantly the father rushed around from deputy to deputy, entreating, imploring that his sons may be saved. One concession alone would Barr^re give. The name of Andr6 was placed at the end of the list of the proscribed. And so our little singing-bird is caught and caged at last. But as an imprisoned lark will sing more rapturously when its cage is darkened; so Andr^ Ch&iier, in the dark- ness of his dungeon, gave full vent to his passion for song. And if ever there were scenes and subjects for tragic poetry, or immortal odes, surely it was there, where all that re- mained of what was fairest and most beautiful and most intellectual in France was gathered together, with one common and swiftly-approaching doom hanging over all. They beguiled the weary time not in sighing and weeping aimlessly and despairingly about their unhappy lot; but they brought all the graces and sweetnesses that made their former lives of gilded simshine, into the gloomy dungeon; and whiled away the time with song and jest and charade, until their very jailers forgot that they were prisoners awaiting a gloomy death. Whatever be said about the French nobility of the old regime, and the vani- ties and crimes that precipitated the Revolution, their worst enemies must admit that they faced death with 274 THE QUEEN'S FILLET the serenity of ancient heroes. The fate they had tempted, they met with magnificent equanimity. Here Andr6 was at home. He wrote some of his most beautiful verses here on the young goddesses who shared with him their little luxuries; and from that gloomy prison he continued with fiery zeal and magnificent courage to send to the Journal de Paris philippic after phifippic against the tyrants who held their slender lives in their hands. He (id not wish to die, he wrote, "without stabbing, without trampling under foot, without blasting and rolling in the mud these butchers; without spitting on their names, and chanting their destruction." The tears of a distracted father were of httle use when words like these were burning in the breasts of Robespierre and his associates. Hence, one day, one of the many days, when his father approached the members of the revolutionary tribunal, begging and imploring mercy, Barr^re made the oracular reply: "Leave me now, leave me now. Monsieur. I promise that in three days your son shall come forth from St-Lazare." And so one day in midsummer, July 24th, just at noon, the death-roll was called by the jailer at St-Lazare; and at the head of the list stood the name of Andr6 Ch^nier. No wonder that Joseph should upbraid his father with causing his brother's death. Better would it have been if the old man had allowed his gifted son to be for- gotten. They are promptly taken to the Conciergerie, where the dread Fouquier-Tinville sits in judgment. The bloody shadow that filled his eyes since the day when he saw the twenty-four nuns of Montmartre massacred, has not disappeared. It accompanies him everywhere. His eyes are filled with blood; and with an insatiable thirst for blood is his heart consumed. But he is tired of sentencing prisoners that day; and Andr6 and his companions have a respite. EXIT TYRANNUS! 275 Meanwhile, it is evident that the throne on which Ahriman is seated is shaken to its foundations; that the reign of Robespierre is about to end. Oh, for a few days' respite! oh, for the power of putting back that trial even for three days! So cries out Joseph Ch^nier, the devoted brother, who sees clearly that Tallien holds the reins of sovereignty in his hands; and that the Reign of Terror is about to end. But who can avert the decrees of Fate? Early in the morning of July 25th Andr6 Ch^nier and forty-four companions are arraigned. The usual charges are made of having helped the tyrant, Capet, etc. There is no defence; no possibility of defence. The sentence is: "Instant Death!" Very well then, we know how to die, and with more than Roman fortitude. Yet, one little pang rends the heart of the young poet, the one regret that embitters the death-struggle of every man of genius! That more time is not given for that great work that hes there, an embryo, and unborn. "What is your greatest work?" "The poem I never wrote, the picture I never painted, the speech I never uttered, the idol I never carved!" "And yet," said Andre, when he had heard his sentence, striking his forehead, "there was something here!" Quite so. Something there, which you would have gladly given to the world — something even finer and better than La Jeune Captive, which has immortahzed Aim& de Coigny; but, you see, Robespierre too is a poet, but a mediocre one; and Collot d'Herbois is a playwright, but a bad one. What will you have? Can the hawk spare the nightingale because of his nocturnal melodies? Well, if he cannot get time to write that great epic, or that immortal ode, at least he will leave a few valedictory lines to the world he is about to leave. He takes his leave of life thus: 276 THE QUEEN'S FILLET " As the sun's last flashing ray, As the last cool breeze from the shore, Cheer the close of a dying day. Thus I strike my lyre once more. As now by the scaffold I wait Each moment of time seems the last, For the clock, like a finger of fate. Points onwards and onwards fast. Perchance ere the hand goes round, Perchance ere I hear the beat Of the measured and vigilant sound Of its sixty sonorous feet, The sleep of the tomb will close On my wearied lids and eyes, Befofre each thronging thought that glows Can have taken fitting guise. And One, bearing death in his hand, Like a grim recruiter of shades, Will come with his murderous hand. And, amid the clangour of blades. Fill all these gloomy corridors With resoundings of my name — " * He stops there. It is the last prolonged note of the poet who is summoned to the shades: "Compose le 7 Thermidor, au matin, peu d' instants avant d'aller au supplice." Say your farewells, brave heart! To those beautiful and bright ones who threw sunshine into your prison, and whose very presence purified the loathsomeness of your dungeon; to your brave comrades, whose magnificent courage you would like to have chanted in lyric verses * Comme un dernier rayon, comme un dernier z6phyre Anime la fin d'un beau jour Au pied de l'6chafaud j'essaie encore ma lyre Peut^fetre est-ce bient6t mon tour; Peut-etre avant que I'heure en cercle promente Ait pos6 sur I'^mail brillant Dans les soixante pas oii sa route est bom^e Son pied sonore et vigilant, , Le sommeil du tombeau pressera ma paupiSre; Avant que de ses deux moiti^s Cea vers que je commence ait atteint la demiire, Peut-^tre en ces murs effray^s Le messager de mort, noir recruteur des ombres, Escorts d'inf Ames soldats Remplira de mon nom ces longs corridors sombres — EXIT TYRANNUSI 277 greater than Pindar's; to these two brothers, the Trudaines, who are to follow you to-morrow! Take your place here on the same plank with Roucher, your brother-poet; and, forgetting the brutal faces aroimd you, chant along the boxilevards the immortal lines of Andromague. Don't mind those claqueurs of the Revolution. They are paid for it; or they have to save their own wretched Uves. See, many are turning aside weeping — young women, at seeing such gallant youths ruthlessly sacrificed; young men, whose hands are itching for the poniard to strike at the hand of the tyrant. But The chant suddenly ceases; and Andr6 stares with all his eyes at two figvu-es that stand, side by side, at the comer of a narrow street. One hfts his hand, and kisses farewell — a long farewell ! The tumbrils roll on and away and the friends have parted for ever. "At last," says a deep voice in Mavuice's ears, as he watches the fatal cart fade away in the distance; and a heavy hand is laid on his shoulder. " I have been seeking you a long time, and you have escaped me. I arrest you now, Maurice de Brignon, in the name of the Republic." He turned roimd and recognized Dubuisson, the burly smith of St-Remy. Then, suddenly there was the flash and report of a pistol, a cloud of smoke; Dubuisson's heavy hold relaxed, and he stumbled on the pavement; and a strong hand clutched Maurice's arm, and he heard a voice: "Quick! This way! For your life!" It was de Batz. They ran along the narrow lane, then through one tortuous winding after another, imtil they again came in sight of the timibrils, and mingled safely with the jeering crowd. Two days later, July 27th — only two days, and the frightful tyranny is ended by a singular coalition. Jaco- bins of the Mountain and Girondists of the Plain meet and unite. "You weep for Vergniaud," says TaUien to the latter; "we weep for Danton. Let us unite their shades 278 THE QUEEN'S FILLET by smiting Robespierre." And they did. In the Con- vention it was clear at a glance that Robespierre's power had departed. It is true that St-Just stood up in his defence; and that Henriot, generally drunk, always brutal, has the National Guard behind him. But Tallien with tremendous eloquence silences the former: "It is the whole Convention which Robespierre now proposes to destroy; he is resolved that there shall be no sanctuary for freedom; no retreat for the friends of the Republic. He has in consequence resolved to destroy you all; yes, this very day, aye, in a few hours. Two thousand assassins have sworn to execute his designs; I myself last night heard their oaths; and fifty of my col- leagues heard them with me. Let us instantly take meas- ures commensurate with the magnitude of our danger. Let us declare our sittings permanent, till the conspiracy is broken and its chiefs arrested. I have no difiiculty in naming them; I have followed their steps through their bloody conspiracy. I name Dumas, the atrocious Presi- dent of the Revolutionary Tribunal; I name Henriot, the infamous Commander of the National Guard!" And so the issues are knit. It is now, Sauve qui pevi! Who shall go to the scaffold next, you, Robespierre, or I, TaUien? Robespierre sits silent. He feels the hand of Fate upon him! His hour has struck. The pitted, sallow face grows green with hate and fear. Tallien mercilessly pur- sues his victory, pouring in charge after charge on the wretch that cringes before him. Robespierre tries to shout: "It is false! I- — " But his voice is droAvned in a tempest of anger and scorn. He turns towards the Girondist benches in despair. They avert their eyes and exclaim: "Turn away thy gaze from these benches. Dost thou not know that Vergniaud and Condorcet have sat. here?" "Pure and virtuous citizens," he says to the deputies on the right in his old canting, hypocritical way, "will you give me the Hberty of speech these assassins refuse? " EXIT TYRANNUS! 279 They look at him in dead and portentous silence; whilst shouts of "Never, never!" are hurled at him from the opposite side. He sinks down exhausted, and gasping for breath. "Scelerat," says a voice from the Mountain, "you are choked with the blood of Danton!" At last, a voice, that of Loiseau, cries: "I demand the arrest of Robespierre!" "Agreed, agreed!" And instantly, the two Robespierres, Couthon, Lebas, St- Just, Dumas, and Henriot are ordered to be placed under arrest, and conducted to prison, where afterwards Robes- pierre occupied the same cell in which Danton and Chau- mette were lodged. And now Paris is in commotion. The news flies along that the dread tyrant is at last hors de hi. Still fearful, but with a new-bom hope dawning in their hearts, the people begin to breathe freely. At last, at last! Friends silently grip hands in secret; and women lift their de- spairing faces towards heaven. Secret signals are made to prisoners, who are every moment awaiting the tumbrils, not to despair. Paris breathes freely; but cannot find breath enough as yet to utter its paeans of delivery. For Hemiot is marshalUng his soldiers, and sending defiant messages to the Convention and encouraging words to his fallen chief. He flies aroimd, shouting: "To arms! To arms!" Suddenly, he comes face to face with the carts of the condemned, in which forty-nine prisoners, the last batch of victims, are being borne to execution. The crowd stop them, and demand their release. San- son, long since sick of blood, supports the crowd. But Henriot, carrying out the spirit of his chief to the last, orders the carts forward; and the victims go to death. He returns towards the Convention, but is seized and handcuffed by two deputies, and conducted to the Com- mittee of General Safety. Meanwhile Robespierre is sent to the Luxembourg prison, where the very conscientious jailer refuses to admit him. Yoimg Robespierre goes to 280 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Saint-Lazare," Couthon to the "Bourbe," St-Just to the "Ecossais." But they have friends amongst the magistrates and the officers of the municipality, who at once despatch detachments to hberate them. Robes- pierre, released, is brought in triumph to the Hotel de Ville; here is soon joined by his brother and St-Just. Two hundred caimoniers deliver Henriot. Clearly all is not lost as yet, on that momentous evening. The Convention meets at seven o'clock. News has come up that the people are in insurrection and have by force liberated the leaders. Nay, the insurgents are march- ing on the Convention, dragging along their cannon, lighted fuses in their hands to batter down the walls and blow Talhen and his deputies to pieces. It is a supreme moment, when the least timidity will mean the victory and reinstatement of Robespierre, and the prompt execu- tion of every deputy at the Convention. Hemiot has his cannoniers and his National Guard; and who can resist him? Tallien is equal to the occasion. With just a little theatricality which is never absent from this frightful tragedy, he folds his toga around him, and says: " The hour has arrived to die at our posts." And they all wrap their robes about them, like Csesar at the foot of Pompey's statue, and say: " We are ready to diet" But there is some fighting power left; and Tallien stakes everything on one bold stroke, remembering Dan- ton's motto: "Toujours I'audace!" In an instant he proposes to outlaw the Triumvirs; to depose Henriot; to appoint Barras in supreme command of the mifitary forces, with Fr&on, Rover6, Bourdon de Loiseau, as adjutants. They adjourn to the rooms of the Committee of Public Safety; and issue a peremptory demand to the sections; and they summon the munici- pality to attend at once at the bar of the Assembly. It was a magnificent piece of audacity, considering the fact EXIT TYRANNUS! 281 that the sections and the municipaUty had just rescued Robespierre and his companions from their grasp. An insolent message is sent back: "Yes! We shall come to your bar, but at the head of an insurgent people!" Clearly the crisis has come! The Convention is chal- lenged. They are powerless, armless. The insurgents have all the armed force of Paris behind them. Yet the newly appointed commanders of the force march out from the Convention, to assert their rights sanctioned by law. Henriot is haranguing the cannoniers on the Place de Carrousel, just behind the Tuileries. He is pouring out all the eloquence of despair; for on their decision hangs his fate and the fate of France. He wants them to wheel round their guns and fire on the Convention, as a certain young officer, named Bonaparte, did later on in the drama. They hesitate. After all, the Convention is the legislature, and represents the coimtry. Henriot, dispirited, with- draws to the Hdtel de Ville and his cannoniers follow. Instantly, the Convention assumes the offensive. The tocsin is soimded, the gineraleis beaten. The people take up arms. Their hour has come. And midnight beholds in the gleam of torchlight processions all Paris in military commotion; and the sound of cannon and ammunition- wagons awake the echoes of the night. The emissaries of the municipaUty arrive first; but the National Guard hesitates and wavers. To whom does it owe allegiance? Presently, the deputies of the Conven- tion arrive. They read by the glare of torchhght the decrees of the Convention appointing Barras commander- in-chief with sub-lieutenants. The soldiers no longer hesitate. The battaUons, numbering three thousand men, march to the Convention, defile through the hall amid tumultuous applause. The decisive moment has arrived. Barras, leaving behind a few cannon and a regiment to guard the Convention, puts himself at once at the head of the mihtary, and marches under the faint 282 THE QUEEN'S FILLET rays of the moon to the Place de drive, where Henriot and his insurgents are massed. The rebel forces nmnber two thousand with some pieces of artillery and a disorganized mob armed with pikes and knives. There is wild enthusiasm. Robespierre and Henriot are there; and their eloquence has inflamed the passion of the people to fever heat. They are hoping and expecting that the National Guard will declare for them. Sounds of tumult come from afar, and the deep thunder of rolling cannon and the tramp of an army; and immedi- ately under the hght of a thousand torches the gleaming bayonets and shakos of the National Guard are seen. They are marching in from every street, and they promptly put ten pieces of artillery in position and hght their matches. The cannoniers of the municipality, on the other side, accept the challenge, and place their guns so as to enfilade every approach. It is the crisis of the Revolution. Shall it be the commencement of civil war, worse than that in La Vendue; or shall a sense of patriotism prevail? Clearly, there is wavering in the insurgent ranks. Some of the soldiers glide away in the darkness and join the Guards. Henriot stands stupefied, drunk. The deputies of the Convention step forward, and read under torchlight the solemn decree of the Convention. A certain commander speaks in rough mihtary eloquence to the cannoniers. They throw down their matches and trample them, whilst cries of Vive la Convention arise on all sides. In a few minutes the combined troops march back tO barrack and cantonment; and Henriot is left alone. ' ' Toujour s I'audace ! ' ' Upstairs on that fatal midnight, the conspirators are assembled. Couriers rush up from time to time to tell how things are going. They expect every moment to hear beneath the windows the thunder of artillery, and the crash of musketry, and the shouts of insurgent munici- pals claiming victory. The silence is ominous. What does it mean? At last, Henriot, mad with drink and de- EXIT TYRANNUS! 283 spair, rushes upstairs to tell that all is over; and rushes downstairs again to vent his fury on the few straggling followers who are left. Silent and grim as death, the grenadiers of the Guard, who are left behind to watch that Hotel de Ville, stand to arms in the square, to watch the denoHment of the mighty tragedy, and take a part, if necessary. A few words are spoken by their com- manders; and then two of them. Bourdon de I'Oise and Meda, armed with pistols and sabres, dash upstairs. Robespierre sits, in an attitude of despair, elbow on knee, and head resting on his hand. Meda fires, and the shat- tered jaw of the tyrant drops down, and his right eye, dislodged from its socket, hangs by one or two tendons on his cheek. Henriot has been flung from the window by his friends, and with broken limbs he creeps away to a sewer to hide. St-Just implores Lebas to shoot him. "Coward!" says Lebas, "follow my example!" And he scatters his own brains by a pistol-shot over the place. Crippled Couthon tries to drive a knife into his heart; but resolution fails him. Coffinhal and young Robespierre fling themselves into the court-yard from the window, and are promptly arrested. Robespierre and Couthon, supposed to be dead, are dragged along the quay to be flimg into the river; but as they are found to be yet alive, they are brought back to the Convention, where they are contemptuously refused admit- tance; thence to the Committee of Public Safety. There, in the salle d'avdience, they lie for nine hours on a table, a spectacle of horror, hatred, and contempt. At six o'clock in the morning a doctor arrives, binds up that broken jaw, takes away the shattered teeth, and places a vessel of cold water near at hand with which Robespierre may wash the foam and blood from his mouth, for no one else will do him that office. Crowds pass by, and spit on the fallen tyrant. Certain officials, who trembled before him yesterday, amuse themselves to-day by pricking him with their penlmives. Over in the prisons, strange rumours are afloat; strange, wonderful, and dazzlmg hopes are 284 THE QUEEN'S FILLET rising. All night long, even in their gloomy cells, the prisoners heard the strange rumbhng noises that beto- kened military movements, heard the strange cries and shouts that marked at least a disturbance of the existing order. A jailer is heard kicking his dog, and saying: "Get away, you cur, you Robespierre!" Strange, ominous words! What has occurred? Or is the man gone mad to utter such a blasphemy? Down in the covut-yard of one prison, a woman is seen in the early hours of that twenty-eighth of July, making strange signs. She lifts up the skirts of her dress, and shakes them; then picks up a stone, and shows it to the prisoners there far up behind the iron shutters of their jail. Then she draws her hand across her throat. What does the pantomime mean? She repeats it, and smiles or rather laughs out in mad excitement. At last the cryptic meaning of her rude symbolism dawns on their distracted minds. "Robes" — clearly; "pierre" quite so! and that gesture across her neck? Ah! that is too good to be true! Yes! It was a little premature. At noon Robespierre arises from his couch of pain; shakes himself together, puts on a look of stolid impassivity, whilst his guard beckons to him, and he takes his place in the cart that takes him to the Condergerie. There the jailer, with a little smile on his rude features, and, with conscious or imconscious irony, places him in the very cell, where Danton, Chau- mette, and Hubert were lodged. Thence at night he and his associates are brought before the Revolutionary tri- bunal, identified, and promptly comdemned. Were the shades of Danton, Camille Desmoulins, Vergniaud, Brissot, looking on? Thence back to his cell, where there is no time even for a last sleep. And there is no sleep that night in Paris. The theatres are thronged as usual; and their doors are flung ©pen at midnight to disgorge the multitudes, who adjourn to caf6 or hotel, awaiting the real drama that is about to be enacted. At four o'clock on July 29th all Paris is out of doors and all Paris is en fite. The streets are black with EXIT TYRANNUS! 285 people; the windows are filled with sight-seers; the very- roofs swarm with humanity relieved of a frightful incubus, and breathing once more the intoxicating air of liberty. Friends who shunned each other for the last twelve months, now embrace effusively. Women laugh hysterically, tears blending with their joy for the dear, dead ones who are gone. The people have gone mad with new-found freedom. At last there is a hush of expectation; and slowly the carts come forth from the Condergerie. Robes- pierre is in the last, lying down, eyes closed, with the blood-stained napkin aroimd his throat. Couthon sits near him. A shout of execration rises and is carried along the vast masses of spectators. It is mingled with hot curses from mothers who have been made childless, women who have been widowed, orphans whose fathers have passed this way. The cart passes into the Rue St- Honor^ where Robespierre lived. The people stop it; and a woman, young and beautifully dressed, steps over and hisses into the ears of the fallen tyrant: "Monster, your death overwhelms me with delight! Why cannot you die a thousand times over? Descend to hell with the curses of all the mothers and wives of France on your head!" She draws back, weeping piteously, and the carts pass on, on imtil they reach the Place de la Revolution, where the scaffold is again erected on the very spot where Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette had suffered. The victims are led to the platform. Robespierre is placed last. He sees his friends massacred one by one before his eyes. His turn comes. He is bound to the fatal plank, which the executioner then tilts up on end, that the people may see him. The napkin falls away, the shattered jaw falls down, the right eye is hanging on his cheek. He utters a feeble cry of pain, which is drowned in the roar of the multitude. Away! away! with the hideous sight! The next moment, his head is in the basket, and is then flung on the platform. A man ascends and looks down and says: '286 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "After all, there is a God!" Maurice de Brignon ascends, and also says, but with a different meaning: "Yes, there is a God!" He had heard that his Emmeline had died that morning. BOOK III XXX The Dead Mabshal On the morning of the seventh of December, 1815, the city of Paris woke up to hear of a deed of shame — of utter and atrocious stupidity that had been committed in its midst in the grey, cold dawn. It was the judicial murder of Michael Ney. He had been solemnly tried by his peers, found guilty, sentenced, and notwithstand- ing the many generous efforts that were made to save him from execution, and France from shame, it was but too true that he had fallen that morning under the musket- fire of French soldiers who had often spnmg to Adctory under his leadership in many a great, historic battle. Even to-day, after a lapse of nearly a hundred years, it is difficult to read without emotion the particulars of such a shameful tragedy. The reader who has ever fol- lowed in fancy that meteor^ ffight of the French armies throughout and across Europe, cannot fail to have pic- tured the mighty marshal, as he rode up at the side of Kl^ber in Egypt and scattered the Moslem hosts j as he dashed across the field of Friedland, an ubiquitous con- queror; as he rode aroimd from battery to battery, from squadron to squadron, at the bloody struggle at Eylau; as he galloped up at Liitzen, his fair hair flying wildly behind him and his long moustaches sweeping his neck, and thundered in a voice that was worth the sound of a battery of artillery: "Close up!" as he inspired and invigorated the troops at the Moskowa, and led with un- conquered spirit the shattered remnant of the French army across the Beresina; and as he thundered over Waterloo, a veritable God of War, and, covered with blood, 287 288 THE QUEEN'S FILLET led up the Guards to the fine but fruitless onslaught on the British squares, as if he had heard the despairing cry of Wellington: "Night or Blticher!" And now, think of it, think of it, he has been led out this raw December morning across the gardens of the Luxembourg, not a friend with him but one faithful priest; he has been ordered to dismount; he has been led to a vile and fetid place, and has been ordered to stand up against that wall; he him- self has given the signal — the very gesture of raising his marshal's plumed hat with his left hand, as he always did when leading the squadrons of conquering hussards and cuirassiers to some desperate charge; and he has fallen, his uniform torn into rags, his breast shattered, and his heart riven under the bullets of French' muskets, and at the command of an officer who, a few months before, would have deemed himself honoured if he had been allowed to clean his sword or spurs. To do them justice, the men trembled when commanded to accom- plish this judicial crime. And yet, we carmot imderstand it. It may have been discipHne, but it is impossible to imagine how French soldiers could have obeyed the cow- ardly order. They should have flimg down their muskets and gone gaily to prison, rather than turn their weapons on "the bravest of the brave." But they did! And nothing shall ever excuse the crime. Paris woke up at the sound of the fusillade to learn that Ney had been executed. And Paris went into mourning, as she did when she murdered her King. Meanwhile, the dead soldier hes there where he fell. The quarter of an hour during which, by law, the body should remain undis- turbed, had elapsed. The soldiers, with shamed and averted faces, obeyed the order to fall in and depart. Paris had not yet fully awakened to its shame, and the few passers-by either feared, or did not care, to ask the name of the criminal who had been thus ignominiously executed in a shameful and disreputable place. The dead soldier lies where he fell. There's a smile on the lips that in sixty battles had ordered the victorious armies THE DEAD MARSHAL 289 of France to charge to victory — the same smile with which he had received his sentence; the same smile with which he had bidden good-bye to his weeping wife and sons; the same smile with which he had bidden his warder last evening: "Good night!" and, without undressing, had folded his soldier's cloak around him, as he had done on a thousand bivouacs beneath the stars, and slept as calmly as if the tent of his great Master was above him; the same smile with which he had accosted the good priest that morning, and made a pretty httle jest when according him the precedence in entering his carriage; the same smile with which he had pointed to his heart a few minutes ago, and bade the frightened soldiers: "Aim there! " But oh! the pity of it! Eight hundred thousand Frenchmen he dead on the field of honour imder the Russian snows, and their mighty marshal lies dead on the field of shame beneath a mean enclosure in the heart of Paris. Did their dead bones stir at this tragic close of the life of their hero? Did the eagle chained on the rock in the Atlantic feel any foreboding that the greatest of his marshals had fallen a victim to political vengeance; or did a film gather over his eyes as he stared out at the irresponsive sea, and thought of the man who, if he had vu-ged his abdication for the sake of France, did also, for France's sake and his own, welcome back the exile from Elba? We know not. All we see is — the shattered and dese- crated body of Michael Ney — Duke of Elchingen, Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour, Prince of the Moskowa; and "none so poor to do him reverence." Paris is ashamed of its own cowardice; his enemies, those eternally stupid Bourbons, are exulting over his fall; the procureur is drawing up his bill for 25,000 francs against Madame Ney, for the costs of his prosecution (is there any depth to which men will not fall under the influence of polit- ical passion?); and the winter sun, the sun that set on the victories of Austerlitz and Hohenlinden, throws his cold, horizontal beams across the dead form of the "brave des braves," 290 THE QUEEN'S FILLET The soldiers have gone back to their barracks to curse their fate, their officers, their King. They shall never, even on their death-beds, get pardon from their own con- sciences for having turned their weapons against their marshal. A few loiterers gather and look on. And now, from the postern gate of a neighbouring convent, a pro- cession of black-robed nuns comes forth. A sister, carry- ing a high crucifix, symbol of the greatest judicial murder ever committed, and of its Divine Victim, leads the way. Side by side with her, another swings a smoking thu- rible, and another carries the vase of holy water and the aspergilla; and two by two, the sisterhood follow, and group themselves around the prostrate and mangled form. They are not afraid. What if those Bourbon fanatics over there in the Tuileries shall resent their tender reverence towards the dead? What if those fine ladies, who clamoured, supplicated, threatened, when the dead marshal's wife put in a plea for pardon, and went to their theatres at the very time that Madame Ney and her four sons were taking their last and tearful farewell — what if they withdraw their patronage from these humble sisters and make them feel their frown? They care not. They who fear God are fearless towards men. They gather round the dead marshal, weep a little, pray much, incense the sacred remains, and wash them in lustral water; then Uft with gentle and reverent hands the mangled body, gathering up carefully the shattered breast, lest it should fall asunder; form their mom-nful procession again, and carry the remains into their Cohvent Chapel, there to abide until some one shall come, even for the sake of pubUc safety and decency, and bear them to their last resting-place in Pfere-Lachaise. The short winter day wore on to its close; and now there was no light in the Convent Chapel, except from the unbleached wax tapers that burned around the mar- shal's cofiin. All day long the censer smoked, and prayer after prayer, from the loud-chanted De Profundis to the muttered Ayez pitii de nous, ascended from the dim chapel, THE DEAD MARSHAL 291 penetrated its gothic roof, and was carried on the lips of angels to the throne of the Most High; and now, as the day closed in, the night-watches have to be set, and the hours appointed for the Vigilantes who were to per- severe in prayer even unto the morning light. The lists had been drawn up and pinned on the door of the Chapel, and the Mother Abbess was just touching her forehead with holy water as she left the choir, when she felt a small hand trembling in hers, and heard a soft whisper: "Pardon, Madame Mere!" "Eh Men! who is this?" said the Mother, glancing down towards the white face turned pleadingly towards her. "Adfele!" was the reply. "Ha! AdSle! And what is the matter now, my child?" "Mother, may I — may I — too, keep watch over the Marshal?" "You?" cried the Abbess. "Get to bed, child, and as soon as possible. I don't want red eyes and cross tempers to-morrow!" "Mother, please! Not all night, but one watch! Mother, please!" "The watches are all set, child, and you know we never allow our pensionnaires to do the work of the community " "But this is such an exception. It will never happen again, and you know " "Know what, dear?" "Mother, I dare not say it. You know what I mean?" "There now, go to bed, child. I know many things, but I am not a clairvoyante." "But they have said — some one has said," pleaded the girl, "that I am a 'Child of the Revolution,' that I was born under the 'Terror,' and somehow " "Hush! These are dangerous opinions and sentiments, dear! Remember the times in which we hve! There, I must silence your little heart somehow." 292 THE QUEEN'S FILLET The Mother went back to the choir, and took dovm the list again. Then, opposite the hour of watch 3 a.m., she drew her pencil across the name "Sister Genevieve" and substituted "Ad&le." Then, coming out to where the girl was anxiously waiting, she said: "I have given Sister Genevieve a rest. She needs it, poor soul. You will take her watch from three to five. Get the Vigilatrix to call you. And now, to bed at once, and ask our Lady to protect you!" "Thanks, a thousand thanks, dearest Mother," said the girl, as she seized the Abbess's hand, and kissed it fervently. She was turning away quite happy, but the Mother Abbess gently detained her. There was a long pause during which the latter seemed to be weighing carefully what she was about to say. At length she dropped the girl's hand, and sighed, as she said half-musingly: "A 'Child of the Revolution'! Who has taught you that dangerous expression, Adele? " "No one. Mother! I read it in books!" "And drew your own childish conclusions. No, my child. It does not follow that because you were bom in those dreadful times, you should inherit their spirit. A 'Child of the Revolution' means more than you sup- pose. Some day you will understand. But do not use the word lightly. The shadow of that dreadful time is not yet lifted." A little puzzled, but very happy and very sleepy, the girl sought her room; and was about to undress, when some Unes that had come into her busy head during that after- noon came back; and sitting at a desk, she wrote line after line of poetry, always ending each stanza with the Napo- leonic idea: Frappez vite ! Frappez fort ! This effort irritated the brain and drove sleep away for some time. But the reaction came soon, and when she lay down to rest, she slept so soundly that she was quite sure she had only just slumbered, when the gentle THE DEAD MARSHAL 293 knock at her door and the familiar reveille: Benedicamus, Domine! aroused her. She started in surprise, said Quoi! several times before she felt she was certainly awake; and when the old lay sister came into her room bearing a hght and a steaming cup of chocolate, she could not help asking: "But what o'clock is it, sister? 'Tis not past mid- night yet!" "It wants but a few minutes of three, ma petite. I suppose you must rise now: but the good Mother " Here she suddenly stopped. "Have you brought me coffee, sister?" queried the still sleepy girl. "No! no! ma cMre. The good Mother thinks coffee too exciting for such a little ball of quicksilver as thou. Pue! Here you are now: and voild, there you go!" "But that chocolate won't keep me awake, sister. I shall sleep, and I want to watch by the dead marshal." "Ah! and was he a marshal of France? There now! I said to Sister Zita: 'Mark you, ma sceur, it is not a common criminal the good Mother is making such a fuss about '" "Criminal?" said Adele with flashing eyes, turning back from her toilet glass. "Why, he was the First Marshal of France, he was Napoleon's right hand; he was the 'bravest of the brave.'" "Man Dieu! And why then did they shoot him?" said the sister. "Why? Because these Boiu-bons — that royal canaille that ran like rats before the Emperor, hated him. He had a mock trial, and the result — what we see!" "Dear God!" echoed the old sister faintly. "It reminds one of the Terror. You said your morning prayers in choir, and your evening prayers in heaven. When Saint Guillotine, as they profanely called it, had no victims, the gamins used shriek under our windows: 'There is no fun on to-day.' But hark! there goes the clock. Don't forget this poor old sister in your prayers!" 294 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "But, but," said the still sleepy girl, "what am I to do, my sister? Two hours will seem long before the sisters assemble in choir. How am I to spend them?" "Mafoi! that's an awkward question," said the sister. "Of course you'll watch and pray!" "Watch? what shall I watch?" said Adele, puzzled. "Watch? — of course, the dead man. It is to see that no evil spirits come nigh him, because the evil spirits" — the good sister crossed herself reverently — "do some- times haunt the chambers of the dead, and defile the poor Christian body that is now but a httle clay. But you'll pray, too, dear child, pray hotly and fervently — " "For what and for whom?" said Ad&le. "Mon Dieu! for the dead man first, I suppose. Then for the Church, the Holy Father, and then, then ^ the great big, wicked world." "And is the world so wicked, my sister?" pleaded Adele. "Oh, yes! Wicked, so wicked, that only for our Lord in the Tabernacle holding up his dear, wounded Hands, night and day to His Eternal Father, the world would be destroyed ages ago. And that's what we have to do!" "What, my sister?" said Ad^le, drawing over her shoulders her fur pelisse, for the night was cold, and the nuns had not yet known the use of a calorifere. "Pray, pray, child. Hold up our Lord's hands — but, quick! quick! I hear the sisters retiring, and Sce'ar Rosalie won't like to be left alone with the dead." Adele took the lamp, and went slowly downstairs. She met the two sisters, whose watch she was relieving, coming up against her. They drew aside, murmuring: "Praised be Jesus Christ!" and the girl passed on to the great broad corridor; and, half -frightened at the echo of her own footsteps, she gladly reached the door of the choir, aiid extinguishing her lamp, she entered. The whole place was immersed in profound darkness, except where the unbleached, yellow candles, now burnt nearly into their sockets, shed a bleared light, and seemed THE DEAD MARSHAL 295 to make deeper the murky shadows that filled the high spaces amongst the oaken rafters near the roof, whilst the long carved-oak choir stalls seemed to stretch in illimitable distances far down towards the main chapel where the seculars, who had permission to attend Mass and Vespers, were wont to assemble. The stained-glass windows, which all day long threw their gems of ruby and chrysoprase on the choir-floor, were now invisible, save where the worm-Uke forms of their lead castings and mouldings showed them sunk deep in the gothic framework of the wall. Not a soimd broke the solemn stillness, except that imaginary soimd that comes from the dead, when our fancy, half-frightened, whispers to us that the still form is moving and stirring in its narrow bed. Across the choir, and screened from view by the lofty catafalque, Sceur RosaUe was hidden deep in her own stall, her head bent and her figure muffled in her dark habit. There seemed to be but one living thing there — the red lamp that swimg before the Tabernacle; and which, silent and still as the dead, seemed yet in its ruby brightness a speaking symbol of Faith and Love and Adoration. Adele, drawing her heavy pelisse more closely around her shoulders, knelt in one of the stalls, and bending for- ward and covering her face with a fold of her pelisse, she began to pray. She repeated the De Profundis for the dead. Then she took out her beads, and recited them. And then, not knowing what else to do, she paused. And the awfulness of death seemed to come down and take possession of her. She had given it hitherto but little thought. Life was so young in her veins, she had never given a thought to that cessation of life which we call death. But, now, contrasting her own strong heart- throbbings, which she could hear distinctly in the still- ness of the night with the silence, the death-silence of that figure of clay above her in the coffin, the awful na- tm-e of death seemed to grasp her imagination. She drew in fancy the tragic event of the morning. The strong 296 THE QUEEN'S FILLET man, full of life and buoyant energy; the preparation for his execution; the marshalUng of the firing-party; the approach of the Commandant of Paris; his ominous order: "Do yoiu- duty, Sir!"; the marshal's last words: "Aim there!"; his sudden signal, flinging out his left arm with his marshal's hat held aloft; the crash of musketry; his fall as if stricken by a thunderbolt; and then — a shat- tered mould of clay — no more. Adele gave a little mufiied cry which alarmed Soeur Rosalie, who came over and whispered: "What's the matter, dear?" Adele stammered out: "Nothing, Sister! I was a little alarmed. But it is past!" And Sceur RosaUe, going back to her stall, muttered something about the imprudence of keeping children up at night, and on such a business. Then, shaking off such sad thoughts, and at the same time unfolding her pehsse so as to leave her face and head quite bare, Ad&le knelt erect, and looked steadily before her. And the red lamp caught her eye. She watched it with intense eagerness, and began to think what a sym- bol it was of silent prayer. Not a flicker, not a sound — only a steady, yellow flame, mounting at times above the rim of the ruby glass as a soul seems sometimes to leap towards God — it appeared to the young girl the very embodiment of the idea of prayer, silent, intense, ardent, undeviating. '"Can I pray thus?" she thought, and she drew her faculties together, and stood still, a very statue of prayer, before the Face of God. She saw Him, touched Him, felt Him, grew absorbed into Him, forgot herself utterly in the rapt, intense imion she felt that moment towards the Divinity. In such transports time does not count. She hardly knew what hour it was when she awoke from her rap- tures; and then, quite heated, and with her forehead bathed in perspiration, she sank back in her stall. Then she also knew that Soeur Rosalie was asleep, dead asleep. THE DEAD MARSHAL 297 She also noticed that the candles had burned deep into their sockets, and an unpleasant odour of burning wicks was staining the atmosphere of the choir. She renewed the long yellow tapers from a heap that lay in a basket on the floor, and thought, with a Uttle feeUng of vanity, how pleased the nuns would be to find she had not neg- lected her watch. Once more she went back to her stall, and from the sheer luxury of it, she threw herself once more into the ecstasy of silent, contemplative prayer, until she almost felt God's face leaning down and touch- ing hers; and she thought, what a heaven on earth it would be to remain always thus in rapture and repara- tion for a wicked world! The clock chiming half-past four aroused her. And then the thought struck her that she had not seen the dead marshal as yet, and there was but one brief half- hour remaining. Noiselessly, lest she should awake the sleeping Sister, she stole across the choir-floor, and as- cended the two high steps that formed the sides of the catafalque. The tall wax tapers threw down their light on the form that lay still in the unUdded coflin, and the young enthusiast looked with enthusiasm, fear, horror, pity, and admiration on the face and figure of the dead hero. His arms were extended at his sides, in the soldier's attitude of attention, as if he had been summoned sud- denly to the great review. The right arm was splintered and shattered with bullets. The left, which held aloft the pliuned hat as signal, was untouched. But oh! the breast of the hero! It was crushed and mangled, as if a battery of artillery had been driven over it. The green uniform (Adiile noticed that the epaulets had been cut away, and even the buttons) was a mass of rags, now black with congealed blood, and here and there a shattered spUnter of a rib peeped forth, whilst a great blob of blood, dried and hardened, hung down where the broken arteries of the heart had poured their last tide through the gap- ing apertures of the breast. But the face of the dead hero wore a smile of placid resignation, made still more touch- 298 THE QUEEN'S FILLET ing by the grey hairs that lay tossed on the high fore- head, and the fair, drooping moustaches that fell dead on the cheeks. Fascinated and appalled, the girl continued to gaze, heedless of time. Then she touched the dead cold hand that was just beneath her. It was a great, big, strong hand, roughened from the friction of sword and baton. The fingers were pmpled, almost blackened beneath the nails, and when she touched them, they fell back response- less. It was pitiful, because it was so helpless, so weak; and she wept. When five o'clock chimed out from the high clock in the broad corridor outside, and the Sisters filed in, two by two, from the chapter room, they saw the slight form of Adele leaning over the coffin of the dead marshal. But they were too disciplined to break the silence, or show any emotion. The Mother Abbess alone was priv- ileged to do so. She approached the catafalque, mounted the steps, and found the child's head drooped in sleep over the coffin; and she had no little trouble in disen- gaging the tiny white hand from the rigid fingers of the dead marshal; and in the hand was a long lock of grey hair cut from the marshal's head. XXXI Adijle's Guardian AdIslb Reinhakd, whom we left asleep above the coffin of the dead marshal, had been brought into this haven of peace whilst still a mere child, and mider strange and peculiar circumstances. She had a dim, far-off, hazy idea of a certain house in a faubourg of the city, where she had lived during her infancy with a rough, strong man whom she had been taught to regard as her father. The whole locality was sordid and mean. The house was mean also; yet serving as a shop, where her father worked all day long at his trade as watchmaker, and as a dwelliag-house also, it was kept neat and clean by an old woman, named Elise, who came in, in the early hours of the morning, cooked and washed and cleaned during the day, and vanished at night, Ad^e did not know whither. It was a blurred dream to the girl in after life, made up of round-faced staring clocks, pretty cuckoo clocks, shining ormolu clocks, long pendulums swinging the whole day long, wheels, wires, coils of steel, pretty little infinitesimal screws, and the whole place alive with the eternal moving and ticking of aU this weird machinery, which even in the watches of the night seemed to her to hold ghostly dialogues which penetrated the ceiling to the little room where she lay. And the dream also showed the dusky form of her father, his gold-rimmed glasses high on his forehead, and sometimes a pretty little glass in his hand with which he studied the intricate workings of his clocks. He seemed always a dark blur against the light of the window, even when he turned around from his stool, and with the smile that 299 300 THE QUEEN'S FILLET was always on his lips when he saw her, said: "Ha! mon petit lanvpyre! Venez id!" And he would allow her, seated on his knee, to watch the working and arrange- ment of his clocks; and sometimes give her his great magnet, with which she made the little wires dance on the work-table, and made the tiny little screws jump and cling to it. "Ha!" he would siay, "I fear thou shalt be a magnet some day, from which the screws cannot be so easily detached." In the dream, too, came shadows, blurred by time, of certain rough men, who came hither in the evenings, when the shop was closed, and the windows carefully shuttered; and she had a dim remembrance of their conversation about the mighty Emperor and his con- quests; and how, amidst exclamations of wonder about far-off battle-fields, and the drums and salvos of con- quest, her father would say: "H6 bien! but mark you, it wiU be Julius Csesar again!" And she heard strange sayings about the liberties of the people, and the glorious Revolution, and the Rights of Man — all of which were to her but sealed and mystic ' ciphers of a world to which she was a stranger. Where her own little personality came in was when one of these rough fellows would take her on his knee, and thrumming on the table as an accompaniment, would get the child to chant: Amour sacrS de la patrie Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs I lAberU, liberie cherie, Combats avec tes d^fenseurs, etc. One night in a dreary winter, there was a knock and a whisper of "Gendarmes!" and the men disappeared as if by magic. She remembered her father rising up with a scowl on his features, and going to open the door. "Good evening, friends! I do not transact business so late!" "But we do, bon enfant!" said the officer, forcing his way into the house, and ransacking every hole and comer ADELE'S GUARDIAN 301 for papers. He seemed, so the child thought, to take particular notice of herself, and wrote something on paper, whilst he watched her. They then departed after a fruitless search, and she heard her father say: "Your watches want winding, my friends. They are run down!" And the officer laughing, yet angry, replied: "Next time, they will mark the hour better!" AU this seemed a far-off dream, though it was ever recurring to the memory of the young pensionnaire, and it often gave her trouble and caused serious thoughts to arise and mingle with the fairyland of her girlish occupations and ideas. She remembered most clearly, however, two other individuals who never came to her father's house together, and never appeared when the ruder men collected there; and these two made the most vivid and lasting impression on her mind. The one was a young lad, scarcely more than sixteen, but to Addle's infant imagination he was quite a grown man. He was an artist, a painter by profession, as she knew by his conversation with her father; and also by the fact that she saw a sketch, or rather profile, of herself, taken by him, and which he presented to her father, who instantly locked it into an old cabinet of rosewood, and she never saw it afterwards. But she often heard Etienne Devaux (that was the artist's name) and her father talk about Tintoretto and Nicolas Poussin, and Raffaelle and the patriot David; and once, when Etienne rushed in in a paroxysm of delight to aiinounce that the mighty Emperor was coming home bringing with him the spoils of the world, and more especially the art treasures of Italy, and exclaimed: "Now, we need never travel, my father! The Mighty One has brought Italy to our doors!" The old man shook his head sadly, and said: "The children of the Revolution become a pack of chiffoniers! Pah!" 302 THE QUEEN'S FILLET But fitienne was her favourite. She liked his dark curls, and his darker eyes, and the faint moustache that was staining his upper lip. And she hked him to sing for her, and take off her broad, white hat, and dance aroimd the little parlour and chant the popular song of the day: SuT la pente d'une colline ^ Margarita aUait folalrant, Guettant dans sa course enfaniine Une mouche aux ailes d'argent. Mais, le chapeau de la petite EmporU par le vent roula Sur herbe. Jean le ramassa, En vrai chevalier Frangais vite. II s'approcha, disant tout-haut: Oh, mon Dieul mon Dieu! qu'il est beau — Le chapeau de la Margarita I Oh, mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! qu'il est beau — Le chapeau de la Margarita! Yes! the little child-heart did love every one; but most of all, this young artist of the boulevards, who became a child again for her sake. She never tired of hearing him talk of the Great Emperor who had conquered aU Europe, and made kings his valets. And Areola, Lodi, Wagram, Austerlitz, Eylau, Friedland, became famUiar names to her. " 'Twill all end badly," her father used to say. "The nations will rise and overwhelm us. You may conquer one country, but you can't keep Europe in subjection. The Cossacks will yet stable their horses in Notre-Dame." But Etienne would laugh, and maintain that the great French nation was unconquerable and its Emperor greater than Alexander or Csesar. Then, one day, it was soon after a bloody battle fought at a place called Hohenlinden, she was taken to see the triumphal entry of the French troops into the city. Dazzled, bewildered by the noise and splendour, she shut her eyes, and only opened them when Etienne shouted: "There's Ney!" And she looked, and saw a raw, bony soldier on horseback, his sabre and spurs clanking, and the vision was over. ADELE'S GUARDIAN 303 A few days later, there were tears and kisses of " Fare- well" in the watchmaker's shop in the faubourg. Etienne was a conscript himself, and would soon see those battles he so loved to describe. He was not at all cast down or discouraged; nay, he was full of enthusiasm. He was going to cast in his lot with the irresistibles of Europe, before whom Prussian and Cossack, Slav and Hungarian fled like a pack of sheep. It was going to be a mere triumphal march — a walk-over. The word " Frank " had now become a watchword of terror to the mothers by the Volga and the Danube, as it had been to Moslem mothers during the Crusades; and "Vive I'Empereur!" would put armies to flight as in the days of the Cid or Coeur de Lion. "I shall go a conscript," said Etienne, "but come back with a marshal's baton. The great Emperor hath said that every conscript carries the baton in his knapsack. Vaild! So it shall be; and then," he cried, stooping and lifting up the little Ad&le, "then I shall marry Ad^le." , And AdMe thought it very nice, until her father said, after Etienne had gone: "A marshal's baton! Mafoi! a pair of crutches rather!" which AdMe thought was unkind. The other visitor was more distinguished, but less welcome to Adele. He never came when the others were there. He even avoided Etienne. But, apparently, her father, old Reinhard, seemed to be more pleased with his company than with that of the others. He always brightened up when the stranger came ; and there vanished from his face that look of apprehension and fierceness which seemed always to cloud it in the presence of the rough ouvriers. But the stranger took no notice of Adfele. He might barely address her with a "Good night!" or an "Au revoir!" but that was all. The entire conversa- tion passed between him and her father, and seemed to have no reference to herself. Then, too, he was always muflSed up and disguised, so that she could not recognize his features. His great coat, with the fur coUar, was 304 THE QUEEN'S FILLET always drawn so high around his ears and mouth that she could not see what kind of face he had. He wore blue glasses also; and the fur collar was tied around his mouth with black cords, which hung down behind his back in tassels. These tassels were about the only things in which the child took an interest, and which she remembered longest. Then one day there came a great change. The good old Reinhard had been failing for some time. He had had fits of somnolency — sleeping over the fire, nodding over his work-table. He rose late, went to bed early. He began, too, to have no relish for his meals. The little dainties which Elise used to put before him remained untasted. Sometimes the old domestic would conjure him to eat a little for his own sake; for the sake of the Holy Virgin; for the sake of his httle Ad^le. Then he would brighten up, and pull himself together for the sake of the little Adele. But then the little flame of energy would flicker down again in its socket, and he would relapse into the old condition of torpor and imbecility. At last a day came when the shop was utterly darkened even in the daytime — a novel and untoward circumstance, for Reinhard heeded not the Sabbath. The place looked strange and weird to her infant eyes. Then a crowd gathered; and a box was taken away and followed by a crowd of these rough ouvriers; and presently a carriage drove up, in which was the muffled and mysterious stranger, who spoke no word, but took the child to the pensionnat between the Luxembourg and the Panthfon; and here she had remained, until the memory of old Reinhard, of Etienne Devaux, of Elise, of the little shop, and of all other childish associations had become but the phantoms and shadows of a far-off and unreal time. She did not know; but there had been an interesting conversation between the Mere R6v6rende and the mysterious stranger about her personahty and history on that day. M^re R6v6rende wanted to know every- thing about her young charge. There was responsi- ADELE'S guardian 305 bility in dealing particularly with so young a child. Her teachers should know her disposition, her acquirements, her tendencies. Monsieur should understand that it was idle to put each child under the same tuition, or the same course of instruction. Nay, Monsieur may be assured that it was quite harmful; and that education should be conducted according to the idiosyncracies of the individual, and its capabilities. "Madame," said the stranger gravely, "there can be no question about the correctness of your views on the aU-important subject of education. I am in thorough accordance with them. They reflect the views of all experts on this all-important matter; and I am delighted to find our religious communities, supposed by our ene- mies to be reactionary, are quite in accord with the most advanced theories held on this matter." The Mere R^v^rende waited. Something was sure to come after such satisfactory platitudes. Monsieur waited also. He had said a good deal, he thought. The Mere R^v^rende had to break the awkward silence. "I am delighted at the expressions Monsieur has used about our efficiency and advanced ideas. If Monsieur is pleased to agree with me about these all-important principles, Monsieur can have no objection to comply with the legitimate inquiries I have made about the child's disposition, temper, acquirements." "Not the least, Madame," said Monsieiu", bowing obsequiously. "You wiU find little Ad^e healthy in frame, sweet and frank in disposition, gifted with Httle knowledge and few acquirements, but exceedingly quick to learn, of decided artistic talents and tastes." The Mdre R6v6rende was much gratified at this account of the young ■pendonnaire. "But," said the distinguished stranger gravely, "there is an element of fire in her composition that must be watched — a kind of volcanic heat that may be hidden 306 THE QUEEN'S FILLET and smouldering for years, but yet break out eventually in disastrous flame and lava." "The M^re R6v6rende was disturbed, but said: "It shall be our duty to see after this grave defect. Has it come from her paternal or maternal relations? " "I cannot say," said the stranger coldly. "Then you don't know her parentage?" queried M^re R6v6rende. The stranger rose. "I presume you refuse to accept charge of the chjld unless your curiosity is satisfied further," he said, with much dignity, and an accent of displeasure. "Monsieur is quite mistaken," replied the M^re R6v4rende humbly, but with equal dignity. "I assure Monsieur that it is no idle curiosity that compels the question; but the character of our Institution stands very high; and we carmot afford to compromise it. Besides, Monsieur should know that there is such a thrag as heredity; and a child's disposition must be measured by such laws as obtain under that supreme and important fact." "I quite agree with you, Madame, about the impor- tance of keeping the character of your Institution above reproach. It is because of this high character I have brought my charge hither. You need some security that your acceptance of this child as a pensionnaire shall not injure the high reputation of your Convent. What security do you require?" The M^re R6v6rende was confused. She murmiu'ed at length: "Monsiem- has not even given his name?" The stranger bowed acquiescence. Then, opening his great-coat, he took out a pocket-book; and unrolling a bundle of notes he placed them on the table, selected them, pushed a certain quantity towards the nun, saying: "That is Adfele's pension for one year! And that," presenting a card, "is my name and address." ADELE'S GUARDIAN 307 The MSre R^v^rende read it, and almost fainted. It was the name of the first diplomat in Europe. "Mark, please, what I said about the one dangerous feature in the child," the stranger now said, with an accent of quiet triumph. "I am sm-e it means nothing, but may be directed wisely. I am not apprehensive of it, but I want it to be turned in a certain channel, where it might lead on to vast results." He stopped suddenly. Then, after thinking for a while, resmned: "I am ambitious for the child, I hope, in a wise way." "I hope she wiU carry out Monsieur's wishes," said the nun. "Under such patronage as Monsieur's there is no rank to which she might not aspire." ~ The stranger looked at her, and smiled. "I have passed through the Revolution," he said, "and I think I know the value of rank. I have other thoughts for AdMe, which cannot be communicated now. Before her education is finished, I may find occasion to be more explicit. The point now is, to train those faculties with which she is specially endowed. The rest we leave to Providence. Would you permit me to see the child before I take my leave?" The Mother touched the bell. "One word more before she comes in," he said. "Her holidays, her vacations will be spent with Madame de Chabanais; but I shall communicate with you again relative to this and other matters." Ad^le was brought, now clothed in the simple garb of a convent boarder. The stranger, as if preparing for departure, had again muffled his face. "May we see the Convent Chapel, Madame?" he said. "By all means, Monsieur!" she replied, leading the way. And there, after a deep, long prayer. Monsieur took farewell of his little charge. XXXII Etienne There was no pomp or ceremony about the great mar- shal's funeral. There was a Requiem Mass celebrated in the Convent Chapel, for the marshal, unhke many of bis brother-soldiers in the great Pretorian cycle, had received humbly the ministrations of the Chvu-ch before his death. But, besides the Community, few were present. A nmnber of old grizzled warriors, some arm- less, some lame, did ask permission to be present. But it was deemed advisable to have the ceremonies private. Madame Ney and her four young children were there. It was these that tied the brave heart to life: "I have a wife, dear to me as the apple of mine eye; and four children, hardly out of their cradles. And I am but forty-two years old — " Yes! Forty-two, and with a constitution that might have promised fifty years more on this sublunar theatre! It was a temptation that might have made the mightiest resolution reel. But it was not to be. He has been ordered away from this little theatre; and he made his bow like a man and retired. One or two men, of mihtary bearing, but not in uniform, were present. That was all. And there were a few sobs heard from the Sisters; but these were suppressed. The great majority were of high, aristocratic lineage, and Plus Royalistes que le Roi. A few days afterwards, when the great marshal had been laid to rest in Pere-Lachaise, where the simple word "NEY" marks his tombstone, Madame Ney and her children called at the Convent to express her gratitude to 308 ^TIENNE 309 the sisterhood. She, too, was of high and noble blood, but estranged from the Court under the new regime. After the httle courtesies had been exchanged, the Mother Superior mentioned the name of AdMe. "A little mad-cap, although she is twenty-one years old, all fire and enthusiasm. History strange and ob- scure, yet she is under the protection of one of the first men in France. Calls herself, 'A Child of the Revolu- tion,' fell asleep over the open cofiin of the dead marshal, from whom she stole, as souvenir, a lock of grey hair." Madame Ney should see this wonderful child, such a prodigy in this nest of Royalists. But Mother Superior is very cautious; and, whilst cheerfully acceding to Madame's request, begs that she shall be very prudent. "The interests of our Community are at stake. The eyes of Royalty are upon us. And there are spies hover- ing around now, as in the days of the 'Terror.' Besides, many of our Sisters did pass through that awful time, and " Here, Mother Superior bursts into tears. She remem- bers. Yet Adele is brought in, and introduced. Madame Ney calmly kisses the fair young forehead, and holds the Uttle hands in hers. Adele could only cry. "They should have pardoned him!" she says passion- ately. "They should have pardoned him! What had he done to those Bourbonnais? Did they forget the Moskowa and Beresina?" And Reverend Mother gently says: "Hush! my child! You do not understand!" "But," cried Ad61e, "was there no one in Paris, not even one to plead for him? What has become of Frenchmen? Even among his enemies, was not there even one generous enough to plead for him? " And Madame explained, very gently and humbly, that a good deal was done, — that a certain Madame Hutchison, an English lady, connected with ambassa- dorial and diplomatic circles, did go to the Duke of 310 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Wellington, then representative of allied armies and Powers of Europe; did beg on her knees, and amid much sobbing, that the Duke would interfere to save his mighty rival; that it was in vain. Diplomatic reasons, represen- tations from his own Court and Prime Minister, pubhc welfare, etc., prevented. Yes! A word from the Duke of Wellington would have saved the Duke of Elchingen, and earned the everlasting gratitude of Frenchmen; but it was not said. "But the King," said Ad^le, closing her little hand with an impetuous gesture, "had he not heart enough, had he not sense and foresight enough, to do a generous and noble act?" But the Mother Superior was fidgeting a little, and for- getting her first duty of deportment. And Madame Ney saw it and said: "Well, ma petite, we must not discuss things now. It only remains for us to pray. But, perhaps " She had turned towards the good Mother, who was deeply sympathetic but evidently embarrassed. "Perhaps the Mother would be good enough to per- mit my young friend to come and see me. It will be a favour." Adele hung mute on the decision. "It is against rule," the Superior said, "unless where the relatives of the children are concerned. But the case is peculiar. And, Madame, if this little rebel," she drew down the fair face of Ad^le towards her own, " can be of any comfort to you in your terrible bereavement, I think I may allow it, at least till such time as I can consult her guardian. But will Madame take precaution ?" "I shall come for AdSle in my own carriage; and I shall bring her back, at whatever hour the good Mother may please to appoint." And so, our little AdMe is ushered into quite a new world now, anti-Royalist; Republican, Imperialist, where nothing is spoken of but the glories of the Empire that has passed away, and all the coimtless deeds that were wrought ETIENNE 311 throughout Europe during these twenty years of conquest. And she had also to hear much pohte and carefully screened contempt cast upon present-day Royalty, and many an ill-disguised prophecy that it would not last. France had broken with kings, once and for ever; and the moment the aUied armies retired, and the coalition of European powers was dissolved, France would revert once more to her proud position, as emancipatrix of the human race. Some of which the young chatterbox did repeat in convent circles, until the good nuns put then- hands to their ears and hurried away. Only the saintly Mother looked on sadly, and once said: "Ah! my child, if only you had seen! But the good God has spared you! I, too, was only saved by a miracle from the guillotine!" Whereupon, the fiery Adele made many acts of repent- ance, and kissed the Mother's hand. She would not pain the good Mother for the world. One evening, very soon after the New Year had dawned on France and the world, she was invited to Madame Ney's as to a special occasion. The carriage arrived as usual. But Madame Ney had sent her children to accompany Ad^le. She went with them, dressed in her plain black convent imiform, just relieved from an aspect of moxmiing by a little white collar and little lace wrist- band; and she wore the large medal of the Children of Mary on her bosom. That was all. And yet it was not out of place, because, although the gathering at the house of Madame Ney was very distinguished, the shadow of the great bereavement hung around the place and the visitors, most of whom wore a mourning badge for the dead marshal. After a brief interval to see if all her guests were present, Madame Ney arose; and taking up a magnificent scabbard, she said in a simple manner, and with an effort to force back her tears: "This is the sword my dead husband wore by his side at Waterloo. It is the only mark of gratitude and affec- tion that the widow and children of Marshal Ney can 312 THE QUEEN'S FILLET offer to the lady who, forgetful of everything but the claims of humanity, exerted herself to the utmost of her power to save my husband. Her repeated appeals to her own countryman and relative failed; but neither the widow nor the children of Ney can ever forget that a stranger and a foreigner humbled herself to the very dust to rescue a brave man from an ignominious death, to which, I regret to say, the pitiless revenge of Frenchwomen drove him. This latter I shall teach my children to for- get; the devotion of Madame Hutchison, I shall teach them to remember for ever!" Tears fell from the eyes of many, as Madame Hutchison, overpowered with dehght, accepted the magnificent pres- ent. She kissed the blade, and put it aside. A young, yet bronzed and battered officer said aloud: "The sword that Napoleon gave his greatest marshal was the means of his betrayal at Bessonis; may this sword of France's greatest soldier pass down from generation to generation of British heroes!" He sank into the sofa, where Adele, who was deeply impressed by all she had witnessed, was seated near the children of Madame Ney. She drew aside a little to make room; but he said impetuously, and as if he resented something: "No need, Madame! You needn't fear me. Here, mon brave," he cried, placing one of the boys between his knees, and looking him all over with fierce, hungry eyes, "yes, mon Dieu, the very eyes of the marshal, without their fire; the yellow hair that I saw streaming behind him, when he led the Guards up that fatal slope! My God, my God, to think of it all!" He pushed away the child, and sank into a reverie. With some timidity, and a curious feeling of reverence Adele said: "Then you were with the marshal. Monsieur?" He looked at her curiously, as if the question was absurd. "Yes, Madame, everywhere, everywhere — but where I ought to have been. I shall never forgive myself for ETIENNE 313 not having died with him. But these vile canaille kept everything secret from us even to the end." He remained silent for a few moments, sunk in recollection. Then he roused himself, and seeing the attention of Adele he said passionately: "Ah, if you had seen him, as I saw him, Madame, you would know what Frenchmen can be. You would under- stand what was meant by the grandeur of du Guesclin and Turenne. Good heavens! I have seen battalions reeling and demoralized imder some fierce charge of Austrian or Prussian cavalry, and just about to fling away their arms and run, and Ney thunders up, amidst a hail-storm of bullets, and every sabre aimed at his head or heart. I see him now as I saw him at Eylau, his plumed hat lost, his sword sheathed, no weapon but the lightning of his eyes and the thunder of his voice! '"Close up the ranks. Wheel to the right. Forward!' It was magic. The men crushed close together, stepping over their dead comrades, bayonets levelled, a solid mass of flesh and steel. Then, after one glance, the marshal thunders away to another part of the field, his yellow hair streaming behind and his huge moustache blown back by the wind. The Emperor used to smile and point him out: 'There goes Ney, and there goes Victory!' "Ah, yes! The Emperor was all right. He was our brains; but Ney was our right hand. And to think, my God, that Frenchmen could be foimd to level their muskets at that breast! Why, I have seen the Cossacks of the Don turn aside their lances lest they should touch him!" "But, Monsieur," said Adele, deeply interested, "was everything done that Could be done to save him?" "Parbleu! Madame, but that is a hard question. I answer. No! a thousand times No! Wasn't there the army of the Loire? Where were they? Was there not a battalion or two of the Imperial Guard? Where were they? Were there not ten thousand men here in Paris, 314 THE QUEEN'S FILLET any one of whom would have given his hfe to save Ney? Where were they? And where was I, Captain Etienne Devaux," he cried, striking himself furiously on the breast, "ci-devant painter, ex-Revolutionist, Lieutenant in the 3d Dragoons, Captain in the Light Brigade of the 4th Hussars, secretary to Michael Ney, sharing his tent, eating the same'soup, drinking out of the same bottle — yes, where was I? I'll tell you, Madame. I was asleep; yes, I was in bed and safe just at the moment that Ney raised his left hand, and the bullets of Frenchmen crashed through the bravest heart that ever beat for France." AdMe's heart was now beating more quickly, not only from sympathy with the dead warrior; but that name, "Etienne Devaux," was beating on the cells of memory, and demanding recognition. Where had she heard it, far away, far off in the dimmed and almost forgotten past? He went on: "Yet we were not to blame. Yes! we were! What right had we to slumber, when these ladies of the Court were up at dawn and going around, and whispering, and intriguing against the marshal? The she-devils, plot- ting, conspiring, running here and there, to this minister, to that minister, lest that poor imbecile King should give way at last. Yes, they said, Ney must die! And it wasn't the bullets of the soldiers, but the malice of the Court ladies that killed him. The Duchess? Ah, Madame, the Duchess has a long memory, and — an unforgiving one. Yes, yes, I know all. But Ney was not a regicide. He wasn't in Paris during the 'Terror.' Why sacrifice him? And look you, Madame! You see Madame yonder. Well, the morning of Ney's murder, she was in the antechamber of the Bourbon King. Had she seen him and said one word, he would have written: Amnesty! and France would have been saved from dis- grace. But — Mesdames of the Court took right good care that the King could not be seen. He was paring his nails and arranging his coiffure just at the moment when over there, near the Luxembourg, the Court Mayor ETIENNE 315 cried out to the shrinking officer: 'Do your duty, Sir!' and the next moment the 'bravest of the brave' fell imder the hands of French assassins." "Captain Devaux, you are making my little convent friend sad," said Madame Nay, coming over. "Did I tell you that this Httle Ad^le did watch for two hours over my dead husband, breaking all manner of rule; and that she fell asleep almost on his breast? " "Ha! I see why Mademoiselle was so interested. But, Ad^le, Ad^e, what a pretty name, and what suggestions! I knew a child of that name, oh! countless ages ago! long before I took the knapsack. We used to call her le lampyre, on account of her bright eyes, just like Made- moiselle's, but — " "Etienne!" said Madame Ney. "Quite so, Madame! I did not mean a compliment; but memory carries me on, on. I used to take her on my knee, and sing the Marseillaise, beating time on the table. She didn't know it, the Httle one, but she was of noble birth; but we swept all that away. I had to march. 'I'll come back a marshal,' I said. 'You'll come back a cripple!' said her old grandfather, who was an old Jacobin, and hated the Emperor. But you see I'm neither one or the other, — only Captain Etienne Devaux, of the Light Brigade of the 4th Hussars, and I slept in the same tent with Ney! Vive la bagatelle! Come here, little one!" He drew a child towards him; and, although the tears were in his eyes, he ran his fingers through her ringlets, and sang, in a low voice, so that the company could not hear him: Sur la pente d'une colline Margarita allait foJdtrant, Guettant dans sa course enfantine Une mouche aux ailes d'argent. Mais, le cMpeau de la petite EmportS par le vent roula Sur herbe. Jean le ramassa, En vrai chevalier FranQais vite. II s'approcha, disant tout haul: 316 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! qu'il est heau Le chapeau de la Margarita I Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! qu'il est beau Le chapeau de la Margarita! He pushed the little one away. She was laughing. But he started with unfeigned surprise, when he felt a little hand on his arm, and Ad^le said, amid her tears: "Etienne!", XXXIII j ■ ' The Carthusian On a very beautiful evening in the springtime of the following year, three persons sat in a little salon in the country-house at Vallancey where Talleyrand, after his exile, had determined to spend the remainder of his days. He had grown old, and yet the saUent features of his face were imchanged. There was the same cold smile, the same firm lips that were never parted in laughter, the same calm seatrching look in the deep blue eyes, beneath whose glance the eyes of emperors and kings had fallen. There, too, was the same deformity in the foot, but now it was carefully concealed beneath his silk robe de chambre. His guests were Joseph Ch^nier, to whose poem L'Exil, it was said, he owed his recall by the Bourbons, and a Carthusian monk. "Unsettled, disturbed?" said Talleyrand in answer to some remark made by Ch^nier, "of course! That must be the normal condition of France for evermore! When the people have once tasted the sweets of power they are not going to make wry faces under the bitterness of despotisms." "But it is so foolish ! " said the monk. " The Napoleonic cycle is over. It cannot come back; and imagine foolish people still clinging to the idea." "Ah, mon pere," said the man of the world, "there's the one thing that cannot be killed — by guillotine, or exile, or on the tented field — the Idea! Men come and go, make their little mark or make no mark in life, and pass! The Idea remains!" "And then?" 317 318 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Well, then, it is gallows and guillotine, death and exile against a mere sentiment, and the sentiment is always the conqueror." "Yes," said Ch^nier, breaking in, "and the sentiment is everywhere, but the rifle and the guillotine are local. And there is no extinguishing the idea. It creeps on from generation to generation, and finds its place always where it is sure to ripen — in the hearts of the young!" "Aye! so much the worse!" said the monk. "I have been down in Auvergne lately, and I have striven to wean away some young soldiers there from their rebellion against the state and King. But I failed. I know 1 failed. They will perish, one by one." "There is a strange rumour in the city," said Ch^nier, "of a very beautiful young girl, a pensiormaire in a con- vent near the Luxembourg, who fell asleep over the coflSn of Ney the night he was watched in the convent chapel, and who has been, well — not discreet in her remarks on the King, and the Duke, and the Duchess of Angoul^me." "Ha!" said Talleyrand, rising up, and assuming a sitting posture, "not too strange, and certainly not too wise for this young debutante in political life. Her name?" "I don't know!" said the young poet. "I have written some hues to her, and called her L'Inconnue!" The monk and the statesman exchanged glances which Ch^nier did not notice. He went on: "Could there be a more dramatic situation?" he said, with all the enthusiasm of a poet. "Nay! I shall bum that poem and write a drama. Imagine that central scene. Midnight. Sepulchral darkness in that convent chapel, hghtened only by the wax tapers; the catafalque; the coffin of the dead marshal; his face serene in death; his breast shattered; one watcher at her devotions; and the long form and figure of this young devoitee prostrate on the coffin. No! 'Tis not a subject for either poem or drama. It is a subject for a picture — a great picture." "Then write David! He is still in Belgium!" The poet was silent. THE CARTHUSIAN 319 "David couldn't do it," he said. "He lacks the gentle- ness, the sentimentality that could paint that scene. There's one man in Paris that could do it — an old pupil of David's, named Devaux. I'll suggest it to him. And now, pour mes adieux!" "You'll return," said the veteran statesman. "We have much to say, and the next time you'll have a more brilliant audience than an old lame diplomatist and a Carthusian who is probably making acts of contrition all this time for being absent from his cell!" "H6 bien! 2L demain!" said Ch^nier, departing. There were a few moments' silence, as the two aged men seemed sunk in thought. "You see it is confirmed," said the monk. "What are we to do?" "Nothing!" said Talleyrand, leaning back again in the position whence Ch^nier's words had startled him. "That is, you can do nothing here." "I shouldn't mind," said the monk, "that episode in the convent chapel. It might be forgotten, although, as Joseph says, it is almost too dramatic to be forgotten; but these treasonable observations! And just at the moment when we were hoping to bring her out and let her resume her lawful position." "What thinks Madame Chabanais?" The monk shrugged his shoulders. "It is the same thing. The revolutionary ideas of her childhood are there as strong as ever. She takes a pleasure in shocking people. But all that could be overlooked up to now. Now it is serious!" "Go see her!" said Talleyrand. But the monk drew back aghast at the idea. "Not for the world!" he said. "Go!" said the statesman. "Say you have a mes- sage from imknown friends. Tell her who she is. Her woman's vanity will flare up, and she will become the loyalest of the loyal." "Do you think so?" 320 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Certainly. It is the one point where the feminine heart is most vulnerable. If she repents and becomes good, I'll invite her here!" "That must not be!" said the monk so emphatically that his friend thought he had a sinister meaning in the words. The monk saw it and flushed a httle. "No, no, no," he said. "I didn't mean to reflect on your house and your visitors, Monseigneur; but, after all you have suffered in exile, I am not going to allow a giddy girl to compromise you with the Court!" The statesman grasped the monk's hand, and they parted. The monk took the statesman's advice and went to Paris. Lent had just t( rminated. The Paschalia gaudia were in the air. They penetrated the convent enclosure, and brought sweetness and music with the birds and flowers. Those spring evenings in the convent garden were delicious. And the restrictions of Lent were over, and visitors were allowed to come in and trespass on the convent grounds. One evening, whilst the Sisters and the young girls were walking up and down, talking and laughing, and now and again breaking into snatches of a song, the bell suddenly rang out, and immediately the Mother Superior entered the grounds from a side-door, accompanied by an aged monk. The different groups drew together, and were formally introduced to the monk, who bowed gravely to all, his eyes calmly looking over the happy yoimg faces that were turned towards him reverently. His hands were folded beneath his scapular. His boots of imtanned leather were hardly covered by the white folds of his habit. He spoke a few words half seriously, and yet with a merry meaning, to the young people, and then the Superior said: "The Father wishes to see the cemetery. Who shall accompany him? Let me see!" She ran her eyes along the row of young faces, and then said: "AdSle!" THE CARTHUSIAN 321 AdMe stepped forward. If they had been observant, they would have seen the monk's face blanch. But he looked over the tall fine figure curiously, and watched the beautiful face anxiously. He then bowed, and casting his eyes on the ground, he walked side by side with the young girl. The others dispersed. Some were laughing, some were shrugging their shoulders, some were asking who the monk was, why did he wish to see the cemetery? Why had the Mother Superior selected Adhle from all her companions? When AdSle and the monk reached the cemetery where all the sisters of the convent who had died were interred under their plain limestone crosses, the latter paused, aad read out a name. It was that of an aged sister who had been fifty-five years in religion. "Three-score years and ten!" murmured the monk. "Verily, she had passed to her reward!" The next was that of a novice, unprofessed. "Eigh- teen years of age," was marked on the transverse of the cross. "An immaculate life is equivalent to old age!" said the monk. Adele shivered, and wished herself back amongst her companions, away from the dead and this ghostly monk. He wandered up and down, calling out some names which struck his fancy, and then suddenly turning to the girl, he said: "I have a message for you. Mademoiselle!" He had stopped in his walk and was leaning against an iron railing. Ad^le looked at him in surprise. "I come from the friends and guardian of your child- hood," said the monk, "the very influential personage who brought you here in your childhood. He bids me say to you that after this term your school life closes, and you have to go out into the world." "I have already understood that, mon p^re," said Ad^ld. "But I have not yet been told whither I am to go, or in what capacity." 322 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "That depends greatly upon your own wishes," said the monk. "Has that lesson," he pointed to the graves, "ever impressed you?" Ad^le turned away. She was too young to think of death. "I mean," said the monk, "that possibly you might have thought, from time to time, when you walked here, of the vanity of all earthly things, and how all things — wealth, pleasure, happiness, love — end here!" Adele shook her head. "I never come here," she said, "but to pray for the dead. I cannot think of myself as dead." "And, therefore, it has never entered your mind to join this sisterhood, or some similar one?" "Never!" said Ad^le, with some emphasis. "I love the dear Sisters and am infinitely grateful to them; but I never deemed myself worthy to join them in rehgion. I love hfe and would like to see the great world." "And you shall," said the monk. "Clearly, your duties lie there." She shrank a little at that word "duties." She had only thought of hfe as pleasure. "You have to take your place as a lady of rank," he continued. "You are now the only living representative of your name in the outer world. You are the Comtesse de Brignon and the heiress of the estates of St-Remy." " You are mistaken, mon pdre," she said, whilst her face flushed a little, and her lips parted in surprise. "I heard once before that I was of noble birth; but I regarded it as so much persiflage. I have a distinct recollection of my childhood, and I know that my father was a humble watch- maker in a by-street in the city; my mother I never knew! " "It never occurred to your imagination that old Rein- hard (that was his name, was it not?) was much too old to be your father, and that the first man in France was not likely to be interested in the daughter of an artisan." Ad&le flushed angrily. "He was a patriot!" she said proudly. THE GAETHUSIAN 323 "Yes!" said the monk calmly. "I knew him a httle. But he was not your father, my child! You have never seen your father — I mean, he has never revealed himself to you." She shook her head. She was half-sorry that old Rein- hard was not her father. "Well," the monk said, after a moment's keen glance at the young face before him, "it matters httle. All things have an end. But to business! You shall leave this convent in a few weeks' time as the Comtesse de Brignon. There are many deeply interested in you. You will probably assume possession of the family estates at once. At least, there will be no obstacle but your own will. I come to say there are some dangers before you, a young and inexperienced girl. If it were fitting for me to do so," he looked down at his habit, "I would be happy to protect and guard your innocence, because for some reasons your future has some interest for me. But my vows preclude all that. I have sought this interview just to say that you will do well to assume at once the dignity and aloofness of your position in the world, that you keep far away from any acquaintances who may compromise you with the Court — " "I see, mon pere," said Ad^le, "that you know of my relations with Madame Ney and her circle. I cannot abandon them!" "I don't particularize," said the monk. "I simply wish to protect you. You are young. You know nothing of the intrigues of political parties; you may be dragged by imprudence into situations which would compromise all your after Ufe. And remember, words and deeds that might be overlooked in a convent boarder may assume a deeper significance in the Comtesse de Brignon." The solemnity of the monk's manner impressed the girl deeply, and the words "Comtesse de Brignon" made her heart, flutter, not a little. "What if I abandoned the title," she said, "and pre- served my liberty?" 324 THE QUEEN'S FILLET The idea startled the monk in turn. He was not pre- pared for that. "But you cannot," he said. "You cannot lay aside a title so easily. As for liberty, you can enjoy it on the terms on which it is conceded to most men and women in this world." She waited. "These terms are, that you Uve in peace and retire- ment — a chS,telaine, queen of all the hearts of your tenants and servitors, pursuing the practices of piety, dispensing charity, making no enemies, making many friends." "I might as well take the veil, mon pere," said Adele. "You would shut me out from all society, from all that youth prizes, from all the joys and raptures of living, and immure me in some old chateau, with no company but the village cure and his housekeeper." The monk shrugged his shoulders. He had no more to say. Adfele said: "My mother! She is dead?" "Yes!" he said. "She died when you were an infant!" "And my father! Is he alive! Why may I not see him?" "Not yet. Some day. You may need him, and he will come to you." They walked back, and reached the convent without another word. XXXIV A Rash Pbomise The Bourbonnais were uneasy on their throne. Ele- ments of Revolution were seething beneath them. Their loyal followers, returned imigres, etc., were no longer uneasy. They were aggressive. They were quite proud of the execution of Lab^ioy^re and Ney. They boasted of the King's firmness. The whole, canaille of RepubU- cans and Bonapartists should be wiped out. Thus the Loyahsts decreed. Hence they were very wroth, when it was aimounced on the public press that a picture by a well-known artist was on exhibition in one of the galleries of the city; and that it was attracting much attention. It was called: The Vigil of the Dead! and it represented a convent chapel, at night, dim, sepulchral, with six unbleached tapers lighting up its gloom. In the centre, under the dim light of the tapers, was a catafalque, and on the catafalque was a coflSn; and leaning down over the dead chief whose form alone was visible was the figiu'e of a young girl, whose face imder the yellow light seemed singularly beautiful. With swift Parisian apprehension, the le- gend was read by the people; and with the swiftness of malicious gossip the episode, the name and title of the pensionnaire, and the name of the artist were speedily known at court. The Bourbons never forget; and Eti- enne Devaux, Captain in the Light Brigade of the 4th Hussars, was summarily ordered away into the provinces. He had an interview with Ad^e before he left Paris. The young artist-officer had begged the interview. Addle was warned to refuse; and just because she was warned, she disobeyed. It was her nature. 32S 326 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Etieime was stiff and formal. He was habited in the handsome uniform of his famous regiment. "I leave Paris, Comtesse," he said. "The loyalists understand everything but loyalty to an idea." "It is a paltry revenge," she replied. "But you wiU return." "When you command me!" he replied. She held down her head. "Adele!" said the young officer with emotion. She looked at him. ^"You had no right to touch my sleeve, and call me 'Etienne' that evening at Madame Ney's." "I was betrayed," she said, "by my emotions at re- cognizing the companion of my childhood." "Then you regret having done so?" he said. "It was imprudent," she replied. "Ha! There is that prophetic word again. Prudence! Prudence! No emotion, no feeling, no gratitude, only caution. When will the Comtesse de Brignon be pre- sented at Court?" It was unkind, and she resented it. "When she wills!" she said haughtily. "Pardon, Ad^le. A rough sabreur has not the words of polite society on his lips. Things have changed and come around in such an unexpected manner. Little did I dream there in the old shop near the Rue de Sevres, that our little lampyre, born and reared in rigid Republicanism, would yet be presented to a Bourbon King. How the mighty men of those days must have turned in their graves!" "We must accept our destiny!" she said. "Then all along you have been at heart a Royalist?" "I have not said so!" she replied. "But you — are you not acting traitorously in accepting and retaining ser- vice under those whom you affect to despise? " He started at the sudden imputation. • "True! if I had not a higher object. I have been brought up in that school, which places country above everything." A RASH PROMISE 327 " Even honour? " she said. "Yea, even honour. She demands our whole alle- giance. I go to serve her!" He turned away without a farewell word. She called him back. "I don't know, Etienne, on what perilous work you are engaged. I am only a novice in worldly matters. Clearly, there are dangers before you — perhaps some lofty mission. I am alone in the world. Father and mother I have none. You are the only tie that binds me to my past, my childhood. Promise me that should you need me, you will call upon me in the hour of peril or distress!" He looked in a bewildered way at her face. He saw she meant what she said. "You mean it?" he said. "Yes, I mean it. I should wish to share your dangers." "Then there are none!" he replied. He took her hand, and raised it to his lips, and was gone. Then the monk's warning voice came back to her. But she shook the monitions aside. It was a surprise to many that Captain Devaux, of the 4th Hussars, was not promptly dismissed the army. The Duke de Feltre was weeding out all disaffected offi- cers, and sending them Into civil life. Probably, he did not like to offend the artist-world and the world of let- ters. It was also a surprise in Bonapartist circles that the young pensionnaire, who had been so devoted to the murdered marshal, shovdd have been summoned to court; should have made a sensation, not only by her beauty, but by the marked attention that was paid her in very high circles; and then retired almost rudely to her chiteau that was now rebuilt for her by unknown hands at St.-Remy. It was no surprise, however, that she had already created for herself many enemies, and that some very high personages in the intimate circle of Royalty were abeady her declared antagonists. 328 THE .QUEEN'S FILLET The temper of the Court just then was pretty high against opponents. In the two Chambers, addresses were presented to the King to sanction the most stringent measures against malcontents and the seditious. Barb6- Marbois issued summary orders towards repressing sedi- tious manifestations. Decazes proclaimed the absolute suspension of all civil liberty. Chateaubriand exulted in his demmciations of political opponents. Labourdon- naye drew up a table of proscription, in which twelve hundred persons were to be arraigned and condemned capitally or to perpetual exile. The Chambers con- sented and applauded. The great ladies of the court used all their arts to break down the clemency of the King. The King was for amnesty and peace. His fam- ily were for revenge and punition. Through the provinces, the zeal of the Ministers for summary punishments and reprisals, was imitated and surpassed. Many a wrong done during the Terror was now recalled and revenged. Once more the prisons were being fiUed; and the sins of the fathers were visited on their children. The harangues in the Chambers savoured of the ferocity of '93; and the petty orators in the provin- cial cities, if they could not command the eloquence of the Chambers, at least surpassed it in sanguinary demm- ciations and demands. On the other hand, every hostile element in France was ranging itself aganst the Government. The vast number of old Napoleonic veterans, to whom the Emperor was stiU their idol; the crowds of disbanded officers, hiding away in small towns and villages, and talking fm-ious sedition over their wine-cups in every caf6 and public- house; the old Revolutionaries, to whom the "great Revolution" was the foremost event in all human his- tory; the Orleanists, who hated the Bourbons, even more than Republicans — all combined to form a mass of dis- affection that would speedily resolve itself into factors of rebellion, when the hour would strike and the man, arrive. A RASH PROMISE 329 Alone in her chdteau at St-Remy, AdSle was at first bewildered by her novel position. Suddenly from a schoolgirl she had emerged into a countess; she had seen life under different and somewhat alarming aspects — the life of courts, splendid, attractive, yet repulsive; the hfe of the malcontents, silent, undemonstrative, yet ready to break into flame and fury. Once she had vis- ited Vallancey, and had been treated royally by her quon- dam guardian, but something about the place and people repelled her. Yes! She would now take that monk's advice; and settle down into the quiet life of a noble- woman, occasionally emerging just to see how the big world was going, and she would find all her pleasure amongst the people, doing them good as far as her wealth allowed; and she would have her old school- mates down from time to time to share her simple happiness. So life moved on calmly and peaceably for her that winter. Then, one day, she was summoned to Paris by quasi- Royal command; and in the most careful and diplomatic manner she was informed that it was the Royal wish that she should marry a young attache, who was soon to be connected with a foreign court, and who had a brilliant future before him. She shuddered at the manner in which her life was thus calmly disposed of; rebelled a little, which made her conquest all the sweeter; asked for a little time, which was graciously granted; and went back to St-Remy to reflect. She now felt the need of guidance and a strong hand to direct her. The problem of her life was to be solved. She instantly thought of the monk, who had spoken to her so solemnly there at the Convent Cemetery a few months before; wrote instantly to the Mother Superior to get his address; and promptly invited him to St-Remy. It was spring-time again, when the Carthusian crossed the little river that ran down through the village and entered the ancestral grounds of the Comtes de Brignon. He lingered a while over the little bridge, watching the 330 THE QUEEN'S FILLET play of the current beneath, and trying to recall several events in his past life. And whilst he lingered, a figure came up from the village, an old man, heavy in years and with a strong burly figure that now bent beneath them. "Good evening!" said the monk. He was answered rudely by the old man, who appeared anxious to pass on. "The years are many upon thy head, and thy deeds must have been many to correspond," said the monk. "Art thou prepared to render an account of thy life, now that you shall be soon summoned?" "Yes, priest," said the man, stopping and speaking with the deliberation of one who had been thinking a long time of what he should say; "I have numbered the years of my life, which are three score and ten; there is just one thing only which I shaU regret, when my last hour Cometh." "Thou art a happy man!" said the monk. "Most men have a larger score against themselves than that. And yet it may be grievous, too. Confess thy sin and remorse, that it may be well with thee in the day of trial." The savage old man laughed. "The one thing I regret," he said, "is that I did not send the last scion of this house to the scaffold; and thus root out that nest of serpents for ever. He escaped me, although he was in my hands three times; and now the young white snake up yonder is going to perpetuate the evil brood, and I shall die unhappy!" He turned away; and the monk saw as he watched the broad shoulders and the heavy gait that it was the old blacksmith, Dubuisson. "May God forgive thee!" said the monk. Then, he started as if at an apparition. Had he not seen Dubuis- son shot by de Batz? He entered the grounds, examining curiously the trees, the great white-lUy pond, the forests stretching afar A RASH PROMISE 331 behind. He then called at the great gate, and was ad- mitted by AdMe herself. He found her in a more chas- tened mood than on the occasion of their last interview. She had seen a little, which to her quick apprehension meant a great deal. She placed candidly before hiin the prospect held out to her; her own misgiviags, her repul- sions, her dislike of court life, her secret sympathies with the Bonapartists and even the Republicans. He saw swiftly that action was necessary — something to resolve her doubts, and remove her from France to some foreign court, where variety and excitement and amusement would wean her away from dangerous sympathies and still more dangerous intrigues. He said Mass the following morning in the chapel of St.-Remy; and left at once with the assurance that AdMe's fate was now decided, and with a certain security of her ultimate happiness. One thing seemed to linger in her fancy after the monk had gone. He was reserved when speaking to her, his eyes always cast downwards, and his hands folded beneath his scapular. He seemed to be afraid to look upon her face. She imderstood that this was owiug to the sever- ity of monastic discipline and the rigid traditions of the great order to which the Carthusian belonged. But he seemed to lay aside all that coldness and reserve when, calling up the past, he spoke of the great, imhappy Queen. Here he gave way to enthusiasm and even emotion, extolling her virtues, her magnanimity, her generosity, her dignity, until when he came to speak of her last jour- ney to the scaffold, and her unconquerable self-posses- sion and calmness, he almost gave way to tears. "I see," said AdSle, "why her daughter is so uncom- promising and severe. She knows no pity for the regi- cides." "Marie-Antoinette would forgive them!" he said. She would forgive even Robespierre!" "Ah, then," said Ad^le, "she must have been great indeed!" 332 THE QUEEN'S FILLET He departed; and she awaited with some amdety, and yet with that serenity that comes from having a complex situation simplified, the further development of her des- tiny. Her life stretched before her now — a fair tableau of honours and dignities, the pomp and pleasure of courts, even the little excitements of pohtical intrigue, wherein, perhaps, she would exercise some influence, like a Madame de Maintenon, or perhaps move in salons, amongst art- ists and gens de lettres hke Necker's daughter. It was sweet, and doubly sweet, because just a little alarming. It made life piquant to feel that there were perils that would be shared by the powerful, and where defeat even had its own consolations. She was beginning to feel for the first time that first dawning of gratitude, that attendrissement du cceur that comes from unexpected favours and accompanies them. She moved around the village and the castle-grounds with a lighter step and a more queenly air. Then, one day, a courier arrived, booted and spurred, asked to see the Comtesse in person, refused aU informa- tion as to whence he had come, and whither he was wend- ing. He produced a small packet, tied and sealed, and handed it to Adele. She opened it with some trepida- tion, and read: "Ad^e. — You said if I was ever in peril, I should call upon you. I am in great peril, but it is on the path of honour and patriotism. Do as you please. Etienne." , It was dated a week before; and written from an obscure address in Grenoble. XXXV At St-Makcellin Vespers were over in the chapel attached to the Carthusian monastery of St-Marcellin that looked down from its wooded heights on the rapid Isfere a few miles to the west of Grenoble. The last monk had dipped his finger into the font of holy water near the choir-entrafice, and passed along to his solitary room. The Abbot alone remained behind. He sat in his stall on the Epistle side of the great altar, buried in meditation. He thought that the last hmnan cares had now been swept away; and nothing remained for him but to make his peaceful preparation for eternity. He cast one large, retrospective glance across the theatre of life; sighed a little; and then rose up to retire. As he passed into the cloister, a lay-brother who was waiting there, accosted him, and told him that some dis- tinguished travellers had just arrived at the guest-house, had had dinner, and would be pleased to see the Abbot, if he could spare the time. The Abbot gnmibled a little. It was a departure from custom, a violation of rule; but then he reflected — perhaps, who knows? it may be a soul, or souls, awaiting my ministrations, and what if I should refuse them? He went to the guest-house. There was only one traveller in the salon. He stiU wore his travelling-dress, and the fur collar was pulled high over his ears. He had his feet covered with a travelling rug; but the evening was not cold. The Abbot started. "Ha! Monseigneur — but you do like to give shocks to your friends " 333 334 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "And to my enemies!" said the statesman. "But, Reverend Father, allow me to say that you keep up the reputation of the monks for hospitaUty. My friends have retired, and will sleep well, if good food and sound digestion can help them. But I felt I should see you!" "Always quick, always dramatic, always — bizarre!" said the Abbot. "I'm not sure whether your deeds or your words are the more alarming!" "No necessity for alarm just now," said the great states- man. " I am simply on my way to Grenoble, and thought I should like to see an old friend." "Who is always chaxmed to see his benefactor," said the monk; but a wave of the hand dismissed the idea. The statesman felt he was too great for mere thanks. He left gratitude to meaner persons. " You have been to St-Remy? " he said, after a pause. "Yes. All is well there now. Possibly you have heard. The Uttle Ad^e seems to have conquered aU hearts up there in the crowded haunts of fashion and Royalty " "And then — been conquered in return!" "Well, I don't know that it is an affaire du caeur; or only a mariage de convenance; but it seems pretty certain that young Decazes will take my title at last!" "Not too bad!" said his friend. "He is destined for the Russian court, I understand. I don't know him. He will need aU his astuteness to succeed there; and Ad^le will need all her adroitness to penetrate the Slav mind!" "She hasn't a particle of it," said the Abbot. "She is as open as the sun — she is candour personified!" "And the Slav is as dark as a Sibyl's cave; and dupUcity personified — especially the Slav women!" "Well, she must only take her chance in life," said the Abbot. "I suppose we are pretty far away from another European war, since the eagle got chained on his rock; and nothing short of war can interfere with her position. So I rest in peace; and can pray without distraction." AT ST^MARCELLIN 335 "How quiet this place is!" said the statesman. "Do you know, Father Abbot, you must take me in some day." The Abbot shook his head. "Not as a novice!" he said. "But, oh! Monseigneur, how pleased I would be to receive you as " He stopped. The statesman finished the sentence: "A penitent? Well, who knows?" "Stranger things have happened, Monseigneur! Ah, if only after all your brilliant successes in the world, you were to atta^ the final success, that comes from de- feat at God's hands!" "Well, we'll let it pass just now," said his friend. "Some day I'll write to you, and ask you to get plenary powers from Rome to absolve me from all my delin- quencies; and then I will kneel at your feet, and say, Mea culpa!" "And why should not Monseigneur give a poor monk that commission now? And the world need know nothing " "Ah! Father Abbot, there you are mistaken. The world knows everything. And what a sensation it would be in Paris, which is just now blase for need of a sensation, to hear that Talleyrand had been to confession. It is very tempting. Why, they would make me cure at the Chapel Royal!" "Sensations, alas! are seldom wanting in these days," said the Abbot. "We are walking over earthquakes and the earth is trembling beneath our feet." "You speak, of course, metaphorically," said his friend. "Yes! France is not free of all her troubles as yet. It will take years, centuries, to undo the work of the Revolution!" "And why should it be undone?" said his friend. "There, we'U give politics and religion the go-by! Let us speak of pleasanter matters. Did Adele tell you she had been at Vallancey?" "Yes! She was fascinated by Monseigneur; but not by all his guests!" 336 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "The little minxl She has not yet got rid of her convent deportments. It was amusing to see her repel, with the most admirable success, the advances and attacks that are made on young debutantes in our circles. I assure you, if she had been brought up in the school of du Barri, she could not have acted with more perfect aplomb." "It is her simplicity and guilelessness!" said the Abbot. "Quite so. These ing&nues always defeat the trained and experienced dames of fashion. But it was quite a little comedy. I am amazed that Moliere never thought of it. Imagine one of these old habitues of the Coiu-t sailing up to such a child as Ad^le, probing the very depths of her soul with questions and receiving oracular answers, throwing out little shafts of sarcasm which fall harmless from the coat of mail called innocence, then deliberately slighting and insulting that yoimg victim, who doesn't know she is insulted and doesn't know she is a victim — 'tis all delightful, novel, original — how it would catch on in a Moliere drama!" "Yes," said the Abbot, musing, "that big world is a very hollow thing — is it not, Monseigneur? " "So hoUow that you can never sound its depths," was the reply. "But then it is also charming. There is no choice in life. If I were not a worldling, I should be a monk. There is no medium." "But, alas! Monseigneur, what if Ad^e becomes a mondaine just as you have described? Is it not inevitable? WiU not the fine flowers of innocence depart, and leave the bitter fruit of experience? And would not that be dreadful?" "It is the inevitable," said the statesman. "But, dear Father, why anticipate? Is not that the most fatal of habits? Leave the future to mind itself. It will come soon enough. By the way, who is just now governor at Grenoble?" "General Donnadieu! A rough, strong soldier,' and a vigorous disciplinarian ! ' ' "Capable of coping with amateur revolutionists or disaffected Bonapartists?" AT ST-MARCELLIN 337 "Yes! I should say an austere man. But there will be no need. The place is very quiet. Here and there, old soldiers of the guard talk of Austerlitz and Eylau; but the young people only laugh. France has got a surfeit of blood for some time!" "Ha! Then I needn't proceed further. With your permission, Father Abbot, I will retire! And you need rest. Probably when I am in my soimdest slumber, not even dreaming of Metternich, you will be in your stall. Is that what you call it? " "Monseigneur!" "WeU, now? WeU, now?" " I shall pray for you; and get all my brothers to pray." "Ever so many thanks, my dear Father. I need prayer!" "And some day you will come to St-Marcellin again; and you will remain, and make a Retreat of eight days. And no one, not even Brother Sylvester, who has the eyes of a lynx, shall know it. And there is a dear old Father here — a kind of Bruno, who knows nothing, and therefore everything, and you shall kneel to him, and he will absolve you; and you wiU depart in peace, and leave your quondam friend and prot^g6 too happy even for heaven." The aged statesman averted his head. The desperate earnestness of the monk affected him deeply. For the moment the spirit of mockery seemed to have been exorcised by the simple appeal. He felt himself trem- bUng between the conviction that this monk was right and the conviction that what he demanded was impos- sible. He put his hands before his eyes, and said: "Leave me now, Maurice. I'll think the matter over at leisure. We must not act hastily; and this needs consideration. To-morrow we may speak of it again." The monk arose, and passed out. The great statesman remained buried in thought a long time. He then roused himself, put aside the wine that was in his glass untasted, and stood up. 338 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Good heavens," he said. "To think how the world of fops and philosophes despises these men, who alone have the wisdom of Ufe and the secrets of eternity. Yes, Maurice, I wiU. I'U go back to St-Sulpice, and walk with the dear Fathers once more and talk to them of eternal things. But not yet! not yet!" And the monk did not lie on his couch that night. But when all was still, stiU with the deep silence of a place where church-bells jangle all day long, he crept down along the stony corridor, treading hghtly, lest his footfall should break the sacred Carthusian silence; and gently drawing back the choir-door and then the portiere that hung behind it, he walked across the transept to his stall. The chapel was dark, except where the solitary red lamp showed the place where eternal love and mercy abode. The place was silent, except for the ticking of the clock in the chapter-room adjoining and the quarter- chimes that ran out musically upon the midnight. He buried his face in his hands, and prayed for the soul of his friend, and offered to eternal justice any sacrifice it might demand for such a favour. Then, fearing that, kneeling there in the abbatial stall, he was not suflSciently humbled before the Almighty, he rose and, passing across the floor, he prostrated himself in the sanctuary, and remained there all night in prayer. And the mighty statesman, who had laughed at Jacobin and Girondist alike, who had escaped the Revolution to become Napoleon's mentor and master; who at the Con- gress of Vienna had pitted kings agaiast kings for the sake of his beloved France — was walking up and down the narrow chamber in the guest-house of the monastery, and debating with himself the question. When shall I have com'age enough to do what every child and woman does every day? And the night is at hand; and the great gulf is yawning beneath my feet. But when the Abbot inquired after his guests next morning, he foimd they had departed. XXXVI An Incognita Just at the time that the statesman left the monastery of St-MarceUin, Adhle entered the city of Grenoble. She had travelled all day and all night with her maid, in obedience to Etienne's summons, and not knowing his address, she put up at the principal hotel in the city. She was surprised to find everything absolutely quiet, no noise in the streets, no alarm amongst the people. She questioned the hotel proprietor: "There is no sign of revolution here?" "Not the least, Madame. Revolutions are things of the past. We are happy under our good King, and need no more!" "Then you have no Bonapartists or Orleanists here?" He shrugged his shoulders. "A few old moustached veterans talk of the Revolu- tion and the Empire over their eau de vie, but no one heeds them. The snows of Russia cured all that!" "There is a barrack, a d^pot in the city?" "To be sure, Madame. The Legionaries are here, and the Chasseurs, and the Hussars, and a grand old warrior and Legitimist at their head." "Then I can send a letter there?" "By /all means, Madame. It will be presented imme- diately." Adele wrote a brief note to ^fitienne. It was never presented. It found its way, after a day or two of delay, into the bureau of General Donnadieu. She waited, a stranger in a strange city, afraid to leave her hotel lest Etienne should call, and giving rise to 339 340 THE QUEEN'S FILLET suspicion by reason of her seclusion. She had given her name as Madame de Coucy, residence, Paris. On the night of May the 4th there was a military dinner at the barracks. The prefect, the governor, the colonels of the different regiments, were present. They sat down to dinner with a sense of perfect ease and security. The night deepened over the city; the lamps flared at street comers, leaAdng the deeper outlines in complete darkness; and the silence of a summer night fell over camp, and barracks, and street, and chiu-ch. Suddenly a messenger arrives at the barracks and demands to see the Governor. The Governor grumbles, but goes down to find a man, soiled and out of breath from running, who gasped out: "The Revolutionary troops, under Didier, are at your gates. They are four thousand strong, with some artillery." The General laughed. Revolution? There was no such thing nowadays. "I come from La Mure," said the man. "I am mayor. I saw the insurgents trooping down from the hills; I saw the rebels in my own city taking up arms. I took my horse and rode post haste here. I left my horse at Eybens where the insurgents concentrated, in order to avoid suspicion, and took a roundabout route. I tell you, there is an army of four thousand men within a mile of Grenoble!" "But, my fine fellow," said the gay General, "all that is impossible. I have had my scouts out and my spies everywhere, and they report all's quiet. 'Didier,' did you say? Who is Didier?" "Why, a madman, a fanatic, who has come down from the hills and preached revolution Uke a prophet. He has the whole country, from Savoy hither, on his side!" "Impossible! A madman capable of rousing the coun- try, and knowing we had two thousand troops here. He has gathered a few hundred peasants perhaps " "Veterans, rather. General, who have slept on the Russian steppes! Addio! I have done my duty to my King!" AN INCOGNITA 341 "Stop! I shall see the prefect and the colonels. Come, Monsieur le Moire, have a glass of wine with us, and we'll talk the matter over!" He led him into the circle of officers upstairs, told briefly what the man had said, placed a decanter of wine before him, and then stepped out into the city, disguised, and in his heavy military cloak. There was not a sound to break the silence, except the usual diminishing noise of traffic, and the laughter of young men and maidens at street corners. A few soldiers passed by, singing ribald songs, but they did not recognize their General. There was no suspicious gathering of citi- zens in -plaza or church square, no revolutionary speeches, no seditious songs from itinerants. "The man must have been mad," said the General. "And I — prowUng around these streets Uke a brigand in the opera. Stay! I'll see old Fourgier! He has all the news of the city!" He entered the hotel, and Madame Fourgier stared at him. He flimg aside his disguise and his heavy cloak. She almost screamed. He beckoned her aside and asked to see her husband. Fourgier came down in his shirt-sleeves. He was surprised to see his old general. They talked of many things. Then Donnadieu said: "No strange visitors, Fourgier?" "None," said the man. "The times are bad, very bad. Stop. There is a lady from Paris and her maid. Mon Dieu! She gave me a letter for one of your officers. General, and I quite forgot all about it. Is there a Cap- tain ^fitienne — something; — where's that letter, C&ile? My! The lady would not be pleased if she knew!" Madame Fourgier produced the letter. "Ah! yes. Captain Etienne Devaux, 4th Hussars. You know him. General?" "Milk tonnerres, man! Know him? He's my aide-de- camp. Do me the honour of allowing me to present it — from Madame — you said?" 342 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Madame de Coucy, Paris. That is all!" "And that is qmte sufficient, mon brave. A little offfaire, I suppose. How these young men do carry on, Fourgier. Bonne nuit! Addio, Madame!" He put the letter into his side-pocket, and went out whistling softly to himself. Turning into a deserted square he paused a moment, as if amdous to break the seal there. But he decided it were better to get back to the barracks. He passed out of the square into a by-street, and a figure, cloaked Uke himself, gUded away into the darkness. The General followed hastily. The figure fled. The general pursued and came up with the fugitive and seized him. The man was armed to the teeth and wore a mihtary uniform. He struggled to free himself. But Donnadieu was a power- ful man, and dragged him by main force to the nearest guard-house. There he ordered him to be searched for papers, etc. And now, recognizing the fact that there might have been something in the alarm which the mayor of La Mure had given, he hastened back to his quarters. After a brief consultation with his officers he issued his orders. In a quarter of an hour the bugles rang out over the city, sounding the alarm; scouts were sent out along the road to Eybens, and in an incredibly short space of time the troops were massed in every barrack-square. Just then, and whilst awaiting news from the scouts before deciding on further action, Donnadieu thought of the letter. He took it from his pocket, broke the seal calmly, and read the contents. Then turning to an orderly, he said: "Go straight to Captain Devaux's quarters or seek him in the barrack-square, and tell him the General requires his presence immediately." At the same time he dispatched a messenger to the chief of poUce to set a watch on a distinguished stranger who was at Fourgier's hotel. He was not to arrest, or create suspicion; but he was to take every precaution that she should not leave the city. AN INCOGNITA 343 The orderly returned to say that Captain Devaux was neither in his quarters, nor with the regiment, which was drawn up in the barrack-square. Furious at having been so easily trapped, Donnadieu gave immediate orders to the troops to move out of the city. Some hussars were appointed to move round by a circuitous route and reconnoitre Eybens, where the head- quarters of the insurgents were located. But, no sooner were the gates opened, than Didier's colmnns appeared. Raising a shout, " Vive I'Empereur ! " they rushed forwards ; and there in the midnight a sanguinary struggle took place. The Royalist troops, taken by surprise, were driven back with terrible loss into the city and then Donnadieu recognized the fact, that it was not with raw, undisciplined troops, recruited from the ranks of the peasantry, he had to contend, but with veterans who already had fought in many a European field under the tricolor. He managed, however, to rally the remainder; and pushing forth the legion of the Is^re, the legion of the H&-ault, and the dragoons, under Vautr6, he drove back the rebel troops across the bridge, charged them furiously with his cavalry, and finally dispersed them. The first defeat had demoralized them, just as a first victory might have been fatal to the RoyaUsts. Meanwhile, the Hussars who had galloped on to Eybens and taken possession of the place had united with the leading troops of the con- quering legions. Didier escaped to the mountains, where later on he was arrested and executed. On the open square at Eybens a cavalry charger was bending down and snifiing at the dead body of his master, an oflScer named Joannini. In the officer's mouth, half-chewed, were certain papers. They were seized and examined. They contained the names of all the insurgent ofiicers, and amongst them was the name of Etienne Devaux, captain in the light Hussars. When the morning broke, and the prisoners came to be examined carefully, Donnadieu recognized his aide- de-camp. An hour after Ad^e was arrested, and Fourgier 344 THE QUEEN'S FILLET examined as to the letter and conversations of the un- known lady. A prevotal court was immediately formed, and prompt revenge was taken on the insurgents. On the sixth of May, two days after the midnight battle, three of the rebel leaders were tried, sentenced, and shot. The word had gone forth — no mercy! And there were four hundred prisoners under arrest in the city. Captain Devaux was in his barrack, awaiting his trial. Donnadieu was furious against him. He felt that he had been caught napping, and there was no means of defence, except by exuberant and intemperate zeal. After a few more executions, the prefect got tired of the slaughter and wrote to Paris for instructions. Whilst thus awaiting trial, Donnadieu visited his aide-de-camp. "Pretty bad business, fitienne!" he said. " I suppose so," said Captain Devaux, without looking at his General. "We have written to Paris about our officers. Vautr^ wanted to have you all courtmartialled and shot at once " "Would it not be better?" said Etienne. The General shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps so! But then — one does not know — the King is clement — but to be candid, I cannot recommend you to mercy!" "And I don't expect mercy!" said the officer. "I am prepared to take my pimishment. I shall join Ney and Lab^oyfere somewhere beyond those skies." "Yes! Ney — a traitor! Lab^doy^re, a traitor! Devaux, a traitor! What can you expect?" "Nothing!" said Etienne. "But, mon Cajyitaine, it is well to be brave, even though a traitor, but brave men do not compromise others. They are content to suffer alone!" "I, led no man astray in that late perilous hneute!" eaid Etieime. "I stood alone!" "Not quite, mon Capitaine," said the old general. AN INCOGNITA 345 "Brave young Bonapartists are never alone. They excite strange feelings sometimes." Etienne looked at him in a puzzled manner. "Oh! nothing to be ashamed of," said Donnadieu. "By the way, I should have handed you, or rather, that old rogue, Fourgier, should have given you that eventful night this Uttle billet. It would have changed things somewhat." He handed him AdMe's letter. Etienne flushed scarlet. Then turned white. "That lady knew nothing of us or our affairs," he said, trying to speak calmly. "She is absolutely innocent. She knew no more what was going to happen than your- self. General!" "It may be true; but you must admit it is awkward. When a lady comes into a theatre of revolution; asks questions about Bonapartists and Orleanists; whether a revolution is in progress, or whether there is profound peace; and finally writes to a captain who is a proved traitor, to make an assignation — well, mon Capitaine, things look blue!" Etienne hung his head in despair and remorse. Why had he written that letter? What evil spirit had prompted him? "Finally," said the old general, "it looks ill for Madame to assume a false name. People don't do that, unless they are afraid of the gendarmes. But, que vouUz-vous? We await instructions from Paris." ^ "I suppose my evidence will not be accepted," said Etienne, "but I am prepared to swear on the honour of an officer " "Who violated his oath!" threw in Donnadieu. "Parbleu ! mon General, you are severe. A bullet would have been more welcome!" "You can have both!" said the old man savagely. "But, perhaps you would wish to communicate with your fair friend. In that case I shall engage to forward your letter, or deliver it in person!" 346 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Etieime thought for a moment. He knew perfectly well he could not trust this man who was made savage by his own remissness. And yet, what was to be done? "There is no use in my writing to Madame," he said. "Besides, my letter might be used against the lady. If you would allow me to make a declaration — but that, too, would be suppressed. You want blood, mon General! Very good! If Adele is to die, she will know how to do so with dignity. Go! Leave me alone!" And Donnadieu went away, disappointed. He had failed to find out who the imknown lady was. He visited the prefect. "I cannot make out who Madame de Coucy is," he said. "Her maid will tell nothing. Devaux is cautious, whilst protesting her innocence. They are clamouring in Paris for her name. She is some one of rank. Of that I am sure. I see nothing for us, but to send forward the lady to Paris. Let them deal with her there." "But," said the prefect, "here are specific instructions from Paris. Listen! " ' I announce to you by the King's order that you must not grant pardon to any but those who have revealed something important.' "The twenty-one condemned must be executed, as well as David." "Yes! But Madame de Coucy is not condemned, nor even tried. You have no evidence." "Evidence enough to hang her," said the prefect. "But you are right, perhaps. Will you grant me an escort for the lady? " "Certainly! For to-morrow?" "Yes! And we'll just time her departure and her route, so that she can see Devaux executed." "Quite so. An admirable idea!" said the general. XXXVII Under Akeest The Abbot of St-Marcellin was in his cell. He had arranged all his temporalities well. And because he- had arranged them so well, he was now free to feel remorse for having had so much solicitude about earthly things. If he had failed, anxiety for Ad^le would have stifled remorse. But now that she was under Royal patronage, and about to be married to a favourite at court, he felt secure about her future and remorseful at having taken so much trouble in making it secure. "After aU," he said in silent soliloquy, "why should such things trouble me? Have I not made my vows to heaven, and forsworn all earthly ties? And is this my detachment — my exclusive devotion to higher things? Verily, it would be just, if God smote me with his anger." He woke at midnight, when the great Abbey bell called to prayer. His remorse came back. He felt that he was abusing his privileges as Abbot in going away so often from his monastery about purely secular matters; and mixing so freely with seculars on the pretext of gratifying a natural affection. "Is it not written," he thought, "that 'he who loves father or mother, or brother or sister, more than me, cannot be my disciple'? Yes, these are plain words; and, if they apply even to those who .have not broken entirely with the world, how much more should they apply to me, who have forsworn the world for ever?" Yes! 'The detachment of the New Testa- ment, and of "The Imitation," he had not yet reached. It was a humiliating and haimting thought. He was slightly shocked, but not too much surprised, when a note was placed in his hands, countersigned by the 347 348 THE QUEEN'S FILLET prefect of Grenoble. It was a brief but piteous appeal from Ad^le to come see her at once. She added she was under arrest. He raised his eyes to heaven, and muttered: "I am punished. It is the hand of God; and it is just!" He called on the prefect, who was anxious to kno\v what the lady's name was. He had retained sufficient worldly prudence to be cautious. His sacred profession protected him. Ad^le was detained in the public prison; but she had been treated with aU respect. Yet the heart of the monk beat quicker, when he heard the soimd of locks and chains. She met him calmly, and with a certain dignity, which at once disarmed reproach. She was perfectly candid. Etienne Devaux was the friend of her childhood, he was the only living link with her childhood; she had not seen him for years; then she met him at the house of Madame Ney. They did not meet often afterwards; but she had promised that she would come to him, if he were ever in trouble. He had been a leading spirit in the late outbreak; and had written to her to come. And she had kept her promise. Hence, her trouble. There was abimdant scope here for such recriminations as would suggest themselves naturally to a less interested person. But the monk appreciated at once the gravity of the situation. He felt that, after aU that had oc- curred, nothing could save her the moment her identity was established. Her own unconsciousness of danger smote him. She had done nothing wrong. What should she be tried for? He could not bring himself to reveal to her the extreme gravity of her situation. He gathered rapidly from her lips all the circumstances that could tell in her favour; bade her adieu! and place her trust in Divine Providence. Then, her woman's nature gave way. "Father Abbot, I have no one but you to rely upon. I do not know why or how you are interested in me, but I feel that I can trust you, and you alone. Do not aban- don me!" UNDER ARREST 349 It needed all his priestly reserve, all his iron habits, to conquer nature then; and to keep him from drawing that forlorn one to his breast, and revealing himself to her. There was a sharp struggle for a moment between habits of iron discipline and the insurgence of nature. Then he said: "Be assured, child, that I shall not fail you. But there is One, greater than I, in whom you must now place un- bounded trust. In him is all your hope!" He called again on the prefect, and ascertained that AdMe was to set out for Paris at eight o'clock the follow- ing morning. "She goes as prisoner then?" " Yes ! It was in our power to try and sentence Madame de Coucy here, and, perhaps, it would have been better for herself. We could be clement with an unknown and obscure lady, who had drifted into suspicious courses. But," he shrugged his shoulders, "as the lady has chosen to remain an inconnue, and, as Paris knows more than poor provincials like ourselves, we decided that Madame de Coucy and her maid leave here to-morrow, under escort for Paris!" The words threw the monk into an agony of doubt. He knew what dread influences would be brought to bear against her in the capital; how political passions would be inflamed against her; how woxmded pride would seek revenge. But, he threw out his hands in despair, and said: "It is fated, I suppose. I cannot interfere!" Nevertheless, shaking aside all spiritual scruples when he returned to his monastery, he yielded himself to the promptings of natural affection. Calling to his cell the Prior, he said humbly: "Father Prior, you must have noticed lately my fre- quent absences from our monastery. It was only the goodness and filial affection of the brethren, I am sure, that prevented some scandal in the community; and 350 THE QUEEN'S FILLET possibly saved me from interrogations at Chapter. I am truly grieved that such a burden should be placed upon me, and that I cannot shake it off, or explain. Once more, and certainly for the last time, I am compelled to make a journey to the capital. I shall not be long away. I place my jurisdiction in your hands. You will guide the affairs of our monastery in my absence; and beg the community to overlook my delinquencies, and take no scandal from my infraction of our beloved rules. Some day, I may be able to explain!" The Prior bowed. Then knelt and asked the Abbot's blessing, and departed. The Abbot went over and took a little silver box from the wooden cupboard in his cubicu- lum. He folded it and tied it carefully and placed it inside his habit. He then set out on his long journey to Paris. The following morning, as arranged, Addle and her maid entered the carriage that was provided for them by the prefect of Grenoble. There was an escort of two mounted gendarmes; the driver and the two footmen, who rode behind, were almost armed. The ladies had little fear. AdMe, conscious of her perfect innocence, was almost pleased that events had turned out so happily. She had not the slightest doubt that the moment she entered Paris, and was suffered to make explanations, she would be set at liberty. One anxious thought engrossed her. What had become of Etienne? She had some idea that he was m some way compromised and mixed up with the revolutionists; but she knew nothing, and was too prudent to ask questions. The May morning was resplendent with all southern loveliness, as the carriage swept through the gates of Grenoble and entered the open country. Just as they passed the gates. Addle bade her maid let down the windows, as they were now free from observation. As she did so, they noticed a few yards away, and in the centre of a field, a short line of twelve infantry soldiers, and just before them, not ten feet away, was a man in his UNDER ARREST 351 shirt-sleeves. It seemed to them for the moment a kind of drill parade. The carriage slackened its pace, and stopped. An officer stepped up towards the file of soldiers, and stood aside. As he did so, they loosened their rank at close file and moved apart, loading their muskets. A thrill of terror shook AdMe from head to foot. She looked more closely through the gap in the ranks. The man had bared his breast. There was a sharp sudden order. He dropped his handkerchief. There was a crash of musketry. Adele, leaning from the carriage, shouted : "Etienixe! Etienne!" She then dropped back in a swoon into the arms of her maid. The gen- darmes laughed, whistled, shouted to the soldiers: "Bien, mes enfants!" shouted to the coachman: "En avant!" and the carriage plimged forwards on its way. The sensation in Paris was very great, when it became known that the young and beautiful Comtesse de Brignon had been implicated in the late rebellion; and was now in the Condergerie awaiting her trial. The romantic circumstances in the case were exaggerated to such a degree that the Bonapartists and Republicans went wildly enthusisatic over the fair prisoner; whilst the Royalists yielded to ungovernable fury. AU Paris was divided in a few days iato two sections sharply defined; but the dominant party felt that the power lay in their hands. The patronage shown to this young girl by the court, her engagement to a brilliant young diplomat, and then her apparent insincerity and treason both towards the Crown and her affianced husband set the court and its aristocratic circles furious. There was pub- lic treason and private infidelity to be avenged; and, after the terror of the Southern revolution, the court and Kiag were in no mood towards clemency. Just as in the case of Ney and Lab^doydre, the court ladies dis- tinguished themselves by their frantic appeals for sum- mary and capital pimishment. The King, as usual, leaned towards mercy. He had seen Ad^e, and knew 352 THE QUEEN'S FILLET she was but a girl, just emancipated from sphool; and he looked upon the whole thing as a girlish freak, where there was neither treason nor ijigratitude, but only foUy. He was strongly in favour of her instant release. But, as usual, the members of his family, who cherished the deep- est hatred towards the regicides of '93 and the Imperialists of later times, came around him, and virtually forced him from the path of clemency and pity. Yet he shrank from the scandal of the public execution of such a young girl, around whom popular imagination had already built a world of romance. As a compromise, he yielded to the solicitations of the court ladies; and ordered Adfele to be sent back to Grenoble to be tried. He did not know what that meant. They knew well. But they were doomed to be defeated. The same calm eyes, under which the eager glance of Napoleon drooped and fell, had been watching the entire proceedings, at least from the moment his prot^gfe had entered Paris. No one knew better than he how fierce was the hatred, how passionate the revenge, how unscrupulous th,e in- trigues of these grandes dames, who had emerged from the agony of the Revolution, unpurified and unrepentant. He remembered how difficult was his own recall to France; and how even still he had to remain away from court and capital. And yet he was puzzled. He felt somehow that the threads of diplomatic wisdom hung loose in his palsied hands. There was a time, he thought, when swiftly I could formulate a scheme to defeat such people; but the years are telling on me. Yet something must be done. He had determined to break through his attitude of privacy and reserve, and go up to the city, hoping that some means might open up for a final effort on Adele's behalf, when the Abbot of St-MarceUin was announced. The greeting was warm. Yet both men were so pene- trated with a sense of the necessity of doing something promptly and immediately, that they forbore all manner UNDER ARREST 353 of conversation except what bore on the main issue of their thoughts. The Abbot, who had a dim idea of danger, but not an adequate judgment on the gravity of the case, was soon enlightened. "It is grave, exceedingly grave," said his friend. "All passions are tame compared with poUtical passion. There is no pity; nothing but relentless revenge." "But she is young; she is but a child!" "She is a woman; she is beautiful; she is accomplished. She is a traitor to the King; she is unfaithful towards her aflBanced husband. Isn't that enough? " "You put it strongly, JMonseignevu"!" said the monk, who was deeply despondent. "I put it as it appears!" said Talleyrand. "To see with others' eyes is rare wisdom." "But she can explain," said the Abbot. "She knew Devaux from her childhood up. He used to frequent the old watchmaker's shop, and play with her. She meets him again after many yearp. The old acquaintance is renewed. She makes a rash promise, such as a roman- tic girl will make; and carries it out. There is no proof of her knowledge of Devaux's treason. There is no proof that she intended to dishonour yoimg Decazes. As a matter of fact, she and Devaux never met at Grenoble. What can they make of it?" "Under other circumstances, nothing; imder present circumstances, everything. You know that Devaux has been executed?" "I heard it. It is incredible ! " "You know they timed his execution' until the carriage which bore Ad^le and her maid was stopped at the very spot?" "Horrible! Impossible!" said the monk, who now began to see what political vengeance meant. "It is quite true!" said the old statesman. "The Royalists have studied imder the Revolution; and it will go liard if the pupils do not outstrip their masters in barbarity." 354 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Then there is no hope for my — for Ad^le?" ' "Yes! There is always hope. One never knows. I have been thinking of running up to Paris. There are a few old friends there whom I must see before I die. You are boimd thither, also?" "Yes," said the monk. "I was hopeful; but I see how serious matters stand now. If aU should fail, I shall see the King!" "But you won't be permitted, my dear Lord Abbot! That is one of the clever things which our good friends are able to accomplish. If the King were accessible, one would not hear so many fusillades in Paris; and this would ruffle the sleep of many. Believe me, you will not see the King!" "Then I shall appeal to the King of Kings!" said the monk devoutly lifting his eyes to Heaven. " He can make earthly kings the footstool of his feet!" "O man! great is thy faith!" said the statesman. "Andiamo! Let us try! If we can save that little vixen, it must be on condition that she shall do penance for the remainder of her days!" "I wish I could turn her thoughts thitherwards," said the monk. "After all, there is the only refuge!" CHAPTER XXXVIII The Abbot Pleads For once in his lifetime the Abbot of St-Marcellin was almost angry with his brethren at the Carthusian Convent in Paris for their reticence and silence. They knew nothing of such a person as the Comtesse de Brignon. They heard no news of the outer world, except that it was very wicked, and forgetful of God. Some of them thought the Revolution was still in progress. They hadn't heard of a King. But he was not left long in doubt. His good friend, whom he persisted in calling Monseigneur, had very soon the news of Paris gathered. He sent a short, but urgent message to the monk that it had been decided that Adele should be sent back to Grenoble; that this was interpreted as a merciful dispensation on the King's part; that it was intended to be exactly the reverse; that no hxmian power could save Adele, if once she left Paris; and that the Abbot should at once accompUsh the impossi- ble and throw himself on the mercy of the King. He set out on the errand with a sad and doubting heart. His character of priest and monk gave him access to the outer hall of the Tuileries. But when he requested a personal audience with the King he was met with a hundred excuses. "The King did not give audience so early in the day." "The King is at his toilet." "Persons seeking personal audiences must have letters from the Chamberlain; and these must be vised by the minister in attendance." Clearly, the King was not to be seen. He turned away sadly, and went back to his monastery. 355 356 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Here a strange temptation assailed him. He suddenly found himself carried back by some tremendous emotion to the days when, instead of a white flannel tunic, he wore the uniform of the National Guard of France; and still more proudly the white dolman over the gold and blue uniform of a Chasseur. All the old martial ardour seemed to run once more in the veins that age and discipline had narrowed until the life-blood flowed sluggishly and cold through their tortuous channels; he felt the hot blood rising to his brain, and he instantly and without effort devised a plan to save Ad^le from her enemies. He would fling aside his Carthusian habit, disguise himself as an officer in the Imperial Guard, go southwards by rapid stages, and await the arrival of Adele and her escort outside the city of Grenoble. Then, by one sudden coup, he would bear down on the escort, cut them to pieces, liberate AdSIe, and drive across the frontier. There in safety he would reveal himself to her, tell her all he had suffered, and how he had lived and loved for her sake; and settle down in some Swiss village, or near the Borromean lakes, perfectly safe and secure in her undivided love for evermore. It seemed to his enkindled imagination quite feasible; and he knew that if he needed help, ht could secure it. For some hours, his brain was tortured by the idea. Then, suddenly, a bell rang out and called to Vespers; and the monastic habits resumed their power over him, and chased away all these fierce imaginations as if they were evil spirits; and he went into the choir, a chastened and humbled man; and, immediately after, begged for con- fession and a salutary penance. Then a note was placed in his hand: "Seek no audience with the King; but go at once to Versailles, to the palace of the Duke of Artois. See the Duchesse of AngouMme. She is omnipotent." He at once obeyed. He travelled rapidly at night, and reached Versailles as the day was dawning. Pity and remorse filled his heart. Pity for the young victim, THE ABBOT PLEADS 357 who had been led innocently into such tremendous danger. Remorse, as he thought: This very hour my brethren are assembhng for Matins; and my place is vacant. Is God pursuing a recalcitrant monk and punishing him? He said Mass and waited. The village cure gave him breakfast. He explained his mission without mentioning the object of it. Then again "passports," "commenda- tions," "Cancellary letters," etc., began to loom out and torment him. The good cure told him that he had no chance of seeing the Duchesse until late in the afternoon; and that he could not return to Paris that night. In despair he rushed out, not knowing whither he was going. He found himself haJf-imconsciously in a wood. He wandered on. Presently he stood before a ruined chateau. The walls remained. The roof had fallen in. Something about the place seemed famiUar. He sat down on a stone before the house, and began to think. Then a light dawned out of memory. It was Andr^ Ch^nier's little villa in the forest. Here he had written all" his odes and epodes; all his inflammatory appeals to the manhood of France; all his love-epistles to Camilla. The monk recalled the evening of the storm; the thunder and the lightning and the torrents of rain, under which Ren€ Pereyra had rushed into the arms of his friends from the terrible prophecies of the Sibyl of the Woods. Alas! how all that terrible panorama was now rolled up and hidden away from sight! How swiftly, with all its dread colouring in blood and fire, it had shrivelled and disappeared! Even thus, he thought, is man's life on earth; nay, not the individual man alone; but even the entire race! In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, that, too, will dis- appear; and leave not a speck on the azm-e of eternity. The sound of trampling horses, the jingle of silver trap- pings, and the music of human voices aroused him. He looked and saw a royal equipage coming towards him. He stood up, folded his hands beneath his scapular, and waited. The foremost horseman passed by without a look. Some court ladies, patting the necks of their palfreys, 358 THE QUEEN'S FILLET giggled. A beautiful bay shied at the strange figure in white, turned back, and was, with some difficulty, brought round by its fair rider. The monk bowed and apologized. The animal became more restive. The monk leaped forwards and caught the rein, and held him fast. The lady, who was pale, stroked the animal's neck, and said: "Thanks, reverend Father!" Then, seeing the Abbot's cross on the monk's breast, she said: "Pardon, my Lord Abbot; but why may we not see you at court?" "I wished it; but was told it was impossible!" "Ha! You wished to see the Duke? I shall engage that the Duke shall see you on our return!" "I wished to see the Duchesse of Angouleme," he said simply, dropping all ceremonial titles. She flushed a little, looked a Uttle piqued, and said: " I am the Duchesse. But, my Lord Abbot, cannot you call at the Palace? We are going for our morning ride!" "So I perceive," he said. "And I owe you every apology for this unseemly interruption. But this is a matter of life and death!" "Then you waylaid me here?" she said, half-angrily, half-humorously. "No, Madame!" he said. "I wandered here by acci- dent, or else led by the hand of Providence. I was dream- ing of old times, and old friends, — a certain Provencal poet, called Ren6 Pereyra, and a greater poet, Andr^ Ch^nier, who lived here, and whom I had the honour of knowing." She became suddenly interested; and beckoned to some gentlemen of her suite, who were watching the pro- ceedings from a distance. "Nay, Madame," he said. "My business is pressing. I come from the monastery of St-MarcelHn at Grenoble to plead with your Royal Highness for mercy!" At the words "Grenoble" and "mercy," her eyes fell, and a frown gathered on her forehead. THE ABBOT PLEADS 359 "These be affairs of state, my Lord Abbot," she said. "It is not meet that I should interfere with the ministers of his majesty." "You have power to stay an injustice — nay, a crime," he said. "I know what I speak about; and I declare that a very great crime, call it pohtical, call it otherwise, shall be committed, if you do not intervene." " The responsibility rests on other shoulders than mine," she said. "I decUne to be held accountable for the deci- sions of cabinets or law courts. But, my Lord Abbot, do not deem me discourteous! If you call at the palace at two o'clock this afternoon, I shall engage that your suit shall be at least heard by the Duke of Artois and the min- ister who is here!" His heart fell at the word "minister." He knew that she meant Decazes. Nevertheless, he went to the palace; and was ushered into the presence of the Duke and Duchess of Artois, the minister Decazes, and some notabilities. The young Duchess of the morning was also there. He was treated with almost flattering coiu-tesy, although he felt that it concealed a hardness that augured ill for him. "You come from Grenoble?" said the Duke. " From the Abbey of St-MarceUin, which is a few leagues from Grenoble," said the monk. "Ha! There has been a revolutionary outbreak there. We have had dispatches from Donnadieu, who somehow belies his name, for he seems to take all the credit of sup- pressing the insurrection to himself. They are a pretty piece of Gasconade; but I suppose true in the main. Do you know, my Lord Abbot, if that fanatic, Didier, has been arrested?" "I haven't even heard the name," said the monk. "The outbreak took place on the Swiss frontier; we heard nothing of it until all was over." "But you are interested in some of the prisoners?" "In one — the Comtesse de Brignon. She has been arrested and brought to Paris, I understand; and has 360 THE QUEEN'S FILLET again been ordered back to Grenoble. That means but one thing!" "Of course. A fair and impartial trial. The Countess is safe, if innocent." The monk shook his head. "She is absolutely iimocent of everything, but a piece of girlish folly and sentiment." "She is not accused of bearing a musket, or wearing a sword," said the Duke. "But there is such a thing as being implicated in a treasonable conspiracy, without bearing arms!" "But if she did not know — if she were absolutely ignorant of the purpose of him who solicited her to come to him?" "Then her evidence will be accepted, if corroborated. That is all. To condone such a case absolutely, would be to set at naught all legitimate goverimient." "It is a case where pohtical passion will refuse all evidence of innocence," said the monk, seeing the faces of these notabilities hardening under his appeal. "Why was not this lady tried in Paris? Pubhc opinion could not be challenged or outraged there " "Nay, nay, my Lord Abbot," said the Duke, "this is going too far for your fair protegie, in whom you are so deeply interested " "I have reason!" said the monk. "Ah?" "Yes! I am her father." The hsteners looked astonished, but incredulous. Was this monk insane? Or an impostor, who had assumed the monastic habit and stolen a pectoral cross? Some of the ladies rose up to depart, as if scandalized. The monk rose also; and said in a calm and majestic manner: "Yes! I am Comte Maurice de Brignon. Adele is my daughj;er. It was I, as Captain of the National Guard, who kissed the Queen's hand in the gallery of the Tuileries on the tenth of August; it was I who took the Dauphin in my arms and bore him through the murderous mob to THE ABBOT PLEADS 361 the H6tel de Ville. It was I who stood guard over the Royal Family those three terrible days in the Assembly. It was I who, with de Batz, made an ineffectual attempt to rescue the King on the morning of his execution; it was I who stood before the doors of the Condergerie when the Queen was led out to enter the cart that bore her to the scaffold. I entered Paris a Revolutionist, hating the old regime, hating above all the Austrian woman, because I believed that it was through her my father was enabled to disinherit me in favour of a younger son. But I was speedily converted. That tenth of August showed me Marie-Antoinette a Queen and a noble woman. From that day forth I was her sworn cavaUer. Twenty times I entered Paris in disguise, and strove to save the Queen during her incarceration in the temple. Thrice was I arrested. Once I was saved from the guillotine as if by a miracle. On that terrible morning when the Queen was led out to execution, de Batz and I stood within a few feet of her, disguised as workmen. I accompanied that mourn- ful procession to the scaffold, hoping against hope. I saw the end. I saw the Queen taking her last look at the Tuileries, then turning speedily around and speaking to Sanson. She untied her hair with her own hand, and handed the band, or fillet, to the executioner. He folded it and put it in his breast-pocket. That evening I called on him at his lodgings and demanded his price. It was something enormous, exorbitant. Yet in a few weeks I had the money and the Queen's Fillet passed into my possession, which it has never left. It is the most precious relic I possess. It has been my hope, my wish, that it might be laid upon my heart when I die. But, this is a crisis in my life. My only child, my daughter, is in peril. I thought I had crushed out and stifled every hmnan feeling under the discipline of the cloister. I have never revealed myself to her. She does not know who I am. But you see nature is a terrible thing, and has an awful vitality. I believe her to be innocent. I know she is incapable of deceit or treason. But I also know how 362 THE QUEEN'S FILLET appearances are against her, and how human passions, inflamed by political rancour, are pitiless and terrible." He stopped for a moment; and placing his hand behind his scapulary, he drew forth a little silver box; and ap- proaching the Duchess of Angoul^me, he held it towards her, and bowed. "Madame," he said, "I had hoped that this little casket with its precious reUc would be buried with me. Behold, I offer it to you, a relic of your sainted mother, as the price of my child's redemption — as the price of her liberty and her life." The Duchess, who was deeply agitated during the monk's recital of his strange connection with her parents during the Revolution, seemed to look on the silver casket with a species of horrified fascination. She put her left hand towards it as if to push it away. She put her right hand over her eyes as if to shut out the picture, and swooned away in the arms of her ladies. When she recovered consciousness, she still averted her eyes from the casket, and would not look at it. But one of her maids of honour, probably touched with compassion for the aged monk, had taken a ring from the casket, and now held it towards her mistress. The latter took it, and looked at it . curiously. Then turned it, and looked at the inner rim. There were engraved the words that were so well known to her, and that recalled her dead mother's grandeur and her passionate love for her children: "Tuttoperlorol" XXXIX Ad^ile's Sentence SouTHWAKDS again, as fast as post-chaises could carry him, and accompanied by a King's messenger with sealed orders to the prefect of Grenoble, the Abbot of St-Mar- cellin sped forwards, hope and fear alternating in his breast. He had remained in Paris the whole of the day following his interview with the Royal Family at Versailles. Not a word, not a line had reached him in his convent. He had no means of knowing how his appeal had succeeded, Or how dismally it had failed. There was hardness on these Royal faces; there was a gesture of refusal in that final act of the Duchesse. Nevertheless, he had given the box and the Queen's fillet to one of her ladies. That had not been returned, and therefore, there was a glimmer of hope. If they accepted the splendid bribe, they were bound to make a return. He called on his friend at his hotel, and told all. Yes! there were signs of hope, some foreshadowings of mercy. But — no one knew! Royal feelings were capricious things, and there were sycophants around that Versailles palace, who would move heaven and earth to have their way. Had Ad^le left Paris? That was the one question of moment. The Abbot returned to his convent. The fatal information was before him that Adele had left for Grenoble the night before, again under a military escort and as a prisoner. His heart sank, and some dark feelings surged up from closed and hidden depths. At last a courier came from the Court, ordering him to go forward to Grenoble the following morning with a King's messenger, who was sworn not to tamper with the sealed packet in his pos- session. 363 364 THE QUEEN'S FILLET Meanwhile, Ad&le, whose hopes had sunk very low since she witnessed that terrible scene outside the gates of Grenoble, was now in despair, since she found that Paris, with all its pitying eyes, was closed against her. She knew, by womanly intuition, that her trial would create a sensation in the capital. She knew that the Royalists would not dare risk a popular tumult, and that, even if she were convicted, they could not proceed to extremes. But, in a provincial town, lately the theatre of stormy passions and retributions, without friends or advocates, she felt she was in great peril. Would not that prefect and that commandant believe they were courting Royal favours by consummating a great crime, and would not Royalty express regret whilst conniving at it? The logic of the thing was clear. She felt she was going to death. Two things supported her in this gloomy crisis — her faith in that mysterious monk who had been so strangely thrown across her life-path, and a certain spirit of proud and contemptuous disdain towards the Royahsts. She felt, she knew not why, that that white-robed, bearded monk with the calm, searching eyes, would not fail her, and all the old fiery and rebellious instincts awoke within her, particularly when she recalled the execution of Etienne and the cruel contrivance, through which she now saw clearly, by which his death had been timed so that she, on her onward journey, should be actually present. "Brutal," she thought, "but are we not all brutal, we French, towards each other? Jacobin and Girondist, Plain and Mountain, Imperialist and Royalist, Bourbon or Bonapartist, it is -all one! Eat or be eaten, kill or be killed — it is all one. This is my fate! Let me summon all my strength to meet it!" Yet it was a weary journey, unbroken by any incident, and made almost unbearable by the perpetual weeping of her maid. Then one evening, the carriage rolled by the exact spot where Etienne was shot. She could not help looking. Yes! That little mound of brown earth, with the grass trampled all around it, was the grave of ADELE'S SENTENCE 365 the young Captain. In all human probability it would remain unmarked for ever. Next morning she appeared before the prevotal court, and was submitted to examination. Her companions in misfortune were a motley crew. A few peasants, heads or arms bound around with linen cloths, blood-stained, one or two women, and a few children who looked around with more curiosity than fright; and in the centre an old man, worn-looking and decrepit, his long white beard stained with rheum, and earth, and blood; but with the fierce light of a fanatic blazing in his eyes. This was Didier, organizer and chief prophet in the late Revolution. Whether he was knave, or fanatic, history does not seem to know or tell. It was certainly to the Napoleonic legend he appealed; it was the name of the Emperor he invoked; and that was enough to set ablazeall the martial ardour and passion of men who had risen in their saddles when the trophies of Austerlitz or Jena had been carried in procession down along the ranks of cheering men, and the white horse appeared, carrying that diminutive figure who was to them the God of Battle personified. Their loyalty to that strange figure, that was now dreaming above the sea on the rocks of St. Helena, was only equalled by their contempt for the King and the courtiers, who ran from Paris the very moment Napoleon landed from his frigate on French soil. And if anything was wanting to complete their enthusiasm, was not La Mure the very spot where Ney, the indomitable, met his great Master and embraced him in the sight of the squadrons who for months had kept the tricolor hidden away in their breasts, or buried in their drums. At all events, Didier aroused the dormant martial spirit once more in their fierce old veterans. Then came defeat. He hurried away to the mountains. An enormous price was placed on his head. Night and day he travelled, eluding the vigilance of the soldiers who were sent in pursuit. Then, faint and weary, he stumbled into a remote cabin away in the Savoy hills, and claimed food and shelter. The 366 THE QUEEN'S FILLET good wife gave both; but late at night her husband came up from the far village, whose walls were already placarded with descriptions of the fugitive, and the enormous bribe that would be paid to his betrayer. One glance at the prostrate figure in his kitchen revealed to him that the prize was in his possession. Without a word to his wife, he left the house again. But she, brave woman, divining his thoughts, and dreading the eternal obloquy that would attach to his betrayal, roused the weary and sleep- ing rebel, and bade him go farther away into the moun- tains. Thither, with the informer in their midst, the gendarmerie pursued him, and found him lying exhausted on a bed of pine-needles. And now he stood almost side by side with Ad^le in the dock. She listened with some curiosity to his examination. It was brief, because his history was known, and he made no attempt either at denial or defence. Both would have been useless. He was condemned to be shot the following morning at daybreak. Such, too, was the fate of the wounded men who had been captured in the night en- gagement at the gates of Grenoble. There, too, was no possibility of defence or denial. But when the few women came to be examined, and certain incriminatory facts were alleged against them, Adele's heart sank. Clearly, there was no mercy here — all was cold, pitiless, merciless justice. And the cUmax came when some children were implicated; and her heart shut up when she heard the prevotal decree, uttered with- out a quaver of voice, that these, too, should be sacrificed. They did not seem to know what this sentence of butchery meant, and as there were no tears in their mothers' eyes, and no quailing between the men, they were led away, a little surprised and mystified at the strange doings of their seniors; and no more! Adele's turn came. She was dressed in black. Her maid, weeping and disconsolate because she, too, came under the dread indictment, stood by her side. The indictment ran: ADELE'S SENTENCE 367 "That you, AdSle, Comtesse de Brignon, under a false and assumed name, did enter the city of Grenoble on the night of the fourth of May; did then and there make certain inquiries as to a revolution in progress; did cor- respond, or certainly seek to correspond with an ofiBcer in His Majesty's service. Captain Etienne Devaux, with a view to forward the revolutionary propaganda in which he was impUcated, and for which crime he has already paid the just penalty; and did take part in a conspiracy to upset the present monarchical regime in France, de- throne His Gracious Majesty, and set up once more a republican or revolutionary government!" "Your name?" said the prefect. "Ad^le, Comtesse de Brignon!" "That is false. You are not Comtesse de Brignon!" "I have been led to think so!" said Ad61e simply, "and have been in possession of the family mansion and estates!" "Very good. Your parentage?" "My father was named Reinhard. My mother I have never known." "You perceive you are already contradicting yourself, Madame. What was your father, Reinhard?" "A watchmaker near the Rue de Sevres in Paris!" "How then, if your father was a watchmaker, can you have inherited a title and such estates? " "I do not know. There is some mystery!" "Clearly. You knew Etienne Devaux, late Captain in the 4th Hussars?" "Yes! I knew him as a child!" "How?" "He used frequent my father's shop. I had not met him afterwards for many years!" "And then you renewed this acquaintance of your youth?" "Yes!" "Where?" "In the house of Madame Ney, widow of the Prince of Moskowa!" 368 THE QUEEN'S FILLET "Precisely. And then you commenced tBis series of intrigues?" "Pardon!" "Then, I say, you, in that nest of Bonapartists and disaffected Orleanists, commenced that series of intrigues which you continued here?" "I do not understand. I know nothing of intrigues!" "Your name, please?" "I have given it — AdMe, Comtesse de Brignon." "There is some mistake, Madame. You deny all knowledge of intrigue. Pray, who is Madame de Coucy whose name is subscribed to this letter?" "I assumed the name. It is not an uncommon pro- ceeding!" "Certainly not amongst conspirators. You do not deny, and you do not seek to explain!" "I do not deny. I used that name, because I was travelHng incognita. If you nefed an explanation of my presence here on the fourth of May, I am prepared to give it, although from what I have already witnessed, I fear explanations are unavailing here!" "You are impugning the integrity of our tribunal. Take care, Madame!" "You should have said 'the magnanimity of the Court.' Marat and his Septembriseurs always spoke of the 'great- ness of the nation,' the 'generosity of the nation,' when commanding a massacre of the innocent." The prefect looked at her, in speechless rage. But now that she felt that her fate was decided, she was defiant and reckless. He gathered himself together somewhat, and continued his examination. "You say you travelled incognita. You must have had some reason. Loyal and respectable subjects of His Majesty have nothing to fear." "They might have to fear prying and offensive curi- osity!" said AdSle. "You refuse to answer." ADELE'S SENTENCE 369 "I have answered." "On your arrival you interrogated the innkeeper, Fourgier, as to the existence in our midst of a revolu- tionary outbreak?" "Yes!" "You had an object then in asking that question, and it showed you had some criminal knowledge of the con- spiracy!" "By no means. Captain Etienne Devaux wrote me that he was in peril, and to come to him. I could con- ceive no peril for an officer except in a revolution. There- fore I surmised that something of the kind was in progress here!" "And that Captain Devaux was in the ranks of the Revolutionists? " "No. I never thought of such a thing!" "Then you considered that a French officer and — I was about to say gentleman — but he was only a sign- painter " "You traduce the memory of a brave man whom you have murdered." "I was saying that you consider that a French soldier would be so terrified at the idea of a revolutionary out- break that he would need to summon a young lady from Paris to support him?" "He probably knew he was facing death!" "And he needed your sympathy to support him?" "I saw him die. He needed no sympathy from any one. He died as a soldier who had slept under the same canvas with Marshal Ney." "We're tired of all that braggadocio. To continue: Madame, you wrote to Captain Devaux on your arrival here?" "Yes!" "For what purpose?" "To know why he summoned me hither!" "And you thought it right that you, the affianced bride of one of the first gentlemen in France, should travel 370 THE QUEEN'S FILLET through France to know why an ex-painter and Revolu- tionist should need your services?" "It is not your province to lecture me on the proprie- ties. Confine yourself, please, within the limits of your jurisdiction, and do not assume the role of preacher with that of judge!" "Very well, Madame. If you had a httle more pru- dence and a little less flippancy, the race of the distin- guished de Brignons might be continued in the female hne, at least " "You know you are speaking false. You know that I was brought back from Paris, where your employers, the dastardly Bourbons, dare not either prosecute or condemn me, for one purpose alone. Do your work. Obey your orders, but spare your eloquence, and speak truth." "Very good. The truth then is, that you, soi-disant Comtesse de Brignon, or soi-disant Madame de Coucy, have been proved to be in league with an already con- victed conspirator for the purpose of dethroning our legitimate monarch, Louis XVIII. , and setting up a re- public in place of the monarchy. The sentence of this court is, that you shall be taken at daybreak to-morrow to the place of execution, and shot in presence of the civil and military authorities deputed to attend." Adele bowed and said: "Thank you!" Then turning back, she said: "You have not added: The nation is great! The nation is magnanimous! Fi done! I fear you too, Monsieur le Prefet, are disaffected!" He looked after her, pulhng his beard in impotent fury. He had never been addressed in that manner before. XL Repbievb The morning was fine, and outside at daybreak, the chill of the night was yielding to the warmth of the com- ing day; but the light of the dawn shone cold and cheer- less into the gloomy cell where AdSle was imprisoned. She had not slept. She shrank from contact with the dirty straw which was provided for her as a pallet,- and then her mind was ill at ease. She was prepared to die; but she wondered why, under a Christian government, no priest was sent her to administer the last consolations of reUgion. And with all her strong nature and defiant spirit, she shrank from death, for which she was not pre- pared by faith and hope. All night long, at every sound of footsteps outside she thought: "This is the priest!" But no! The dawn broke; the church-bells rang out over the city, calling worshippers to early Mass; she heard the street calls and noises; she knew that at any moment the summons might come for her to proceed to the place of execution; but there was no priest. "What shall I do?" she thought. "If I demand a priest, they will mock me as a coward, and that I cannot bear. If not, how can I face death and judgment? That is too ter- rible!" She then made up her mind that when she was sum- moned to execution, she would stifle her pride, and, in the name of common Christianity, demand the last sac- raments and consolations of religion. "This they can- not deny," she thought. The reflection of her youth, her fine prospects, the ambi- tious career that was just opening up before her, never 371 372 THE QUEEN'S FILLET occurred to her. Life had not been by any means dreary heretofore; yet she seemed prepared to sacrifice it freely. She waited. The sounds of the city seemed to grow more tumultuous in her ears, and she thought, "the morn- ing is advancing." Once, she imagined the sound of musketry from afar off was borne in on the morning's breeze. She thought it very strange that she was sen- tenced to die at daybreak; and now the day had fully dawned; and a few stray sunbeams had entered her cell. A little later on the door opened, and instead of an officer in uniform, a servant appeared carrying a small tray on which were bread and meat and wine. She ate a little but forbore asking questions, partly from pride, partly from the dread of hearing that her last hour had come. An hour again elapsed, and the ordinary jailer appeared, and said: "Madame will please follow me!" She rose up at once. She thought it was the final sum- mons, and walked proudly, with head erect, along the stone corridor. At the end, the warder flung open a door, and ushered her into a room. Instead of the governor and his officials, whom she expected to see, there stood before her the tall white figure of her monk. She threw herself at his feet and kissed his hand. "Father, you have come to prepare me for death. I feared they would leave me die unshriven!" He raised her gently, and placed her on a seat near him. "No!" he said, looking away from her, lest his emotion should overcome him, "I came to announce yom* par- don, but on conditions!" "Ah!" she said, clasping her hands before her, "I thought there was no hope. I was prepared to die, if only I could have confession and communion!" "Be prepared to live now," he said, "for your sentence has been commuted, or rather anticipated. You had been judged in Paris before you were condemned here. You have had friends. But, perhaps, you may think the alternative severe. I had better read it." REPRIEVE 373 He took out a parchment, and read: "To the Prefect and other magistrates at Grenoble. Greeting. "By order of His Majesty, the sentence of death, to which AdMe, Comtesse de Brignon, has made herself liable by her criminal connection with the conspirators in the late revolution at Grenoble, is anticipated and hereby revoked, the conditions being that the accused shall at once enter a nunnery of strict observance within the bounds of this realm; or, if she fails or refuses to do so, shall be sentenced to perpetual banishment from France." "It is for you, my child," said the monk, "to decide which of these alternatives you choose to accept. Per- haps both will appear hard; but an early and violent death is harder." "I have no vocation for religion," she said. "I think I mentioned that to you, reverend Father, on that even- ing when we stood near the cemetery of our convent. But before we discuss that question, may I ask how, and by whom, my life has been given back?" "That is of little consequence," said the monk. "But I grow impatient. I have been away from my monastery for some days " "You have been in Paris; you threw yourself at the King's feet; you used your influence as priest and abbot to get my sentence revoked?" she said, with womanly intuition. "It matters little. Your life is spared. My rules and vows are calling on me to return swiftly to my place in choir. I cannot return until you decide. What shall I say?" She held down her head. This monk wanted no human gratitude, no human tears, no human ties. She knew she was indebted to him for everything; but he, on his part, wanted nothing. It was embarrassing. But he said: "It would be wrong for me to force your decision. But, my dear child, may I repeat what I said before — that all else is vanity and smoke and dust on this earth. 374 THE QUEEN'S FILLET except the service of God. That alone saves, that alone comforts, that alone exalts. I gave the greater part of my life to the world, although, through what I believed to be the criminality of others, I was destined for the priesthood. I was too bhnd to see that this too was the wise dispensation of Providence. Then, having turned my back on the sanctuary, I was plunged at once into the vortex of the Revolution. I was suddenly confronted with all the furious passions and vices of men. I had had a Uttle experience of the peace and the holiness, and the vast learning and profoxmd humility of those who have been wise enough to choose the cloister instead of the camp and the court. But the hot blood of youth was in my veins, and I thought the cassock an emblem of shame and weakness. Then I was allowed, along the paths of bitter experience, to see life's realities. They are summed up in bestial hatred, brutal loves, sanguinary deeds, concerted and professed scepticism and deception. Then, once more, after witnessing the supreme tragedy of our race and epoch, and after seeing how the proudest heads were brought low, my eyes were opened. I saw the Queen on the scaffold. I saw her who had been for twenty years clothed in regal splendour, now arrayed in the skirt and blouse of her poorest subject. I saw the woman whose ears were never open except to flattery and the Vivas of the multitude, shrink imder the fierce curses and the vile epithets of a mob who a few years before would have allowed her carriage to roll over them in the street; I saw her lips part, as she gazed for the last time at her royal palace, and I thought I read her mind, as she said: "Then!" and "Now!" and in that supreme moment I read all the lessons that have ever been taught by sage or saint on the vanities and foolishness of life. Then I went back to the cloister and the choir to seek and find peace. Nay, I do not wish to influence your decision, my child. Make your own choice. But let me retiun at once! The bells are calUng me day and night; and the brethren are whispering: 'Where is the Abbot? Those REPRIEVE 375 terrible things he says about our holy rule, why does not he believe them and practise them?' Come, my child, decide, and dismiss me!" Ad^le was now weeping. The words of the monk, so full of sincerity and truth, had touched her intellect. She saw it all, as cleariy as if she had had the experience of fifty years. But she felt she had no calling; she knew that that mysterious sunomons which comes to choice souls during life had never been sent to her. But the monk had arisen, and was now looking down at her. She, too, rose, and clasping her hands before her, she "I feel the truth of all you have said, reverend Father. But the time is not yet. I shall go abroad. I shall go to Rome. There I shall live in absolute retirement. The few accomplishments I possess may earn me a pit- tance. Some day — perhaps — I may show my grati- tude to you by meeting your wishes " "Nay, nay," he said. "I claim nothing of the kind. There is One, and only One, whom you and I have to consider. To Him alone is gratitude and everything else that we mortals can give Him, due. But I am pleased that you have decided on Rome. It is the world's sanc- tuary. You will live under the very shadow of the Holy Father. And you shall not need the pittance you speak of. That, too, will be provided. But go at once. You have made enemies here. Perhaps you have been too outspoken. But, better leave Franqe at once with your maid. I wish it were in my power to accompany you; but the bells of St-Marcellin are calling me, night and day. Some time, perhaps, I may be in Rome, and then " "And then," said the girl, falling on her knees and kissing the white habit, "you will tell me all, and above all, the name of my saviour and benefactor!" Nature again struggled fiercely in the strong breast of the monk; but with one act of the will he stifled it. He laid his hand on the thick clusters of her hair, and 376 THE QUEEN'S FILLET allowed it for the moment to sink deep in their soft depths. Then he blushed furiously for the weakness, and withdrew his hand, and raising it in blessing, he said: "Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris, et Filii, et Spiriius Sancti, descendat super te, et maneat semper." The next moment Addle was alone. Novels by Canon P. A. Sheehan The Graves at Kilmoraa. A Story of '67. Crown 8vo. $1.35 net. "This is the last novel written by the late lamented Canon Sheehan, and it is worthy the great reputation of its learned author." — Irish World. "Canon Sheehan at his best ... His books have that charac- teristic of true literature, that they reveal the people true to life. . . ," — American Catholic Quarterly Review. Luke Delmege. Crown 8vo. $1.35 net. "This is an extremely powerftil and absorbing book. ... 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