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THE SWORD OF HONOR




THE FULL SERIES OF

The Mysteries of the People

  :: OR : :

History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages

By EUGENE SUE


_Consisting of the Following Works_:

  THE GOLD SICKLE; or, _Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen_.
  THE BRASS BELL; or, _The Chariot of Death_.
  THE IRON COLLAR; or, _Faustina and Syomara_.
  THE SILVER CROSS; or, _The Carpenter of Nazareth_.
  THE CASQUE'S LARK; or, _Victoria, the Mother of the Camps_.
  THE PONIARD'S HILT; or, _Karadeucq and Ronan_.
  THE BRANDING NEEDLE; or, _The Monastery of Charolles_.
  THE ABBATIAL CROSIER; or, _Bonaik and Septimine_.
  THE CARLOVINGIAN COINS; or, _The Daughters of Charlemagne_.
  THE IRON ARROW-HEAD; or, _The Buckler Maiden_.
  THE INFANT'S SKULL; or, _The End of the World_.
  THE PILGRIM'S SHELL; or, _Fergan the Quarryman_.
  THE IRON PINCERS; or, _Mylio and Karvel_.
  THE IRON TREVET; or, _Jocelyn the Champion_.
  THE EXECUTIONER'S KNIFE; or, _Joan of Arc_.
  THE POCKET BIBLE; or, _Christian the Printer_.
  THE BLACKSMITH'S HAMMER; or, _The Peasant Code_.
  THE SWORD OF HONOR; or, _The Foundation of the French Republic_.
  THE GALLEY SLAVE'S RING; or, _The Family Lebrenn_.

Published Uniform With This Volume By

THE NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.

28 CITY HALL PLACE NEW YORK CITY




  THE
  SWORD OF HONOR

  : : OR : :
  THE FOUNDATION OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC

  A Tale of The French Revolution

  By EUGENE SUE


  IN TWO VOLUMES

  TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH
  By SOLON DE LEON
  NEW YORK LABOR NEWS COMPANY, 1910
  Copyright, 1910, by the
  NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.

  [The two volumes have been included in one etext.
          (Note of Transcriber)]




TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.


Most persons know the French Revolution as a tremendous outburst in
human affairs. Many know it as one of the race's great steps forward.
That, however, it was the revolution which carried into power the then
rising bourgeois, now capitalist, class; that this class, while
appealing for and using the help of the working class, secretly hated
and feared the demands of the latter, and blocked them at every
opportunity; that finally the bourgeoisie, having obtained as
revolutionists, by the aid of the workers, their end of the revolution,
became as violently reactionary as had been the nobility they fought,
and ruthlessly shot and guillotined to pieces the then definite
proletarian movement for full political equality and collective
ownership of the tools of production--that is an insight into the French
Revolutionary period hitherto vouchsafed to few. To that insight Eugene
Sue's genius has, with the present thrilling novel, made straight the
way for all.

This, _The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the French Republic_,
is the eighteenth and culminating unit in Sue's great historic-fiction
series, _The Mysteries of the People; or, History of a Proletarian
Family Across the Ages_. Following close upon the previous volume, _The
Blacksmith's Hammer; or, The Peasant Code_, in which the popular storm
was seen gathering head under the atrocities of the gilded age of the
Grand Monarch, the present story portrays that storm breaking in all
the accumulated vigor of its centuries of postponement, and sweeping
away the empty lay figures of an outgrown feudalism. True, one barrier
to human liberty was thrown down only to disclose another. To the empire
of birth and privilege was to succeed the empire of the shekel; to the
rule of do-nothing kings, the rule of do-nothing plutocracy. But it is
in the act of drilling itself for the overthrow of that final parasite
class--for the final conquering, in other words, of freedom for the
race--that Sue portrays the proletariat in the next and closing work of
the series, _The Galley Slave's Ring; or, The Family of Lebrenn_. Though
he minimizes none of the difficulties, his message for the future is of
hope only.

Nothing is more unanimous among historians of the period than
expressions of commiseration for the condition of the French people
before the Revolution. Yet nothing, on the other hand, is more unanimous
either than the condemnation showered upon this people the moment it
seizes the reins and enters upon the task of putting down its age-long
tyrannizers. Into this absurd breach of consistency Sue's genius saved
him from falling. In his pages Marat, Danton and Robespierre walk to
their doom with head erect, clean from the smut slung at them by their
bourgeois enemies, for whom _they were going too far_. Friends of the
People once, so they remained to the end; and in that mantle Sue has
preserved their memory for all time. For him who would rail at their
summary deeds Sue has far from spread a bed of roses. The memory of the
royalist massacres in the Vendee and of the triumphant bourgeois
massacres during the White Terror, rescued by his pen from the oblivion
in which they were sought to be buried, have thrown the Revolutionary
Terror into its proper perspective. It is a bagatelle beside the acts
committed by its denouncers.

Sue's clear presentation of the maxim, "To the peasant the land, to the
workman the tool"; his unflinching delineation of the debauchery of
court and ecclesiastical circles of the time; his revelation of the role
of the political machine under the guise of religion sending out its
arms as willing regicides or _agents provocateurs_ by turn; and his
clear depiction of the cowardly, grasping, double-dealing and
fraud-perpetrating character of the bourgeois, all of which is presented
in the easy reading of a story, make this thrilling work of fiction an
unsurpassable epitome of the period in which its action elapses.

Finally, it is the distinctive test of good literature upon any topic,
that it does not sate, but incites to further thought and study. Not the
least of the values of _The Sword of Honor; or, The Foundation of the
French Republic_, is that it performs this reverent duty matchlessly for
the momentous period of which it treats.

SOLON DE LEON.

New York, April, 1910.




INDEX TO BOTH VOLUMES


PART I. FALL OF THE BASTILLE.

CHAPTER

I.   THE HOUSE IN ST. FRANCOIS STREET                                  7

II.   REVOLUTIONARY EFFERVESCENCE                                     22

III.  THE VOYANTS                                                     33

IV.   LITTLE RODIN                                                    46

V.    COUNT AND JESUIT                                                54

VI.   ROYALISTS AT BANQUET                                            68

VII.  NEWS FROM THE BARRICADES                                        83

VIII. IN THE HALL OF THE PORTRAITS                                   101

IX.   FILIAL CONFIDENCES                                             105

X.    DEPUTY DESMARAIS                                               111

XI.   LIONS AND JACKALS                                              122

XII.  REUNITED FROM THE BASTILLE                                     132

XIII. THE LEBRENN FAMILY                                             138

XIV.  THE BOURGEOIS UNMASKED                                         150

XV.   THE MYSTERIES OF THE PEOPLE                                    167


PART II. THE BOURGEOIS REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER

I.    THE NATION INSULTED--AND AVENGED                               179

II.   MIRABEAU                                                       189

III.  AT THE JACOBIN CLUB                                            195

IV.   THE KING ARRESTED                                              211

V.    THE DAY OF THE FIELD OF MARS                                   217

VI.   WAR AND COUNTER-WAR                                            229

VII.  TRIUMPHANT INSURRECTION                                        242

VIII. REPRISALS                                                      258

IX.   "TO THE FRONT!"                                                274

X.     ROYALTY ABOLISHED                                             287

XI.    BOURGEOIS TURNED SANS-CULOTTE                                 293

XII.   HOWLING WITH THE WOLVES                                       303

XIII.  THE HOWL RINGS FALSE                                          311


PART II--THE BOURGEOIS REVOLUTION. (Continued)


CHAPTER

XIV. JESUIT CAMPAIGNING                                                1

XV. THE KING ON TRIAL                                                 23

XVI. LEBRENN AND NEROWEG                                              33

XVII. PLANS FOR THE FUTURE                                            45

XVIII. THE KING SENTENCED                                             61

XIX. EXECUTION                                                        66

XX. MARRIAGE OF JOHN LEBRENN                                          69

XXI. A LOVE FROM THE GRAVE                                            76

XXII. MASTER AND FOREMAN                                              84

XXIII. TO THE WORKMAN THE TOOL                                        95

XXIV. LOST AGAIN                                                     101

XXV. ROYALIST BARBARITIES                                            111

XXVI. A REVOLUTIONARY OUTPOST                                        122

XXVII. THE HEROINE IN ARMS                                           137

XXVIII. SERVING AND MIS-SERVING                                      150

XXIX. BATTLE OF THE LINES OF WEISSENBURG                             159

XXX. DEATH OF VICTORIA                                               175

XXXI. ONRUSH OF THE REVOLUTION                                       178

XXXII. AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM!                                       188

XXXIII. ARREST OF ROBESPIERRE                                        196

XXXIV. THE NINTH THERMIDOR.                                          205

XXXV. DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE.                                          213


PART III--NAPOLEON.

CHAPTER

I. THE WHITE TERROR                                                  221

II. COLONEL OLIVER                                                   227

III. CROSS PURPOSES                                                  240

IV. LAYING THE TRAIN                                                 245

V. THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE                                           252

VI. IN THE ORANGERY AT ST. CLOUD                                     258

VII. GLORY; AND ELBA                                                 268

VIII. RETURN OF NAPOLEON                                             277

IX. WATERLOO                                                         288

X. DEPOSITION                                                        295


EPILOGUE.

I. "TO THE BARRICADES!"--1830                                        303

II. ORLEANS ON THE THRONE                                            317

CONCLUSION                                                           328




INTRODUCTION.


I, John Lebrenn, the son of Ronan, whose father was Alain, the last son
of Salaun Lebrenn the mariner, now take up the thread of our family
history, by writing the following narrative.

Thanks to God, Oh, sons of Joel! my eyes have seen the beautiful day
predicted to our ancestor Scanvoch the soldier by Victoria the Great,
now more than fifteen centuries ago, and awaited from age to age by our
family. I have witnessed the solemn judgment, the expiatory punishment
of Louis Capet, called Louis XVI, the last of that line of Kings of
Frankish origin. Rejoice, ye shades of my ancestors--ye martyrs of the
Church, of the Nobility, and of Royalty! Rejoice, ye obscure soldiers
who fought in the bloody conflicts that you engaged in from age to age,
in resolute insurrections of the oppressed against the oppressors of
centuries--of the sons of the conquered Gauls against the conqueror
Franks! Rejoice! Old Gaul has recovered her ancient republican freedom!
She has broken the abhorred yoke of the Kings, and the infamous yoke of
the Church of Rome.

I am writing this narrative in the year II of the French Republic, one
and indivisible.

My great-grandfather, Salaun Lebrenn, died at Amsterdam in his
ninety-first year, on December 20, 1715. His son Alain, born in 1685,
was then thirty years of age. He worked in Amsterdam as a printer, one
of the most lucrative trades, in that the large number of books, then
being written against the Church and royalty, could be published only at
Geneva, or in Holland, free countries in which the right of intellectual
free research was recognized and protected. My ancestor Alain sold in
1715 the modest patrimony which he inherited from his father Salaun,
left Holland, and settled down in France at the beginning of the Regency
under Louis XV, the successor of Louis XIV. The freedom then enjoyed was
great compared with conditions at the period of Louis XIV. Being
exceptionally skilled at his trade, my grandfather secured the position
of foreman in the printing house of one of the descendants of the famous
Estienne, in whose establishment our ancestor Christian was long
employed. Alain married the niece of his employer. Of that marriage was
born, in 1727, my father Ronan. He followed my grandfather's trade. The
latter died in 1751. My father had two children--my sister Victoria,
born in 1760, and myself, John Lebrenn, born in 1766.

My grandfather's life was spent in peace and obscurity. But great
misfortunes fell upon our family. As you will read in the course of the
following history, Oh, sons of Joel! it was not vouchsafed to my father
to witness, as I did, the brilliant victory that crowned fifteen
centuries of incessant, painful and bloody endeavor, thanks to which our
ancestors--successively slaves, serfs and vassals--conquered, at the
price of their lives and of innumerable rebellions, step by step, one by
one, the franchises that the French Republic has now confirmed and
consecrated in the face of the whole world, by proclaiming, in the name
of the Rights of Man, the downfall of Kings and the sovereignty of the
People.




PART I.

FALL OF THE BASTILLE.




CHAPTER I.

THE HOUSE IN ST. FRANCOIS STREET.


One night toward the middle of April, 1789, when the moon with its
radiance clearly lighted the scene, a man, wrapped in a great-coat, and
with his hat pulled far over his countenance, might have been seen
carefully surveying the neighborhood of a building located in one of the
most deserted streets of Paris, St. Francois Street, in the Swamp. A
lofty wall, its black stones weathered with years of exposure, ran
nearly the whole length of the thoroughfare, and served as facing to a
terrace surmounted with trees that had laughed to scorn the storms of a
century. Through their heavy foliage one caught glimpses of the stone
front, the peaked roof, and the high brick chimneys of a mansion in the
style of Louis XIV. A wall, pierced by several grated openings, formed a
deep, semi-circular approach, leading up to a coach gate of massive oak,
studded with enormous spikes of iron. To judge from the thick layers of
dust and cobwebs which covered the gate, many had been the days since it
was opened. A little bastard gate, closed with a wicket, and no less
massively built than the principal entrance, gave on its other side onto
a narrow and vaulted passage. To the left of this passage stood the door
of a lodge the windows of which overlooked a spacious garden, laid out
in the fashion of the previous century, and ornamented with vases and
statues of stone, stained and broken by time. In the center of the
garden rose another dwelling whose doors had been walled up, and whose
windows were sealed with plates of lead, soldered into iron frames set
in the masonry.

One more little building, snuggled up against the entry-gate and
evidently intended for the porter, was occupied only by a Jew and his
wife. The couple this evening were chatting in a lower room whose
half-open door communicated with the vaulted passage running to the
street.

David Samuel was in the neighborhood of thirty, his wife Bathsheba,
twenty-five. The lineage of Israel was strongly stamped on their
features. Bathsheba, seated before a little table lighted by a copper
lamp, was preparing to write at her husband's dictation. The latter,
sunk in an arm-chair, his forehead in his hands, was in grave mood, and
said to his wife after a silence of several minutes:

"The more I think over the present state of affairs, the more am I
convinced that it is the part of prudence and necessity for us to
prepare against unfortunate eventualities. In spite of our precautions
within and without, what goes on here may one day be uncovered by the
creatures of the Lieutenant of Police. We would then both be imprisoned,
my dear Bathsheba! Then, if I should die in prison--"

"Ah, my friend, what gloomy forebodings! Think not of such sad chances."

"Everything must be reckoned with. So, then, in case I die, our cousin
Levi, on whom I count as on myself--you know him--"

"Your confidence is well placed."

"I am sure of it. I wish to charge him, in that case, to take my place
in the sacred mission which my grandfather and father have handed down
to me. That is why I wish to hold ready, in advance, the memorandum
which will place our relative in possession of the knowledge he will
need in order to replace me. Come then, write as I dictate."

At the moment that Samuel uttered these last words, he heard a knocking
in a peculiar manner at the little bastard gate. First there were three
blows, then two, separated from the others by a pause; and then two
again; total, seven, the cabalistic number.

Samuel manifested no surprise at the signal. He left the room, traversed
the passage, drew close to the wicket, and asked in an undertone:

"Who knocks?"

"_A blind one._"

"What does he seek?"

"_The light._"

"What time is it?"

"_The hour of darkness, my brother!_"

Immediately upon the last response, Samuel swung back the gate. Two
persons wrapped in cloaks hurried through the passage and disappeared in
the garden. The Jew secured again the gate, and returned to his wife,
who, no more surprised than he by the mysterious entrance of the two
newcomers, said:

"Dictate, my friend; I shall write."

"In the year 1660," began Samuel, "Monsieur Marius Rennepont, a rich
Protestant shipowner and captain, lay in Lisbon. He had carried from
France, on his ship, Monsieur the Duke of San Borromeo, one of
Portugal's greatest lords. The very day of his arrival in Lisbon,
Monsieur Rennepont saw from his hotel on the Plaza Mayor, the
preparations for an auto-da-fe. On inquiry he learned that the next day
a Jew named Samuel was to be burnt in the cause of religion. Monsieur
Rennepont, being a humane and generous-minded man, and, moreover, having
sympathy for the fate of heretics as his own Protestant co-religionists
were beginning in France to be persecuted in spite of the Edict of
Nantes, resolved to snatch this Jew from the torture, and counted on the
support and protection of the Duke of San Borromeo.

"The latter, more than once during the passage, had made tender of his
services to the captain. Chance so willed it that he was the elder
brother of the Inquisitor of Lisbon. Monsieur Rennepont's hopes were
realized. The Duke of San Borromeo by his credit obtained from the
tribunal of the Inquisition a commutation of the Jew's sentence from
capital punishment to one of perpetual banishment. Monsieur Rennepont,
having saved his protege, made inquiries as to his character, and
received the best accounts thereof. He proposed that the Jew accompany
him to France, an offer which the latter accepted with gratitude. Later
on Monsieur Rennepont entrusted him with the money matters of his trade;
and Samuel devoted himself body and soul to his benefactor.

"That Hebrew, my grandfather, was soon able to prove his gratitude to
Monsieur Marius Rennepont. The Protestant persecutions increased in
fury. Those who refused to be converted were exposed to violence and
exactions of every sort. Monsieur Rennepont had a son whom he loved
passionately. In order to ensure to this son the enjoyment of his goods
by sheltering them from confiscation, he abjured the Protestant faith.
Dearly he paid for that moment of weakness. The Jesuit Society, for some
hidden reason which my grandfather never could fathom, pursued from age
to age with their secret surveillance and hatred a certain Lebrenn
family, with which one of Monsieur Rennepont's ancestors had been
connected by marriage in the middle of the Sixteenth Century.[1] For
reasons to be revealed later, that branch of the Renneponts had broken
off its relations with the Lebrenns; it was even ignorant of whether its
former allies had left any descendants.

"The Society of Jesus, enveloping in its covert network of espionage all
who, either closely or distantly, were connected with the Lebrenn
family, learned through its agents that Monsieur Marius Rennepont, in
spite of his apparent conversion to Catholicism, was in the habit of
attending, along with several of his co-religionists, a certain
Protestant church. Denounced by the Jesuits, Monsieur Rennepont incurred
the terrible penalties visited upon the fallen from faith--the galleys
for life, and the confiscation of his property. At the same time his
only son fell a victim to a duel without witnesses. Some time
thereafter, the father conceived the hazardous idea of escaping, at his
age, from the rigors of the galleys. He fled to a house several hours
distant from Paris, called my grandfather Samuel to his side, and
entrusted to him his wishes and his last testament. The goods
confiscated from him, had, by a royal order, been turned over to his
betrayers, the Jesuits, who thus profited by his fortune. But Monsieur
Rennepont, having long intended to leave to his son, should the latter
survive him, a certain patrimony had laid away in a secret place fifty
thousand crowns in gold. That sum he confided to my grandsire, charging
him to re-purchase this estate where we now are, then estimated at
between seven and eight thousand crowns. Samuel was instructed to carry
out certain orders with regard to the main dwelling of the estate, and
to live, with his descendants, in the lodge which we occupy.

"The sum thus remaining in my grandfather's hands, amounting to some
forty thousand crowns, he was to put out at interest as securely as
possible; the sums accruing from this interest were to be capitalized
and added to the principal for the space of about a century and a half,
that is to say, till the year 1832. Samuel was authorized to draw every
year two thousand livres from the profit of these investments, and to
pass on this duty, and the salary attached to it, to his own son, or in
case of the latter's death, to some relative, or co-religionist, known
to him for probity.

"Such is the solidarity which binds us Hebrews together, and which
constitutes our strength, that my grandsire, even had he no son, would
have found some faithful repository for his trust. But God willed that
it should be my father Isaac himself who was to acquit himself of this
debt of gratitude towards the protector of our ancestor, and that I, in
turn, should fulfil the same duty.

"The object of Monsieur Marius Rennepont in thus bequeathing to us the
duty of investing the interests on the sum which he confided to our
ancestor, was to leave to the third or fourth generation of his heirs an
enormous fortune, the employment of which will only be disclosed upon
the opening of his will, which his representatives will perform in
forty-three years, on the 13th of February, 1832, in this house, the
door of which is to remain sealed and the windows fastened until that
date."

At this point of his dictation Samuel was interrupted by a new series of
raps, in the pre-arranged fashion, at the little gate. He disappeared
for a moment, and almost as soon returned, saying to his wife:

"We shall have to postpone our writing--we can take it up later. You may
withdraw now about your household affairs. Prince Franz of Gerolstein
has just arrived with a new comrade whom he wishes to entertain here in
this chamber, before his initiation."

"We shall continue the dictation again, then, my friend," responded
Bathsheba, rising. And she added, with a deep sigh, "O, may you never
regret having affiliated yourself with the 'Seeing Ones,' or 'Voyants,'
as they call themselves."

"No, my beloved wife, never shall I regret my affiliation with the
Voyants. The ideas of which they have made themselves the propagandists
must infallibly bring about the reign of fraternity and the emancipation
of the human race. Then we, contemned Jews, shall enter into the
communion of the great human family. In affiliating myself with the
Voyants of Paris, in offering them the subterranean chambers which I
place at their disposal for their meetings, I serve our own personal
cause and also the cause of the disinherited, the downtrodden ones of
the world. I am fulfilling thereby a sacred duty. Whatever may hap, I
shall not regret having put my shoulder to the work of emancipation."

"Oh, will that sacred cause, to which you have given yourself, soul and
body, ever triumph? What dangers must be run, and for an uncertain end!"

"Everything proclaims the early victory of our cause! Be of good cheer!"

"Illusion, Samuel; the illusion of a generous heart. I fear you are but
cruelly deceived."

"It is no illusion, Bathsheba! Must it not be truth, which has so
irresistible an attraction? Why else should the offspring of a prince be
a Voyant?"

"You mean Prince Franz of Gerolstein?"

"He was initiated in Germany, the very cradle of our secret society. He
has become one of our most ardent converts. Blessings on the day when it
was given me to make acquaintance with the noble young man. Never did
the cause of humanity have a more eloquent apostle, a more great-hearted
defender. And still withal the society of which he is a member has
declared an implacable war upon all privilege of birth or riches, upon
all authority, royal or religious. 'Neither Kings nor priests!'--that is
our motto. The Prince holds these ideas of equality, of
emancipation--he, of a sovereign race! he, one destined to rule! Are not
these thrilling signs? The doctrines of the enfranchisement of the
working class are spread by the sovereign princes. The Emperor of
Austria, Joseph II, brother of Marie Antoinette, the Queen of France,
without owning allegiance to the Voyants, without completely accepting
their principles, nevertheless travels Europe incognito as a
philosopher, nowhere permitting that they pay him the honors due to
royal blood, visiting the bourgeois, the lower ranks, mingling with all
classes of society, observing for himself the trend of their spirit,
sympathizing with their new ideas, submitting himself, perhaps without
his own knowledge, to the influence of that regenerating breeze which is
sweeping over the old world. The reign of justice and equality is close
at hand!"

"In truth--these signs are thrilling," mused Bathsheba pensively.

"Yes, dear wife, the end of persecution and iniquity draws nigh. In a
few years, one will find difficulty in persuading himself that there was
a time when we Israelites were under the ban of the world; when there
was a price upon us; when we were tortured, hanged, burned, all because
we were Jews; and when the Protestants, like us, were sent to the
galleys or to death, solely because they were Lutherans or Calvinists.
Ah, no fear, the descendants of Monsieur Marius Rennepont will be able
to enjoy in security the huge fortune which they are to inherit, whether
they are Catholics or Protestants--my hope is firm."

Bathsheba reflected a moment and answered:

"My friend, I do not understand you. Monsieur Marius Rennepont left at
his death but fifty thousand crowns in gold as his whole heritage. Out
of this your ancestor paid the price of this mansion. How, then, will
his heirs inherit the colossal fortune of which you speak!"

"In this way, Bathsheba. My grandfather, after the death of Monsieur
Rennepont, by means of certain financial operations, succeeded, after
some little time, in recouping the eight thousand crowns paid for the
estate. In 1683 he had completely restored the fifty thousand crowns. He
took the cash; invested it, together with the interest and emoluments,
and fifteen years later, in 1696, the sum had already grown to three
hundred thousand livres, which, doubled by investment in 1710, made six
hundred thousand. Finally, in 1719, when my grandfather died, the sum
had reached nearly a million. The doubling of the capital took place in
ten, twelve, or fourteen years, depending on the rate of interest, it
being in different years seven, six, or five per cent.

"The million which my grandfather Samuel left at his death," continued
Samuel, "had, by 1724, become 1,200,000; 1742, two years after my birth,
nearly 5,000,000; in 1766, it was 9,600,000 livres; in 1780, 19,600,000
livres; and at this moment the bequest of Marius Rennepont has attained
the magnitude of 34,300,000 livres, 8 sous, 11 deniers. That is not all.
Just think of what it will be forty years from now, progressing at the
same rate: In 1794 it will climb to nearly 38,000,000; in 1808, to
76,000,000; in 1822, to 150,000,000; and in 1832, the time set for the
opening of the will of Monsieur Marius Rennepont and for the partition
of his fortune among his descendants, the fortune will have capped the
enormous figure of 220,000,000 livres!"

"It is certainly prodigious," rejoined Bathsheba. "Even with your
explanation, my surprise makes me dizzy. But that dizziness," she added,
with great emotion, "shall not keep me from feeling a noble pride in the
fact that it was your grandsire, your sire, and you yourself, who have
been till now the worthy repositories of such a treasure. Oh, Samuel,
you indeed acquit the debt of gratitude contracted by your grandfather
toward Monsieur Marius Rennepont."

"We but perform a sacred duty confided to our integrity and our
prudence," returned the Jew. "My grandparent, my parent and I have ever
been careful not to endanger the smallest part of this sum in risky
ventures. Thanks to the financial relations of our co-religionists with
all the banks of Europe, we have been able to confine ourselves
rigorously to investments of the highest security. Should God give to us
a son, my dear wife, he will have, I hope, the prudence and the probity
of his fathers. If the joy of having a son is denied us, or if some
unforeseen development should prevent me from carrying on this mission
of honor, our cousin Levi, whose uprightness I well know, will take my
place. Or better still, perhaps the Lord will grant me a green old age,
thus enabling me in 1832, with ninety winters on my back, to return in
person to the heirs of the house of Rennepont the sacred trust which
their ancestor so long ago confided to mine. That will be a day too good
to hope for, if I can be present at the opening of Monsieur Rennepont's
testament. But God alone knows the future!"

After a pause, Samuel continued:

"To bring his heirs together at the distant time set for the opening of
his will, Monsieur Rennepont, a short time before his death, hit upon
an ingenious plan. He transmitted to each of his descendants a medal
which bore on one side the legend:

       VICTIM OF S. J.
        PRAY FOR ME
           1682.

And on the reverse, the words:

    AT PARIS, SAINT FRANCOIS STREET, NO. 3
      IN A CENTURY AND A HALF YOU WILL BE
           FEBRUARY THE 13TH, 1832.

"It is by means of these medals, handed down from generation to
generation, that the Rennepont heirs will one day be reunited here, in
this, the house of their ancestor."

"My friend," asked Bathsheba, "in the note you were dictating to me for
our friend Levi, you made mention of a Lebrenn family, related to
Monsieur Rennepont, which, in spite of its relationship, will probably
not partake in the division of the fortune. Whence and why this
exclusion?"

"I learned from my father that the grandfather of Monsieur Rennepont,
after his abjuration, conceived the greatest aversion for his relatives
of the Lebrenn branch, severed all connection with them, and even
concealed the fact of their existence from his son, out of dread to
submit him some day to the influence of that family, the implacable
enemy, as it was, of the Church."

"And did the father of Monsieur Marius Rennepont remain true to the
Roman faith?"

"He did, my beloved Bathsheba; but his son, Monsieur Marius himself,
reaching the age of reason shortly after his father's death, embraced
Protestantism, which still later he feigned to renounce, in order to
protect his fortune for his son--a regrettable act of weakness."

"How, then, was the existence of this Lebrenn branch discovered? It all
grows more and more mysterious to me, and whets my curiosity."

"Shortly before his death, by suicide, Monsieur Marius Rennepont was
looking over some family papers running back to the Sixteenth Century,
to the period of the religious wars. There he found to a certainty proof
of the connection between the Renneponts and the Lebrenns. But whether
the latter had left any descendants he was unable to determine."

"Does that mean, Samuel, that should there be living survivors of the
Lebrenn family at the time the Rennepont fortune is partitioned, they
will have no share in it?"

"The formal wish of the testator," replied Samuel, "is that only those
who in 1832 present themselves here armed with their hereditary
medallion shall be admitted to benefice in the inheritance. I shall
abide by the instructions which have been handed down to me. According
to what my father said, who had his information direct from his father,
the confidant of Monsieur Rennepont himself, that clause was dictated by
motives which will be revealed in the will."

"Everything in this affair is strange and singular. Probably no one even
knows where to find the present descendants of Monsieur Rennepont."

"As to me, Bathsheba, I have not the slightest clue. Still--my father
did tell me that twice in his life, Rennepont heirs presented themselves
here with their hereditary medals bearing the address of this house,
drawn hither by curiosity or vague pecuniary expectations--curiosity and
expectations which met only with disappointment."

"What said your father to them?"

"Just what I should say in like case: 'I have nothing to communicate to
you. This house belongs to me; it was left me by my father. I know not
for what purpose or with what plan in view your ancestor designated this
building to his heirs as their rendezvous a century and a half from
date.'"

"That is, in fact, the answer commanded by prudence, Samuel. The world
must remain in ignorance of the great value of the bequest you are
charged with."

"Reasons of the utmost gravity impose upon us an absolute secrecy on the
subject. In the first place, according to what my father had from my
grandfather, the Society of Jesus, always so well served by its
innumerable host of spies, succeeded in finding out that Monsieur
Rennepont had saved an important sum from the confiscation which proved
so profitable to the reverend fathers; for the informers and the
executioners parted the spoils."

"Samuel! If these priests, so powerful, so masterful, and with so many
avenues of underground working should ever suspect the truth! I tremble
at the mere thought."

"Take heart, my good wife. The danger would be great, but I should know
how to escape it. It was even more necessary in my grandfather's and
especially in my father's case that they kept in profound secrecy the
treasures they possessed; for the governments of Louis XIV, the Regent,
and Louis XV, always in want, always at their wits' end for cash, were
none too scrupulous in the means they chose to replenish their coffers.
We Jews have always been a little beyond the pale of common rights, so
that my grandfather or my father, once suspected of being the possessors
of a sum amounting to several millions, would have been haled off on
_lettres de cachet_, thrown into the cell of some State prison, and kept
there till they had bought off their liberty, or, perhaps, their very
lives at the price of the treasure which they were suspected of
guarding."

"Ah, Samuel, I shudder to think that in those days every wickedness was
possible. They might even have put your father to the torture."

"Thanks be to God, all that is out of the question to-day. And still,
anticipating ill chances and exactions, we have always stowed our
treasure in safe places and safe hands. Should the mansion be ransacked
from cellar to eaves, the wealth of which we are the keepers would
escape the search--"

Pricking his ear, Samuel checked his speech and listened intently a
moment in the direction of the street gate. Then he said aloud to
himself:

"Who is knocking there? It is not one of our men."

"The hour is unearthly," answered Bathsheba, uneasily. "It is past
midnight. This lonely street has long since been deserted. May it not be
our lookout come to warn us of the approach of some peril?"

"No, our lookout would have given the established signal," answered the
Jew. "I'll go see what it may be."

And taking the lamp, he passed out of the chamber.




CHAPTER II.

REVOLUTIONARY EFFERVESCENCE.


Lamp in hand, Samuel approached the wicket gate. The light he carried
revealed to him standing outside a lackey in a livery of orange and
green, trimmed with silver lace. The fellow, swaying unsteadily on his
feet, and with the air of one half-seas over with drink, knocked again,
violently.

"Ho, friend!" cried Samuel. "Don't knock so hard! Perhaps you mistake
the house."

"I--I knock how I please," returned the lackey in a thick voice. "Open
the door--right off. I want to come in--gallows-bird!"

"Whom do you wish?"

"You do not want to open; dog of Jewry! Swine! My master will beat you
to death with his stick. He said to me: 'Carry--this letter to Samuel
the Jew--and above all--rascal--do not tarry at the inn!' So I want to
get in to your dog-kennel, you devil of a Jew!"

"May I ask your master's name?"

"My master is Monseigneur the Count of Plouernel, colonel in the Guards.
You know him well. You have before now lent him money--triple
Arab!--according to what my lord's steward says--and at good interest,
too."

"Have you your master's letter?"

"Yes--pig! And so, open. If not--I'll break in the gate."

"Then pass me the letter through the wicket, and hurry about it. Else I
shall go in and leave you as you are."

"Mule! Isn't he stubborn, that animal!" grumbled the lackey as he shoved
the letter through the grating. "I must have an answer, good and quick,
I was told," he added.

"When I have read the letter," replied Samuel.

"To make me wait outside the door--like a dog!" muttered the tipsy
servingman. "Me, the first lackey of my lord!"

Samuel, without paying the least attention to the impertinences of the
lackey, read the letter of the Count of Plouernel by the light of his
lamp, and then answered:

"Say to your master that I shall visit him to-morrow morning at his
rooms. Your errand is done. You may leave."

"You won't give me a written answer?"

"No, the reply I have just given you will suffice."

Leaving the valet outside to fume his wrath away, Samuel refastened the
wicket and returned to the room where he had left his wife. Bathsheba
said to him, with some uneasiness:

"My friend, did I not hear a threatening voice?"

"It was a drunken lackey who brought me a letter from the Count of
Plouernel."

"Another demand for a loan, I suppose?"

"Exactly. He has ordered me to undertake to secure for him the sum of
100,000 livres. He did not call on me direct for the loan, because he
thought me too poor to be able to furnish it."

"Will you lend him the money, my friend?"

"Surely, on excellent securities of thirty deniers to one. The Count is
good for it, and it will please me to squeeze him, along with other
great seigneurs, to the profit of the strong-box of the Voyants."

Hardly had Samuel uttered these words when Prince Franz of Gerolstein,
accompanied by one single companion, entered the room. Samuel and his
wife silently passed upstairs to the floor above, leaving the two alone.

Franz of Gerolstein, then at the age of twenty-five, tall of stature and
at once graceful and robust, presented an appearance both noble and
impressive. In his face could be read frankness, resolution, and
generosity. He was simply dressed. His companion, who was evidently a
woman disguised in male habiliments, seemed as young as he, though she
was really thirty. In spite of their rare beauty, her features bore the
stamp of virility. Her figure was tall and lithe; a brownish down marked
strongly her upper lip; everything harmonized with her masculine
garments. Yet the beauty of this woman was of a sinister character. The
marble-like pallor of her brow, the flashes of her black eyes, the
contraction of her pupils, the bitterness of the smile, frequently
cruel, which curled on her lips--all seemed to bear witness to the
ravages of passion or to some incurable chagrin. She seemed either a
superb courtesan, or a repentant Magdalen.

Neither Franz nor his companion broke the silence of the lower room for
an instant. The Prince spoke first, in a voice grave and almost solemn:

"Victoria, it is now three months since my visit to the Prison of the
Repentant Women. Your beauty, marked with a depth of sadness, seized
possession of me at once. I learned why you had been condemned to
confinement. Those reasons, once learned, moved me deeply. From that
time dates the interest with which you have inspired me. By the
intervention of a powerful friend, I am fortunate enough to have secured
your release."

"Yes, I owe you my liberty," responded she whom he called Victoria, in a
virile voice. "And moreover, you have given me, in my misfortune, many
proofs of affection."

"But the interest I have shown you has other springs than in your
misfortune--although that has much augmented it."

"What may they be, Franz? Speak--I am listening."

The Prince paused in silence for a second, and then asked:

"Know you who I am?"

"Have you not told me that you were a student in one of the universities
of Germany, your native land?"

"I deceived you as to my station, Victoria. I am no student."

"You deceived me! You whom I thought so true?"

"You will soon learn for what cause I hid from you the truth. But first
I would make you aware of the nature of the sentiments you inspire in
me. I can no longer hold back the confession. Hear me, then,
Victoria--"

The young woman shuddered, stopped the Prince, and said in tones of
bitterness:

"Unless I greatly mistake, I foresee the end of this speech, Franz. So
before you proceed, and in the hope of sparing you a refusal which would
be an insult to you, I must declare that I have not changed since I met
you. I must repeat what I said to you in our first interview: My heart
is dead to love--one single passion rules me, and that is, vengeance. I
have hid from you nothing of the past."

"Aye, I know that you have suffered. Victoria, if your heart is dead,
mine is no longer mine. I left behind in Germany a young girl, an angel
of candor, of virtue, of beauty. She is poor and obscure of birth, but I
have sworn before God to make her my wife. I shall remain true to my
love and to my oath."

"Oh, thanks, Franz, thanks for your confidence. It has lifted from me a
fearsome apprehension," said Victoria, with a sigh of joy. "I love you
with the tenderness of a sister, or rather, of a friend. For I am no
longer a woman, and it would have been cruelty on my part to inspire in
you a sentiment I could not share. But what, then, is the nature of your
feeling towards me?"

"I feel for you the tender compassion due to the sorrows of your
childhood and early youth--a profound esteem for the qualities which in
you have survived, have overcome, all the causes of your
degradation;--and finally, Victoria, I am united to you by an
indissoluble bond which reaches into the most distant past--that of
kinship."

Victoria gazed at the Prince in a sort of stupor as he proceeded: "We
are of one blood, Victoria. We are relatives. One cradle, one origin,
embraced our two families. Have you ever read the records your fathers
have handed down from age to age, for now over sixteen centuries?"

"I learned of those writings during the two years I spent with my mother
and brother, subsequent to the event I have related to you. The reading
of our annals, added to all the ferments of hate, already planted in my
soul, and to the disappearance of my father, now dead or languishing in
some pit of the Bastille, all created and matured in me that craving for
vengeance, or rather for reprisals, which now possesses me. I long to
serve that vengeance, at the cost of my life, if need be. That is why I
have consented to this initiation, the hour of which is now approached.
Vengeance will be but justice, and I wish it to be implacable."

"The hour is indeed arrived, Victoria, and also the moment to reveal to
you what we are to each other. You have in your plebeian annals a
princely name, that of Charles of Gerolstein. That prince was a
descendant of Gaelo the Pirate, who in the Tenth Century accompanied old
Rolf, chief of the Northman pirates, to the siege of Paris.[2] One of
the descendants of Gaelo, taking his departure from Norway, went, some
time in the Tenth Century, to establish himself with one of the
independent tribes of Germany. His courage, his military prowess, caused
his election as chief of the tribe. His son, equal to his father for
wisdom and bravery, succeeded him to the command. The chieftainship from
that time forward became hereditary in the family. Later, the tribe of
Gerolstein became one of the foremost in the German confederation. Thus
did the descendants of Gaelo found the sovereign house of Gerolstein,
to-day represented by my father, who now holds sway in his German
principality. Our relationship is beyond doubt, Victoria, and the bonds
thereof were again strengthened in the Sixteenth Century, when, in the
religious wars, the ancestors of us both fought together under Admiral
Coligny."

"So, Franz, you are of the race of sovereigns," Victoria made answer.
Then she continued: "It is now three months since you rescued me from
prison. Shame, grief, self-contempt have deterred me from returning to
my mother and brother. I am penniless. I wished to earn my living as a
sempstress, a trade in which my mother instructed me during my stay with
her. That would be the wisest thing to do. Why have you opposed my
desires?"

"Because I thought you could serve the cause of humanity more fruitfully
than by occupying yourself with the needle."

"You told me that I was to go through a novitiate of several months,
during which time I might demand no assistance in my work. I accepted of
you the money necessary for my modest needs. You were to me both brother
and teacher. I saw you every day for hours. Little by little my eyes
were opened to the light. Radiant horizons dazzled my vision. You filled
me with your generous aspirations. You fired me with that fever of
devotion and resignation, that thirst for sacrifices, from which spring
saints and martyrs. You followed with interest my progress in the new
path that you opened out to me. Day by day I wished that my initiation
might end. I wished to take my part in action, in your projects. But now
that you have revealed your birth, your station, I begin to doubt you.
Is the object of your society really that which you have taught me it
was, the recovery of the rights ravaged from the disinherited classes?"

"The least doubt on your part on that score, Victoria, would be a cruel
blow to me. We have taken arms for justice and right."

"Pardon me, Franz. Then the _level_, that inflexible emblem--the social
level--"

"Is our emblem. Equality of rights for man and woman!"

"It is your emblem, my lord? Yours, the son of a sovereign?"

"The aim of my life is the triumph of liberty, the birth of the
Republic! Hear me, Victoria. You have borne the hardships, the
sufferings, the shame of a prison. Which, you or a person unknown to
prison horrors, knows them better? Which would hate them more?"

"I read your thought. Despotism itself has taught you its horror."

"And you will no longer wonder at me--of a sovereign race, but yet as
lowly of origin as you, as both our families originated in the same
place--when I take the level as my emblem?"

"I shall wonder no more, Franz; but to my wonder succeeds a glow of
admiration." With her eyes full of tears, and bowing her knee before the
Prince of Gerolstein, Victoria kissed his hand, saying, "May you be
blessed and glorified for your generous sentiments."

"Rise, Victoria," answered the Prince with emotion. "My conduct does not
merit your admiration. It is but a puny sacrifice for us to make of our
privileges, compared with the grandeur of our cause." Then after a
pause, he resumed in mild and grave tones: "But now reflect on this
solemn moment of your initiation. There is still time for you to retract
your allegiance to us."

"Franz, after three months of proof, I shall not weaken at the last
moment. I am ready for the ceremony."

"Think of the terrible vows you are about to take."

"Be they what they may, I shall not be found wanting in faith, courage,
or devotion."

"I wished to reveal to you our family connection in order that you could
accept from me without embarrassment, as should be between relatives,
your means of livelihood for the future, should you not care to carry
out your plan. Your liberty of action shall remain complete and
absolute."

"I shall always accept from you, Franz, a service without blushing. But
more than ever before, am I resolved to pledge myself to your cause, to
the cause of the expropriated--if you think me worthy to serve it."

"I shall not speak to you of the perils confronting us. You are above
all, valiant. But it is necessary to reconcile you to a complete
renunciation of self. You will be an instrument; not a blind one, but at
once intelligent and passive. The Voyants are obliged to employ, for the
deliverance, regeneration and happiness of mankind, some of the very
means which the Society of Jesus uses to enslave and brutalize it. The
sword, according as it is used, may be the dagger of the assassin or the
glaive of the citizen wielded in defense of his country. It was the
glaive with which Brutus opposed the Roman aristocracy, and smote
Caesar."

"I know the end toward which I shall be guided, the triumph of right and
of justice. I shall obey."

"Perhaps you will also have to renounce your hopes of vengeance and
reprisals. Will you be equal to that?"

The young woman shook and her features darkened under the stress of the
internal struggle which these words caused her. Finally she broke out in
an altered voice:

"What, Franz! Shall centuries of oppression not have their day of
retribution? Shall the crimes of ages go unpunished? Shall the shades of
our martyred fathers not be appeased by vengeance? Shall the example of
inexorable justice not be given to the world, in the name of eternal
good? What! They would deny us one day, one single day of legitimate
reprisals after fifteen centuries of crime? Must the victims be
constrained to pardon their executioners?"

"Victoria, those who seek the birth of the reign of fraternity on earth
hold blood in abhorrence. They hope to accomplish the freedom, the
regeneration of mankind by mercy and pardon, and by educating the
working class."

"Then I renounce my vengeance!" said the young woman. "But if the
eternal enemies of humanity oppose themselves, by trickery or by
violence, to the emancipation of the oppressed; if on their part, the
conflict is engaged without either mercy or pity, shall the victims have
to kneel, and offer their throats to the knife?"

"In that case, Victoria, may the blood fall on the heads of those who
first shed it. Accursed be those who respond by treachery or violence to
our words of love, of concord, of justice and of reparation! Then will
be fulfilled once more, perhaps for the last time, that law of human
progress, which, so many times across the ages, has encrimsoned the
conquest of the most equitable reforms. Insurrection will have to impose
upon the oppressors concessions the voluntary granting of which would
have saved the world from all these woes. Accursed be those who shall
then attempt to oppose force to the demands of the times. Then,
Victoria, there shall be war, war tremendous, pitiless! It will be the
unchaining of popular passions. No bridle can hold them. The justice of
God will pass over a terror-stricken world. Then, in the midst of that
tempest which shall overturn thrones and altars--then, Victoria, you
shall appear, terrible as the Goddess of Vengeance, striking with her
broad sword the old world, condemned in the name of the good of the
peoples."

"Oh, my life, my whole life for one hour of such vengeance!" cried the
young woman, palpitating in wild exaltation. "Aye, let my life be a
hundred times more miserable, more abject, more horrible than that which
a King put upon me--I shall live it twice over in order to assist in the
hour of this vengeance. A day, an hour of reprisals, for my life of
misery!"

"Come then, Victoria, you shall be ours as we shall be yours, in life,
in death, in triumph, in vengeance!"

So speaking, the Prince of Gerolstein led Victoria Lebrenn out of
Samuel's chamber, across the garden, and into a deserted and
half-subterranean green-house.




CHAPTER III.

THE VOYANTS.


The half-underground hot-house into which Franz of Gerolstein conducted
his new convert was dimly lighted by a lamp placed at the foot of a
stairway leading still further beneath the earth. On the first step of
this staircase Franz found a package from which he produced two loose
robes and two masks. Addressing his companion, he said:

"Put this robe on over your garments, and hide your countenance behind
this mask."

They descended the stairs, and arrived in a corridor, lighted by the
hanging lamp whose rays had guided them from above. At the extremity of
the passage stood a man cloaked in red and with a black mask over his
visage. He held a naked sword in his hand, and advanced two steps to
meet the newcomers.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are of the _disinherited_," replied Franz. "For father we had
_enslavement_, for mother _ignorance_; our condition is _misery_. We are
of the poor, the oppressed, the damned here below."

"What do you wish, my brother?"

"_Liberty_, _knowledge_, _happiness_."

"Knock at that door," commanded the masked figure in red, stepping aside
to make way for Franz and his companion. "Knock and it shall be opened
unto you; seek, and ye shall find."

The door opened, and as soon closed behind the two initiates. For a
moment they were blinded by the brilliance which flooded the
subterraneous chamber to which they had now penetrated. It was lighted
by seventy candelabra, each bearing seven candles--again the mystic
number. The walls were covered with red drapery; at the further end a
raised platform formed a dais with closed curtains; on the front of the
dais was the picture of a carpenter's level. Several steps from the
platform, on a draped table, were thrown in confusion a royal crown, a
scepter, a pontifical tiara, a bishop's crosier, several collars of
chivalric orders, and a few ducal or princely coronets; besides these
there lay in the heap some pouches, half open, and full of gold and
silver pieces.

Directly behind the table on which thus lay cluttered the emblems of
religion, royalty, aristocracy and wealth, stood seven masked men,
garbed in long robes, silent and erect, their arms crossed on their
chests, seven specters, seven fantastic apparitions. The one whose duty
it was to officiate at the reception of initiates stood in the center.
Three Voyants were ranged to his right, three to his left. He addressed
Victoria, who keenly felt the impression produced on her by the strange
spectacle:

"Woman, your age?"

"Fifteen centuries, and more. I was born the first day of the
enslavement and misery of my brothers."

"What would you?"

"The end of oppression. I wish to beat down thrones and altars,
privileges of birth and of fortune, all the hoary monuments of
ignorance, of slavery, and of iniquity, all the monopolies, all the
privileges which flourish upon the people."

"What will happen when the level shall have passed over the old world,
and when the exploiters of the people shall have disappeared?"

"The darkness of ages shall be superseded by the revivifying warmth and
the fruitful light of the sun; harvests of abundance will cover with
their sheaves the soil tilled by a fecund revolution."

"Is your severance from the old world complete?"

"I have broken with the old world, and rallied to the new."

"Behold this pontifical tiara, this kingly crown; gaze on these symbols
of nobility, these sacks of gold and silver. You may demand of kings, of
priests, of nobles, of the rich, the enjoyments of life, all by devoting
yourself body and soul to these idols and to tyranny."

"It is my wish to overthrow those idols. I vow an implacable hatred to
the enemies of the people."

"From this hour," responded the cloaked president, apparently satisfied
with the interrogatory, "you shall be ours as we will be yours. Our
device so has it--_All for each; each for all._ By this device,
co-operation will replace in the future the selfishness of the masters
of the old world. Who caused all the evils of which selfishness has been
the source? He who first dug a ditch about a piece of common land and
said 'This is mine.' The usurpation was consecrated by men simple-minded
enough to respect these arbitrary boundaries; the spoliation of several
by one gradually became a right; the deed became the law, the exception
the rule. The tyranny growing out of this principle, initiated by
violence and perpetuated by custom, became rooted in the peoples' mind,
till at length they came to own an infant mewling in the cradle for
their King, and to kiss the boot of the Pope. What consequences have not
come out of these aberrations! Peoples have throttled each other. The
earth has its damned ones, more to be pitied than those with whom
superstition peoples hell. The damned on earth call themselves vassals,
serfs, proletarians, artisans, laborers! It is of these damned ones that
we seek the redemption. Think you the overturning of thrones and altars
will suffice for the deliverance of these victims? No, alas, no. To the
tyranny of King and Church will succeed an exploitation still more
tyrannical, that of the tribe of Business. Then the dispenser of work
and of wages will exert an empire absolute over his wage-earning
workingmen. On the ruins of the thrones and altars will soon grow up the
oligarchy of merchants and bourgeois.

"That oligarchy must also in its end be overthrown," continued the
initiator. "That is our final aim.[3] Our design is to unite by the bond
of a common faith, thousands of initiates in every country of
Europe--first in Germany, then in France, in England, and elsewhere; to
bring them gradually, by initiation, into the knowledge of the object of
our association; to have them swear obedience to its chiefs, visible and
invisible, and chosen from all ranks of society, from the highest to the
lowest; to recruit our partisans and co-workers in the very councils of
the Kings themselves, in the heart of the palace of the Popes. Our
enemies will find themselves, without their knowing it, perpetually
under our eyes; their plots will be revealed to us; their own creatures,
to all appearances the most devoted to them, will obey our orders, and
undermine the foundations of their social edifice. Then in the hour of
redemption the old world shall crumble and go down under its debris of
priests, nobles, and Kings.

"Woman," continued the master of ceremonies, outstretching his hand
toward Victoria, "you now know our purposes. Here are our sinews of
action. An annual assessment levied on all our brothers, who number
themselves by millions, makes us masters of a mighty treasure. That is
the source of the wealth in which revel those of our number whose duty
it is to mix with the mighty ones of the day, sharing in their
dalliances and dissipations--foxes to deceive, wolves to devour our
enemies. Victoria Lebrenn, it is for you, thanks to your remarkable
gifts of nature, to become one of our most active auxiliaries. But to
serve well our cause, it will be necessary that you abdicate your own
will, and that you stand ready, at any hour of the day or night, to
follow our orders."

"Command; I obey."

"I must first acquaint our brothers with the particulars of your life,
as you have set them down in your own hand, and confided them to your
converter."

Picking up a roll of manuscript, the presiding officer proceeded to read
the story of Victoria Lebrenn, as follows:

"In the year 1772, being then eleven years and a half old, I was one day
crossing the garden of the Tuileries, carrying dinner to my father, a
workman in a printing shop in Bac Street. I paused a moment to watch
some little children at play. A woman well dressed and with decent
features drew close to me, examined me attentively, and made me some
compliments on my good looks. Then noting the porringer with my father's
dinner, and learning from me that I was on my way to him, she proposed
that I go with her in her carriage. Delighted to have a carriage-ride
for the first time in my life, I readily agreed. Near the Draw Bridge a
coach was waiting, into which I got with my conductress. She offered me
some lozenges from a box, which I accepted. The lozenges contained some
species of narcotic, for in a few minutes I had fallen into a deep
sleep.

"When I awoke, it was night. I was lying in a great bed with damask
curtains. The ceiling of my chamber was of gold, and the room itself was
richly furnished. Beside my pillow was seated the woman by whose agency
I had been taken to the place. I asked her where I was. I wept at the
anxiety of my parents; she calmed me, promising that they should soon be
with me. She added that I was in the house of a person of great quality,
who was interested in my youth, wished me much good, and would enrich my
family. I knew I was not dreaming, but thought myself the heroine of a
fairy tale. Two women entered. They made me rise, and put me in a
perfumed bath. Then they dressed my hair, one of them winding a string
of pearls through it. They dressed me in silk and lace, and served me
with supper on plates of vermilion and gold. I experienced a sort of
vertigo; I obeyed mechanically. Still, I kept asking for my father and
mother. The woman of the carriage assured me that they would soon
arrive, and be overjoyed to see me so beautiful. A hard-visaged man
entered the chamber. I heard the old woman call him Monsieur Lebel, and
speak to him with great respect. The man scrutinized me carefully.
'Little one,' he said to me, 'you must go to bed now.' Then he went out.

"Doubtless, in the course of the repast, they had served me with several
glasses of heady wine, for I felt my reason clouding. I allowed myself
to be put to bed, though not without again inquiring for my parents.
They promised to take me back to them the next day. The woman and her
two companions bade me good night, snuffed the candles in the
candelabrum, and left me for light a single alabaster lamp, which threw
a pale illumination over the spacious room. I was about to succumb less
to sleep than to the leaden lethargy into which I had been plunged, when
a start of fright restored to me, for a few moments, all my senses. My
bed was set in an alcove. Two of the gilded panels which formed the
alcove slid back in their grooves, and I beheld an old man in a dressing
gown. I uttered a cry of astonishment--it was the King, Louis XV. I had
seen him but a short time before at a public ceremony in Paris. I was
stupefied into immobility. Close behind the King, in the secret
passageway leading into the alcove, stood a beautiful young woman
half-clad in a night robe, and holding a candle-stick. She laughed
aloud, and said to the King, pushing him by the shoulder--'Go on,
France, it is the loving hour!'

"That woman, I afterwards learned, was Countess Du Barry. I fainted with
fear. I was the victim of an odious assault. Five days afterward,
another poor child, aged like me, hardly twelve, the daughter of a
miller of Trianon, was delivered after the same manner to the lust of
Louis XV, and gave him the small-pox of which he died. Two days before
his death, the woman of whom I have spoken, one of the royal
procuresses, made me leave by night the little apartment in the palace
of Versailles, and get with her into a carriage, assuring me she was
about to restore me to my father, whom I continually called for, in
tears. I still was not fully aware of my dishonor. Instead of returning
me to my home, the procuress left me in an isolated dwelling not far
from Versailles. High walls surrounded the garden; the only entry was by
a gate which was kept under careful guard. Flight was impossible.

"In that house I found several young girls, of whom the youngest was
barely my age, and the oldest, twenty. The place was the habitual haunt
of great lords, prelates, and financiers. They came to sup with
us--suppers that ended in shameful orgies. My companions, the immature
victims, like myself, of kingly debauchery, gradually made known to me
the extent of my disgrace. At first I was overcome by shame; then
familiarity with vice, the contagion of example, the influence of the
corrupt atmosphere in which I dwelt, stifled my better sentiments and my
early training. I would never have dared at this time to return to my
family. I reached my sixteenth year without having left that house of
ill fame. By that time reflection and chagrin had matured my reason;
then there began to grow up beside the sense of my degradation, the
implacable hatred of the King and of those who, after him, had plunged
me still deeper into the mire of infamy. I assisted daily in the orgies
of the seigneurs of the Court, of the Church and of the Bourse. They
never supposed creatures of our sort capable of attaching any
importance to what they said in our presence; they expressed without
hesitation their disdain and aversion for the people. Just about that
time, several disturbances brought on by the dearness of provisions had
been quelled at the musket's mouth; our guests regretted that the acts
of repression had not been still more pitiless, saying, 'These flames
can never be quenched save by rivers of blood.'

"Thus there was created in me, a daughter of the people, a blind thirst
for vengeance. Louis XV was dead, but I followed with my hatred both
royalty and nobility, clergy and financiers. Our relations with the men
of this class taught me to see in them our merciless enemies. Still my
material comfort and my early degradation engendered in me a cowardly
inertia. I felt neither the courage nor the desire to flee the domicile
where I was held. I was seized with mortal terror at the bare thought of
encountering my father, my mother, my young brother; of soiling our
hearth with my presence. And, finally, knowing that their life was poor
and laborious, it seemed impossible to me to summon the will to work and
to share their privations. Ease and luxury were enervating, were
depraving me. Thus passed several years. I reached the age of twenty.
The woman who kept the place died, and my companions and I were turned
adrift. I was without resources and unable to earn my daily bread, my
apprenticeship as a sempstress having been cut short by my kidnapping.
The fear of misery, my determination not to continue in that abject
life, the uncertainty of the future, and lastly my attachment to my
family, overcame my shame and gave me the courage to return home. My
parents believed me dead; my appearance overwhelmed them with joy and
rendered them merciful. I confessed to them my past. They both covered
me with tears and caresses, and withheld every reproach. My father gave
me to read the plebeian legends of our family. Then my poor father,
exasperated by the deed that marred my childhood, printed and
distributed to the public with his own hand an account which he wrote
and entitled _A Night of Louis XV_. A few days after the publication of
this article, my father failed to come home at night. Since then we have
had no trace of him. Doubtless he now is dead, or languishes in the cell
of some State prison.

"For a year I remained with my mother and brother. I forced myself to
live down my past. I took up again my sempstress's apprenticeship, and
soon ceased to be a care to my mother. While my body had been stained,
my heart remained pure. I had never felt the pangs of love. I now
conceived a violent affection for a young sergeant in the French Guards
named Maurice, the son of one of our neighbors. The young fellow did not
know through what a slough my youth had been dragged, and thought me
entirely worthy of him; so much did I dread his scorn that I had not the
heart to disabuse him. He asked my hand of my mother. I begged her to
hide from him my past shame; moved by my tears she consented to silence.
We were affianced, Maurice and I. I had attained the summit of my
prayers. I felt a secret remorse in deceiving the man who loyally
offered me his hand, but I consoled myself with the thought of
fulfilling scrupulously my marriage vows and making my husband as happy
as possible. Cruelly was my dissimulation punished. One day, while
walking between my mother and my betrothed, we met one of my old
companions in misery. She knew me and addressed me in terms of a
terrible meaning. Terrified at the expression of Maurice's face at this
revelation, my heart broke--I collapsed. When I came to myself my mother
stood at my side in tears. Commanded by my beloved to tell him all, for
he still could not believe in my past indignity, my mother dared no
longer hide the truth. Maurice was stricken dumb with grief, for he
loved me with all his heart. He returned to the barracks in
bewilderment, and chancing to come into the presence of his colonel, the
Count of Plouernel, did not think to salute him. The Count, angered at
this want of respect, knocked off Maurice's hat with a blow of his cane.
He, half crazed with despair, raised his hand against his colonel. The
crime was punishable by death under the scourge. The next day the young
sergeant expired under that inhuman torture. The death of the man I
loved threw me into a sort of frenzy. Often before, as the record of our
family tells, had our fathers, as serfs or vassals, found themselves in
arms face to face with the race of Plouernel. This memory redoubled my
hatred for the colonel. Disgusted with life by the death of my only
love, I resolved to avenge on the Count of Plouernel the decease of
Maurice. I repaired to the quarters of the Guards at the hour when I
knew I could find the colonel in his rooms. My hope was dashed. My
paleness and agitation aroused the suspicions of the two under-officers
to whom I addressed myself. They demanded the reason of my desire to see
their chief. The brusqueness of my replies, my sinister and wild
appearance strengthened their mistrust. They fell upon me, searched me,
and found in my pocket--a dagger. Then I told them why I came. They
arrested me; they haled me to the Repentant Women. I was subjected in
that prison to the most barbarous treatment. One day a stranger visited
the place. He questioned me. My answers impressed him. A few days later
I was set at liberty, thanks to the efforts of this stranger, Franz, who
came in person to fetch me from the Repentant Women."

       *       *       *       *       *

The chief initiator concluded the reading of the melancholy recital, and
replaced the pages of manuscript on the table before him. "The account
of our sister is authenticated throughout," he said.

"To this story of my sad life," declared Victoria, "there is nothing to
add. Only to-day did I learn the name of the generous stranger to whom I
owe my release from prison; and again I declare myself ready to pledge
my devotion and service to the cause of humanity. Let the war upon the
oppressors be implacable!"

"From the most obscure to the most illustrious, all devotion is equal in
the eyes of our great cause, and in the eyes of its most noble martyr,
the immortal crucified master of Nazareth," added the initiator, drawing
aside the curtains of the dais and disclosing a Christ on a crucifix,
surmounted with the level of equality. Then he continued, speaking to
Victoria, "Woman, in the name of the poor carpenter of Nazareth, the
friend of the sorrowing and the disinherited, the enemy of the priests
and the rulers of his day--woman, do you swear faith, love, and
obedience to our cause?"

"I swear!" answered Victoria in a ringing voice, raising her hands
toward the crucifix. "I swear faith and obedience to our cause!"

"You are now ours as we are yours," replied the officiant, dropping the
curtains. "From to-morrow on you will receive our instructions from our
brother Franz. To work! The opening of the States General shall be the
signal for the enfranchisement of the people. The thrones shall
disappear beneath the scourge of the revolution!"[4]

At that moment the watch posted in the corridor of the Voyant temple of
liberty struck thrice precipitately on the door, giving the alarm. The
lights which had cast their radiance over the meeting went out as if by
magic, and a profound darkness took possession of the underground
chamber.

From the obscurity was heard the voice of Anacharsis Clootz, the masked
officiant, saying to the other Voyants who had been present at the
initiation of Victoria Lebrenn:

"Baboeuf, go with Buonarotti, Danton and Condorcet by the right exit. I
shall take the left, together with Franz, Loustalot, and our neophyte."




CHAPTER IV.

LITTLE RODIN.


While Anacharsis Clootz, the rich Dutch banker, later to be known as the
"Orator of the Human Race," was thus presiding at the initiation of
Victoria Lebrenn into the sect of the Voyants, Samuel, left alone with
his wife by the departure of Franz of Gerolstein and his companion, had
been just preparing to continue his dictation to Bathsheba, when he
heard the street-outlook rapping discreetly at the gate. Samuel,
hastening at the call, found the watcher holding by the hand a young boy
who cried bitterly.

"The poor little fellow has lost his way," said the lookout, passing the
boy in to Samuel. "I found him sitting down there by the buttress of the
gate, sobbing. You would better keep him with you for the night, and
to-morrow, in the daylight, he can be taken back to his folks--if you
can find out from him where he lives."

Touched by the child's grief, Samuel took him into the lower room and
both he and Bathsheba bent all their energies toward quieting him. The
boy seemed to be about nine or ten years old. He was poorly clad, and of
a wan and ailing appearance. His face presented none of the smiling
prettiness usual with children of his age. His peaked features, his
sickly and cadaverous pallor, his thin, pale lips, his sly and shifty,
yet keen and observing glance--revealing a precocious cleverness--in
fine, something low, mean and crafty in the look of the boy would, no
doubt, have inspired aversion rather than sympathy in the breasts of the
couple were it not for the cruel desertion of which he seemed the
victim. Hardly had he entered the room when he dropped to his knees,
crossed himself, and clasping his hands exclaimed through his tears:

"Blessed be You, Lord God, for having pitied Your little servant and led
him to this good sir and this good lady. Save them a place in Your
paradise!"

Dragging himself on his knees toward the Jew and his wife, the urchin
kissed their hands effusively and with far too great a flood of
gratitude for sincerity. Bathsheba took him on her knees, and said to
him as she wiped his tear-stained face, "Don't cry, poor little one.
We'll take care of you to-night, and to-morrow we'll take you home. But
where do you live, and what is your name?"

"My name is Claude Rodin," answered the child; and he added, with a
monstrous sigh, "The good God has been merciful to my parents, and took
them to His holy paradise."

"Poor dear creature," answered Samuel, "you are, then, an orphan?"

"Alas, yes, good sir! My dear dead father used to be holy water
dispenser at the Church of St. Medard. My dear dead mother used to rent
out chairs in the same parish. They are now both with the angels; they
are walking with the blessed saints."

"And where do you live, my poor child?"

"With Monsieur the Abbot Morlet, my good lady; a holy man of God, and my
kind god-father."

"But how did it happen, my child, that you went astray at this late hour
of the night?" asked Samuel. "You must have left home all alone?"

"Just after benediction," answered little Rodin, crossing himself
devoutly, "Monsieur the Abbot, my good god-father, took me to walk with
him in the Place Royale. There were a lot of people gathered around some
mountebanks. I sinned!" cried the boy, beating his chest in contrition,
"the Lord God punished me. It is my fault--my fault--my very great
fault! Will God ever forgive me my sin?"

"But what great sin did you commit?" questioned Bathsheba.

"Mountebanks are heretics, fallen, and destined for hell," answered
little Rodin, pressing his lips together with a wicked air, and striking
his breast again. "I sinned, hideously sinned, in watching the games of
those reprobates. The Lord God punished me by separating me from my good
god-father. The swaying of the crowd carried him away from me. No use to
look for him! No use to call him! It was impossible to find him. It was
my very great fault!"

"And how did you get here from the Place Royale? The two points are far
apart."

"Having said my prayers, both mental and oral, several times, in order
to call to my aid the divine pity," replied Rodin emphatically and with
an air of beatitude, "I started out to find my way home, away down at
the end of the Roule suburb, near the Folie-Beaujon."

"Poor child," interrupted Bathsheba. "More than a league to travel! How
I pity the dear child. Go on with your story," she said to him.

"It is a long way, true enough," added Samuel, "but all he had to do was
to follow the boulevards. How did you come to lose the road?"

"A worthy gentleman, of whom I inquired the way, told me I would reach
home quicker by taking another street. I walked all evening, but all I
did was to get lost. The wrath of the Lord pursued me!" After sighing
and beating his breast again, little Rodin continued: "Then, at last,
passing your house, I felt so tired, so tired, that I fell on your
door-step from weariness, and prayed the good God to come to my help. He
deigned to hear the prayer of His little servant, and so you came to
pity me, my good sir and lady. May God receive you in heaven!"

"You shall spend the night here, dear child, and to-morrow we will take
you back to your god-father--so don't weep any more."

"Alas, good sir, the holy man will be so anxious! He will think me
lost!"

"It is impossible now to calm his anxiety. But are you hungry or
thirsty? Will you have something to eat or drink?"

"No, good mistress; only I'm terribly sleepy, and wish I could lie
down."

"I can well believe it," said Bathsheba, addressing her spouse; "after
such fatigue and worry, the little fellow must be worn out. It is only
natural that he should be dying to go to sleep."

"But where shall we put him? We are in a tight fix. We have but one
bed."

"Oh, good sir," eagerly broke in little Rodin, "don't put yourself out
for me. I shall sleep very well right there, if you will let me;" and
the boy indicated a re-enforced and brass-bound chest which his keen eye
had spied, and which formed a seat at the further end of the room. "That
will do me, very well."

"I never thought of the chest," remarked Samuel. "The boy is right. At
his age one sleeps anywhere. With plenty of warm covering he will pass
the night there almost as comfortably as in his own bed. It all comes
out for the best."

"I'll go fetch a cushion and a cloak, and fix him up as well as
possible," added Bathsheba, leaving the room.

The boy sat down and huddled himself together as if unable to resist the
lassitude and sleep which weighed upon him. His head sank upon his
chest, and his eyes closed. But immediately peeping under his lids he
saw on the table close beside him pens, ink, and several sheets of
freshly written paper. It was Samuel's unfinished letter to Levi.

"I surely was inspired in asking to sleep here," murmured the boy,
aside; "let me recall without forgetting anything the orders of my good
god-father," he thought, as the Jew's wife returned with the makeshift
bedding she had gone in search of.

"Here, dear boy," she said, "I'll put you to bed and tuck you in well
from the cold."

Simulating a heavy sleep, the urchin did not stir.

"Poor creature--asleep already," said Bathsheba. "I'll have to carry
him." Lifting little Rodin in her arms she placed him on the chest,
while Samuel arranged the cushion under his head and covered him up
with the cloak. These cares completed, Samuel and his wife turned again
to the completion of the note to their cousin Levi; but his thoughts
having been disarranged by the frequent interruptions, Samuel asked his
wife to re-read the letter from the beginning, after which he finished
it, while the young boy was seemingly sound asleep.

Bathsheba had just taken down the last of her husband's dictation when
suddenly another rap resounded at the gate.

"Samuel," cried the Jewess, pale and trembling, "that time the watcher
gave the alarm signal."

Samuel went to the gate, opened the wicket and asked the lookout:

"What is up?"

"For nearly quarter of an hour I have remarked two men, closely wrapped
in their cloaks, who came in from St. Gervais Street, and halted at the
corner of the garden wall. They examined the house minutely. Immediately
I fell on one of the stone benches in the dark passageway and pretended
to be asleep. Two or three times they passed by without noticing me;
they kept walking up and down, now examining the exterior of the
building, now conversing in low tones. Finally they saw me, and said
aloud--'There is a wine-bibber sleeping himself sober.' They walked once
more to some distance; then returning towards me, I heard them utter
these words: 'And now, let us report to the sergeant.' They quickened
their steps and vanished around the corner of St. Francois Street. Now
you are warned, Master Samuel."

"When you first observed them, was anyone within?" asked Samuel. "Are
you sure of that, lookout?"

"No one--except the child I brought to you, and whom you took in
yourself."

"These two men must be attached to the police, since they intended to go
straight to the sergeant; could their suspicions as to what went on here
have been awakened by their observations to-night?"

"There was no one in the street while our brothers were arriving. I am
sure of it; I kept good and sure guard."

"The suspicions of these fellows must, then, date from further back than
this evening. But, in that case, at the first suspicion of one of his
agents, the Lieutenant of Police would have had the house turned
topsy-turvy by his searchers. There is something inexplicable in the
conduct of these men. However, if they guessed that you were not really
asleep, but could hear, I believe they would have enjoyed giving you a
false scare. But then, to what purpose? No matter, forewarned is
forearmed. Maintain your watch, and the instant you get sight or sound
of the police sergeant, notify me with the usual signal."

Samuel thereupon ran to the green-house and gave the alarm, which,
repeated by the Voyant on guard at the door of the temple, was the
signal for the dispersal of the meeting. Then the Jew returned to the
room where his wife awaited him.

"Well, my friend," asked Bathsheba hurriedly in an undertone, and unable
to control her anxiety, "what is going on?"

"The danger is not imminent. Nevertheless, I have just warned our
brothers to leave the temple by the two secret issues. The flag-stone
which masks the descent under the hot-house will be replaced, for the
police spies were watching the house. They will cause it to be searched,
they must be able to discover nothing, and our friends must have time to
escape. Reassure yourself, my dear wife; we run not the slightest
danger."

"Lower, my friend, lower, lest you wake the child," cautioned Bathsheba,
indicating little Rodin, who seemed to be still sound asleep, although
his eyelids were imperceptibly winking. "Oh, may the alarms of this
night be vain, and may all danger escape you!"

"Dear wife, let us trust to Providence. It inspired me to write that
letter to our cousin Levi, and now, whatever may come, I am prepared.
The sacred mission bequeathed to us by my grandfather will be fulfilled,
and I shall have saved the heritage of Monsieur Marius Rennepont."

"First--a movable flag conceals the descent under the green-house.
Second--this renegade of a Jew is going to safeguard the fortune of a
certain Marius Rennepont," recited little Rodin to himself, not having
lost a word of the conversation between Samuel and his wife. "Oh, now, I
mustn't forget that name, nor the two secret exits of the _temple_, nor
the movable flag-stone of the green-house--nor a lot of other things!"

The alarm given by the lookout proved premature, for neither the
sergeant of police nor his men appeared on the scene that night to
ransack the house in St. Francois Street.




CHAPTER V.

COUNT AND JESUIT.


More than four months had elapsed since the night on which Victoria
Lebrenn was received into the society of the Illuminati, and on which
little Rodin, with froward slyness, had penetrated the secrets of the
Jew Samuel, the guardian of the Rennepont fortune. In short, it was the
night of July 13, 1789.

The Plouernel mansion, in the suburb of St. Germain, had been built, in
the beginning of the Seventeenth Century, by the order of Raoul of
Plouernel, peer and Marshal of France, and ambassador to Spain. This
seigneur, residing habitually at Versailles or at Paris, left to his
stewards and bailiffs the administration of his domains in Auvergne,
Beauvoisis, and Brittany. He never visited his country seat of
Plouernel, devastated at the time of the Breton uprising.[5] Marshal
Plouernel had had transported to his establishment in Paris all his
family portraits, the oldest of which represented Neroweg, the leude of
Clovis and count of the country of Auvergne. These portraits now adorned
one of the halls of the Plouernel mansion; among them was one draped in
black crepe, in token of mourning. The effigy hidden beneath the veil of
black was that of Colonel Plouernel, traitor, according to the
traditions of the monarchy, to his faith and to his King.

The first lackey of the Count of Plouernel, named Lorrain, the same who
some months previously had carried the missive to Samuel the Jew, was
showing into the Hall of the Portraits Abbot Morlet, of the Society of
Jesus, a holy man of God and god-father to little Rodin, who, in fact,
resembled him so closely as to be taken with reason for his son rather
than his god-son. The Abbot was about forty years of age, clad in black,
of middle height, weazened and nervous, with a fleshless, almost bald
forehead over which fell a few straggling hairs of tawny yellow. His
physiognomy, evil, insidious or beaming in turn, was above all
remarkable for its caustic smile and its half-veiled glance, resembling
that of a serpent. The Abbot was agitated, uneasy; he said to the lackey
who introduced him:

"Announce me to your master without delay."

"Monsieur Abbot," respectfully answered Lorrain, "my lord will not keep
you waiting an instant. His valets are just completing his toilet."

"His toilet!" exploded the Abbot. "To be thinking of such trifles--he
must be out of his head!"

Then pausing a moment and recalling the air of preparation and the
brilliant lighting of the parlors he had passed through on the ground
floor, he added:

"The Count seems to be expecting a large company?"

"My lord is giving a grand supper."

"How is it that the agitation prevailing in Paris since day before
yesterday and up to this very night does not compel the Count to be at
the head of his regiment of the Guards?"

"Monsieur the Abbot is unaware that my lord journeyed this morning to
Versailles to hand in his resignation, and to surrender the command of
his regiment."

"To surrender the command of his regiment!" echoed the Jesuit,
stupefied, and as if he could not believe what he heard. "What--"

At that moment Lorrain left the hall, walking backward as his master
entered.

Count Gaston of Plouernel had reached at this time his thirtieth year.
The facial traits of his Germanic ancestry were reproduced in him. The
whole effect of his person was one of audacity, haughtiness and
arrogance. He presented the accepted type of the great seigneur of his
time, and wore with grace his costume of plain blue cloth of Tours,
spangled with silver and embroidered in gold. His taffeta vest was half
lost to view under the billows of Alencon point lace which formed his
shirt frill and rivalled for costly workmanship the flowing ruffles of
his cuffs. His red-heeled shoes were fastened with diamond buckles.
Diamonds also glittered in the hilt of his small-sword, which he wore
ostentatiously slung under one of the tails of his coat.

At the sight of Abbot Morlet the Count seemed greatly surprised. He
cordially extended to him his hand, however, saying:

"Well! good day, holy Father. What good wind blows you to us? I thought
you at this time still a hundred leagues from Paris!"

"I just got in, and after attending to some indispensable duties,
hurried over to you, to communicate to you, my dear Count--to you, one
of the leaders of the court party--important information I had picked up
during my trip through several of our provinces. Judge of my surprise!
When I arrived here, I learned from your first lackey--that you had this
very day given up the command of your regiment. That's the way of it.
The monarchy, the nobility, the clergy, are attacked as they never have
been through the worst days of our history. And it is at such an hour
that you, one of the greatest lords of France, you, a man of spirit and
of courage, sheath your sword--at this hour when the battle is engaged
with the Third Estate! Ah, Count, if you did not belong to the house of
Plouernel, I would say that you were a coward and a traitor. But, as you
are neither coward nor traitor, I shall make bold to say that you are a
madman."

"On the contrary, my dear Abbot, never have I acted more wisely. Never
have I more studiously served our cause, or proven better my signal
devotion, not to the King--his weakness revolts me--but to the Queen, to
royalty!"

"So, you have judged it wise and politic to abandon the command of your
regiment in our present circumstances? Is it for me, only to-day
arrived, to have to inform you that Paris is laboring under the greatest
excitement, and perhaps on the verge of a formidable insurrection?
Didn't I see them, on the other side of the Seine, beginning to throw up
their barricades? Didn't I meet on every street corner groups of
malcontents, harangued by caballers of the Third Estate?"

"That is all true, Abbot. We are drawing near the moment of a decisive
crisis. The fever of revolution has lasted since day before yesterday,
since Saturday, the 11th of July. The first act took place in the Palais
Royal,[6] when the recall of Necker became known to the public. A young
man named Camille Desmoulins stirred up the gullible clowns in the
gardens by crying out that the King was centering his troops on Paris,
with the purpose of dissolving the National Assembly, arresting the
leaders, and massacring the people of Paris. The most resolute of his
hearers cried _To arms! To the barricades!_ and suited the action to the
word. Bezenval, the military commander of Paris, informed of the tumult,
ordered the dragoons of the Marquis of Crussol to horse. The dragoons
sabered the rabble. But that only angered the populace, and the
agitation spread to the suburbs. A soldier of my command told the people
that several French Guards had been sent to the Abbey Prison; for you
must know, good Father, that insubordination had crept into my regiment.
I had sent the mutineers in irons to the Abbey to await the time to
administer to them the scourging they deserved, when the populace hurled
themselves against the prison, put to rout the sentries, and liberated
the mutinous Guards. The latter received as great an ovation as if they
had had the honor of being Monsieur Necker, or Monsieur Mirabeau!"

"This detestable spirit of rebellion is only too like that which infests
many of our provinces. But these saturnalia were, I hope, put down with
the greatest severity?"

"Not a whit, my dear Father. A King who pretends to the title of 'Father
of the people' does not punish them--or very little. What was the
result? The mildness of the reproof redoubled the rabble's audacity. The
success of the expedition against the Abbey whetted their appetite, and
they turned their attention to the prison of La Force, where they
delivered all the debtors. The insurrection growing more and more
serious, the Prince of Lambesc at length received orders from Marshal
Broglie, the new Minister of War, to mount his regiment, the Royal
Germans, and charge upon this impious populace, then excitedly huddled
in the garden of the Tuileries. At the same time I was ordered to bring
up my regiment, to support, if necessary, the cavalry of Lambesc."

"The French Guards commanded by a colonel like you, Count, should easily
mow down these rebels. And yet you abandon your command. Your conduct is
an enigma."

"On the contrary, nothing is more clear. Do you know the difference
between a German and a Frenchman?"

"What do you mean?"

"Picture to yourself a tribune of the cross-roads, an insolent droll
named Gonchon,[7] who never spoke of himself but in the third person,
come to harangue the German soldiers in the name of the brotherhood of
man. The German soldier, understanding nothing of that demagogic trash,
draws at the command of his colonel, and sabers both Gonchon and the
mob! That is what the dragoons of Lambesc did; that is what the cavalry
of Berchiny would have done gladly, and the cavalry of Esterhazy and of
Roemer, or the regiments of Desbach, of Salis, or the Royal Swiss."

"Good! That is the medicine for this canaille."

"But hardly had Lambesc and his horse sabered the rabble in the garden
of the Tuileries, when that very mob poured back into Louis XV Place,
where I had stationed myself at the head of my regiment in battle array.
I gave the order to fire on the ructious rabble. Murmurs broke out
among the soldiers in the ranks; some made answer, _We will not fire on
the people!_ I ordered the mutinous men to be seized and shot on the
spot. The murmurs grew louder. I repeated the order. Bang! Several
soldiers struck me in the face! Whole companies broke ranks, waving the
butts of their muskets in the air."

"Everything is lost if we cannot count on the army!" cried the Abbot in
dismay.

"You have said it, Abbot--unless the court party is resolved to serve
royalty to the exclusion of the King. In the face of the stand taken by
my men, there was nothing to do but march them back to their quarters.
This morning I repaired to Versailles, and on gaining an audience with
the King I pleaded with his Majesty to authorize me to call a
court-martial to judge and condemn to death within the hour about a
hundred soldiers and under-officers of my regiment, the ringleaders of
the revolt. After long consideration, his Majesty answered with a sour
air that 'if it was a matter of shooting a half dozen or so
insubordinates, he saw no great obstacle in the way, but that he would
not listen at all to any mass slaughters.' Thereupon the King crabbedly
turned his back on me, shrugged his shoulders, and took himself off to
his private apartments. That is why, my good Father, I have renounced my
command in the French Guards. But reassure yourself," he added, in
response to the dumbfounded look the Abbot wore. "I shall remain neither
passive nor idle. I hope to serve our cause more actively, and, without
contradiction, more usefully, now, than if I still were at the head of
my regiment."

"That assurance overwhelms me with joy, dear Count," cried the Abbot
"What are your plans?"

"First, I give to-night a supper, a convivial repast in which I bring
together the influential heads of the court party, for the purpose of
deciding on our final measures--presided over by the most remarkable and
adorable woman I have ever met."

The Jesuit gazed at Monsieur Plouernel in amaze, and answered: "Are you
speaking seriously? Are you really dreaming of having a political
meeting of such importance presided over by--a woman?"

"Your astonishment will cease, my dear Abbot, when you make the
acquaintance of Madam the Marchioness Aldini, a Venetian by birth, the
widow of Marquis Aldini, a great Florentine lord who left his wife an
immense fortune. The Marchioness has resided in Paris for now nearly a
month."

"You know the lady for only a month, and you dare initiate her into the
secrets of our party!"

"Oh, Abbot, the Marchioness is more of our party than we ourselves! A
patrician and a Catholic, she nurses an invincible horror for the
populace and for revolutions. We shall never have a more ardent
auxiliary than she. And then, she is
beautiful--seductive--irresistible!"

"And where did you meet this beautiful personage?"

"One day last month I received a note stamped with outraged pride. The
writer, Marchioness Aldini, addressed to me, as colonel of the Guards, a
complaint against the insolence of several of my soldiers, who had
beaten her lackeys. Struck with the lofty tone of the missive, I called
on the Marchioness, who was occupying the establishment of the Countess
of St. Megrin, now in England, and maintained there a house on the
grandest scale. One of the Marchioness's private valets introduced me to
her in her parlor. Ah, Abbot! at the sight of her I stood spellbound,
enchanted! The extreme beauty of the foreign dame, the fire of her
glance, the expression of her face, the perfection of her stature, the
complete admirableness of her person--all threw me into transports of
admiration." Abbot Morlet puckered his brow dubiously, and the colonel
continued: "In short, the Marchioness realized, she surpassed, an ideal
a hundred times dreamt of by me, wearied as I am of the flirtatious
beauties of the city and the court. What a difference, or rather what a
distance, separates them from the Marchioness! Pride of patrician blood,
resoluteness of character, ardor, impetuosity of passion, all were
legible in her countenance of a masculine paleness, in her look of
flame. Something imperious in her posture, something virile in the
accents of her tongue, gave to this extraordinary woman--none other like
her!--an irresistible charm;--for, before she had spoken a word, I felt
myself captured, enchained, bewitched."

"And the fascination grew and grew, if that is possible," put in the
Jesuit sardonically, "when this beautiful lady opened her mouth? The
siren took you by the eyes and by the ears. She greeted you, I presume,
in the most charming and gallant manner?"

"Not a bit of it! On the contrary, she greeted me with an air of
arrogance and irritation. She taxed me severely for the insolence of my
soldiers."

"But the tigress finished by turning sweet?"

"Yes, after the greatest protestations on my part, and my assurance that
I would chastise the guilty soldiers."

"The anger of the Marchioness being calmed, the interview, no doubt,
took a most tender turn?"

"We spoke of the affairs of the day."

"Strange, out of all whooping! A colonel of thirty, a man of the court,
besides, to speak decorously of the events of the day--with a beautiful
lady--and he so lusty elsewhere!"

"So it was, nevertheless, reverend Father. I never even thought, at that
first interview, of venturing upon the slightest word of gallantry, so
struck was I with the spirit of the Marchioness. Blue death! I was pale
with rage at hearing the Marchioness's bitter sarcasms. I should have
been glad--may God blast me!--to put myself at the head of my regiment
and shoot down all the bourgeois in the States General."

"This retrospective zeal flows from an excellent sentiment; and I know
not how sufficiently to applaud the beautiful Venetian for having
aroused that sentiment in you. Strongly do I approve the belle's
sarcasms, her scorn for the ranters of the Third Estate, and the
populace which supports them. Still, methinks it is very surprising that
a stranger should interest herself so warmly in our affairs," added the
Jesuit thoughtfully.

Without a pause, the priest continued: "Tell me, Count--Have you dealt
out the punishment to the insolent soldiers who beat the lackeys of
Madam the Marchioness?"

"It was impossible to discover them."

"And she hasn't asked you for an account of their punishment? Strange!
Do you know what I think, Count? The outrage was an imaginary one. It
was the Marchioness's pretext to secure a first interview with you."

"Come, Abbot, you are insane! For what reason should she have sought to
inveigle me into an interview?"

"I'll tell you, Count, for I foresee the end of this adventure. You
returned often to visit the Marchioness? You became enamored of her? And
soon the beautiful Venetian, answering your passion, granted you the
boon of love for thanks--after having wheedled out of you all our
party's closest secrets."

"You are mistaken, holy Father. On the faith of a gentleman, the
Marchioness loves me as passionately as I love her; but she has placed
certain conditions on her favors."

"And what may the conditions be with which she has hedged about her
bounty?"

"A struggle to the death against the revolution; the exaltation of
royalty, of the privileges of the nobility and the Church; the
extermination of our enemies. Only on these conditions, Abbot, shall my
love receive its sweetest recompense."

"Count," cried the Jesuit after a moment's silence, "you are only twenty
years old! What am I saying? You are barely sixteen--you are still at
the age of innocence and childlike credulity. You have been blindfolded,
duped, made game of, tossed in a blanket, like the most artless of young
fellows! Oh, the women! And you think yourself a Lovelace, a
lady-killer, my poor Count! And you presume to play a role in the
politics of the court!"

"Monsieur Abbot Morlet, familiarity has its limits--do not oblige me to
recall the fact to you any more forcibly!" exclaimed Monsieur Plouernel,
flaring into a rage. Then, calming himself with an effort, he
continued, sarcastically: "It suits you ill indeed, my reverend sir, to
twit me on the empire exercised over me by women. Has no woman ever
reigned over you? Could not the record of the vestry tell of a fertile
gossip, the hirer-out of chairs at the Church of St. Medard, and widow
of Goodman Rodin, the dispenser of holy water in the same parish? Your
mistress is the mother of that little Rodin whom you brought here one
day last year!"

Unmoved by the raillery of Monsieur Plouernel, the Jesuit replied:

"Your sarcasm is in the last degree pleasant, and moreover, well to the
point, in that it furnishes me the occasion, Count, to give you an
excellent lesson. You need the bit, the bridle, and also the whip, my
fine gentleman."

"I am listening, reverend sir."

"Your love for fine ladies of irresistible beauty is capable of leading
you into the most mournful follies; while I, by reason of my love for my
gossip Rodin, shall be, I hope, able to prevent, and what is more, to
repair your insanities."

"This is getting curious, Abbot. Continue."

"About four months ago, about the beginning of April, at a late hour of
the night, a child, overcome with fatigue, fell on the doorstep of a
house in St. Francois Street, in the Swamp."

"St. Francois Street, in the Swamp! A rascal of a Jew, a skin-flint of a
usurer, lives there. You know him, Abbot? He does business with the
clergy too?"

"It was at the door of that very house that the child sank down with
weariness, crying and shivering. The Jew, out of the pity of his heart,
took in the little fellow, who, he supposed, had lost his way. Then,
succumbing to fatigue and drowsiness, the lad fell asleep on a bench in
the room in which the Jew and his wife were conversing."

"Bless my heart, holy Father! Your voice is trembling, your nose is
growing red, your look is softening, and your eye grows moist! That
infant gifted with so precocious an intelligence, that prodigy, surely
can be no other than little Rodin, your god-son! Honor to you, Abbot,
and to your gossip! You have performed a prodigy, like the Virgin Mary
with the Holy Ghost!"

"Throughout, the little fellow lost not a word of the conversation
between the Jew and his wife; and thanks to a false alarm, adroitly
given without by one of our brothers and myself, my god-son, in the
course of his feigned sleep, surprised two secrets of inestimable import
for the welfare of religion and the nobility. You shall judge--"

"You are deceiving yourself, Abbot, in trying to make me believe that
from the chatter of a miserable Jew and his wife, a chatter surprised by
an urchin, secrets of such importance can be won."

"Count--what do you think of a fortune of nearly 220 millions of francs?
Isn't it a magnificent sum? If these 220 millions should pass into the
possession of a party religious, able, tireless, blessed with cleverness
and boldness, would they not become a lever of immense power? Again,
suppose there were a mysterious sect, the object of which was the
annihilation of the Catholic Church, the overthrow of thrones, the
abolition of the privileges of birth and of fortune; suppose that sect
extended its ramifications throughout all Europe, that it counted in its
ranks classes the most diversified in society, from the lowest to the
highest, and that some of them were even of kingly rank; suppose that
association had at its disposal a considerable treasure; suppose its
masters, men and women, to be capable of assuming, at need, any mask,
any role; that, thanks to their specious masquerade, they introduced
themselves among the royalists, and fathomed the secrets of our
party;--then, Count, what would you think of the discovery of that sect?
Would it not be of the primest importance? What say you?"

"Surely; but only if the pretended sect existed. Come, holy Father, it
is with surprise and regret that I see a man of your good sense fall
into the net of these absurd fables about the Voyants of France, the
Illuminati of Germany, and other fish-yarns, veritable Mother Goose
tales!"

"If I prove to you the existence of this society--if I show you the
place where their leaders meet, will you admit that the revealer of the
secret has rendered a signal service to the throne and the altar? Well,
Count, compare now the results of your mad-cap passion for the beautiful
foreign Marchioness, with the consequences of what you term my love for
my gossip Rodin. According to you, my god-son is one of the visible and
carnal outcomes of that love; if so I owe to the wily youngster
first--the discovery of a treasure which should some day reach more than
200 millions, on the trail of which our Society of Jesus has been for
over a century; and, second--the unearthing of a den of Voyants."




CHAPTER VI.

ROYALISTS AT BANQUET.


The answer which the Count of Plouernel was about to make to his friend
the Jesuit was interrupted by the arrival of several of his convivial
friends of the court party--dukes, marquises, canons, and archbishops.
Among them was the Viscount of Mirabeau, nicknamed, by reason of his
portly front and the quantity of liquor he could contain, "Barrel
Mirabeau." He was an infantry colonel, and younger brother to the famous
orator of the Third Estate. He seemed to be in great heat, and cried in
a loud voice to Monsieur Plouernel:

"Good evening, my dear Count. Devil take this infamous town of Paris and
its Parisians! Long live Versailles, the true capital of France."

"Whence all this anger, Viscount?"

"Anger! Allow me to inform you that just now this vile populace, which
to-night overflows in all the streets, had the impudence to stop my
carriage on the Louis XV Bridge. By God's death, I shall punish these
people!"

"What did you say to the insolent creatures?"

"I was treating this fraction of the 'sovereign people' like the abject
rabble that they are, when my lackey, trembling like a hare, and hoping
to secure our release, conceived the infernal idea of calling out to the
beggars 'Make way, there, if you please, for the carriage of Monsieur
Mirabeau!' Immediately the tempest turned to a zephyr, and the stupid
people made way for me, to cries of 'Long live Mirabeau!'"

"They must have taken you for your brother!"

"Death and fury! It is but too true! I shall never forgive my brother
that insult!"

"Calm yourself, Viscount; but yet a few days and that filthy populace
will be clouted back into the mire where it belongs."

"Her Excellency, Marchioness Aldini," loudly announced one of
Plouernel's valets at that moment, swinging back both sides of the great
door of the parlor, into which he introduced--Victoria Lebrenn under her
borrowed name and title.

The friends of Monsieur Plouernel thus beheld Marchioness Aldini for the
first time. All were struck with astonishment at her beauty, heightened
as it was by the splendor of her toilet. For Victoria now wore a
trailing robe of poppy- cloth of Tours, trimmed with black lace.
The cut of her corsage left bare her arms, shoulders and the rise of her
breast, which seemed sculptured in the purest marble. Her black hair was
not buried, as was the custom of the time, under a layer of white
powder, but, glowing with the luster of ebony, and rolled in thick and
numerous ringlets around her head, majestically crowned her brow. A
triple string of Venetian sequins served both as diadem and collar.
Nothing can give an adequate idea of the effect of this original mode,
at once elegant and severe, which was still more remarkable in that it
differed completely from the pomponned attires of the period, and
harmonized marvellously with Victoria's own cast of beauty.

Plouernel's friends, seized with admiration, were for a moment
speechless. Every look was fastened on the foreign dame;--even Abbot
Morlet experienced the fascination, and said to himself as he gazed at
her:

"I can understand how the Count is mad over her. The danger is greater
than I suspected. She is a very siren."

Of all Plouernel's assembled friends, the Abbot was the only one to
penetrate the true nature of Victoria's beauty. Her pallor, her flashing
black eyes, her bitter and sardonic smile, gave to her face an
indefinable somberness, which was in accord with the severity of her
costume of red, black and gold.

Soon the voice of Monsieur Plouernel's chief butler was heard,
announcing that supper was served. The Count offered his arm to
Victoria, to lead her into the capacious dining room. Walls of white
plaster were relieved by gilded moldings which framed large panels
frescoed with birds, fruits and flowers. A splendid silver service was
laid out on the table, along with a brilliantly  set of Sevres
china. On the burnished surface of the silver glittered the glow of
rose- candles, held in candelabra of vermilion. The banqueters
took their seats about the table. The Count, who had escorted Victoria
to a place beside himself, opened the feast.

"Permit me, my friends," he said, "to follow a custom recently
introduced from England into France, and to propose a first toast to
Madam the Marchioness Aldini, who has deigned to accept my invitation to
supper." The Count rose, glass in hand--"To Madam the Marchioness
Aldini!"

The whole company, following the Count's example, rose in their places;
holding their glasses in their out-stretched hands, they repeated:

"To Madam the Marchioness Aldini!"

Draining their glasses, they resumed their seats.

Victoria in her turn rose. After a moment's pause she replied:

"In response to the courtesy of Monsieur the Count of Plouernel, and of
yourselves, my lords prelates, and gentlemen, I propose with my heart
and with my lips a toast to the Church, to the monarchy, and to the
nobility,--and to the extermination of revolutionists, of whatever
rank."

With these words Victoria moistened her lips in the wine which filled
her glass, while Plouernel's friends, transported by the words of the
young woman, repeated in ecstasy, to the music of their clinking
glasses--

"To the Church! To the King! To the nobility! To the extermination of
the revolutionists!"

The roisterers sat down; even Abbot Morlet muttered to himself, "Ah, if
the Marchioness is sincere, what an ally we should have in her! What a
magic effect the energy of her words produced on these foppish
gentlemen, and on these brainless and imprudent prelates, imbeciles who
don't even know how to cloak their vices under their sacred robes!"

Victoria, who had been cautiously watching the Jesuit, replied to his
thought in her own mind: "That priest with the cadaverous mask keeps his
snaky looks ever fastened on me. He alone, of all this company, seems to
mistrust me. We must redouble our care and boldness--the game is on."

Meanwhile a Cardinal was puzzling over something, and thinking to
himself: "Where did I meet that beautiful Marchioness, or at least a
girl who much resembled her? Ah! I remember! It was in the little house
where the Dubois woman kept her nymphs, in the King's 'Doe Park,' as he
called it, near Versailles. Come, come, that must be an
illusion--although, that Italian lord, Aldini, not knowing the
antecedents of the old inmate of the Dubois house, might well have left
her his name, his title, and all. But let us look into things a bit
before we pass a rash judgment."

The Viscount of Mirabeau was the first to speak aloud. "Madam the
Marchioness," he said, "has pledged us a toast to the death of the
revolutionists of all ranks and conditions. I understand how a
bourgeois, or a peasant, can be a revolutionary; but I can not admit
that princes, nobles, or clericals would train with that breed."

"All revolutionists are fit for the noose," retorted a Duke. "But the
opinions of the groundlings may be explained by their desire to shake
off the yoke. The people is at the end of its patience; it is kicking
the traces; it rebels."

"You speak words of gold, my dear Duke," answered young Mirabeau. "We
shall hang them all, and we shall show ourselves without pity for those
pretended revolutionists, Orleans, Talleyrand, Lafayette, and my
unworthy brother Mirabeau, who has brought dishonor upon our house."

"No, no pity for traitors, to whatever class they belong--nobles,
clergy, or bourgeoisie," cried the Count of Plouernel.

"On the day of reckoning," echoed the Cardinal, "these felons shall all
be hanged, high and low alike."

"They shall all be hanged at the same height--on their own principle of
equality!" added a young Marquis, laughing.

Victoria cut short his laugh. "By the blood of Christ," she cried, "is
there not in France a revolutionist a hundred times more damnable than
the gentlemen, the bishops, and even than the princes of the blood who
league themselves with the revolution--I would say, the most guilty?"

Surprise fell upon the company. Finally the Count of Plouernel stammered
out: "What! Who is that revolutionist--more highly situated, according
to you, than gentlemen or bishops--or even princes of the blood?"

"The King, Louis XVI!"

Again silence and stupefaction fell upon the thunder-struck banqueters.
Some exchanged frightened glances. Others, deep in thought, sought for
the key to the enigma. The rest stared at Victoria with anxious
curiosity. Abbot Morlet alone said to himself: "Aha! I catch the woman's
trend."

"How, Marchioness," fumbled Plouernel, "according to you--the
King--would be--a revolutionist--and so cut out for the gibbet?"

"What was your motive, Count, for giving up your commission as colonel
in the French Guards?" returned Victoria, unmoved.

"As I wrote you, Marchioness, I surrendered the command of my regiment
because the King refused to authorize the severity which alone, to me,
seems capable of re-establishing discipline among my soldiers and
preventing them from becoming the allies of the revolution."

"And yet you are astonished when I pronounce the name of the accomplice
of the revolutionists! I denounce the King, Louis XVI."

"You are a woman of genius, madam," acclaimed the Viscount of Mirabeau
warmly. "You justly signalize one of the causes of the revolution. Honor
to you, madam."

"I have no right to these praises, Viscount. I am a woman whom God has
dowered with some little good sense, that is all. I am a patrician and a
Catholic."

"Nevertheless, Madam Marchioness," interposed the Duke who had spoken
before, "it seems to me hazardous to pretend that the King, our Sire, is
a revolutionist. In truth, it is pursuing the metaphor to its extreme
limits. I should hesitate to follow you upon that ground."

Here the Marquis broke in again with his irrepressible laugh, saying:
"On one side the revolutionary King--on the other the 'sovereign
people.' What a comicality! What a mess!"

Victoria continued: "King Louis XVI is the first, the most damnable of
revolutionists. Neither grace nor pity for the guilty! What I say, I
maintain; I shall prove it. I shall essay to rouse in you all
remorse--for you represent here the nobility, the clergy, and the world
of money, and you are nearly as responsible as the King. I shall soon
make it clear to you."

"By the life of God, Marchioness, I am of your opinion," echoed the
Viscount of Mirabeau. "Six months ago the nobility should have saddled
its horses, and, whether the King consented or no, ridden against the
revolution and put every peasant to the saber."

"Six months ago the curates should have stirred themselves, roused their
parishes to the sound of the tocsin, and put arms into their hands.
They also will have to enter the fight," quoth Abbot Morlet, speaking
aloud for the first time since the beginning of the banquet.

"We understand each other, Monsieur Abbot," answered Victoria; and then
to Mirabeau: "We judge the situation alike, Monsieur Viscount--the
moment calls for a general and armed uprising."

"But we who are less keen-sighted," objected the Duke, "we confess the
weakness of our prevision; we reject your conclusions."

"We are the three ninnies--the Duke, the Cardinal and I," put in the
Marquis, cracking another joke.

"Decidedly," observed the Cardinal aside to himself. "I was the dupe of
an accidental resemblance. This patrician Marchioness has nothing in
common with the lovely nymph of the Dubois woman's lupanar."

Victoria began her proof: "Is not Louis XVI the worst of the
revolutionists? Judge! On May 5th of this year, 1789, did he not convene
the States General, instead of summoning to Versailles 25,000 men whom
he had under his hand, led by resolute heads? At that time the
revolution, hardly hatched, could have been stamped into oblivion. I am
willing to excuse him for that mistake, but here is one more serious:
The States General convened the 5th of May. The majority of the nobility
and the clergy attempted to hold their deliberations by Order, and
refused to mingle with the bourgeois for the examination of credentials.
The Third Estate insisted, and upon a new refusal of the nobles and
clergy, left the hall. At length the deputies of the communes had the
insolence to declare themselves, on the 17th of June, the National
Assembly, in the name of the pretended sovereignty of the people. They
arrogated to themselves the right to vote the taxes, and declared that
if the royal authority should order them to dissolve, they would not be
responsible for the outcome. Did not the King tolerate all these
audacities?"

"'Tis true," acquiesced the Viscount of Mirabeau. "It all passed before
our eyes, at Versailles."

"That is the second crime I impute to the King," Victoria continued.
"Louis XVI could still have crushed out in its cradle this rising
rebellion, scattered by force this handful of malcontents--"

"That has been tried, madam, by us of the court party," interposed the
Duke. "We induced his Majesty to allow the seats of the Assembly to be
occupied by troops. On the morning of the 19th of June these so-called
Representatives of the people found the corridors of their chamber
occupied by two companies of grenadiers, with loaded muskets."

"Yes," put in the Marquis bitterly, "the King had the cleverness on that
occasion to commit what was, from the point of view of the
revolutionists, an assault upon the National Assembly, by allowing their
meeting place to be invaded by the troops; and at the same time to
perpetrate a new assault against royalty by not preventing the rebels
from reuniting in the Tennis Court at Versailles; mistakes, mistakes,
ever more mistakes."

"All this is conclusive evidence," chimed in Barrel Mirabeau. "This
unfortunate King seems to be infatuated with folly."

"Either brace up foolish Kings or suppress them--else look out for the
safety of the monarchy, Monsieur Viscount," replied Victoria.

"Thanks to God," went on a cavalry officer at the other end of the
table, "thanks to God the King's brother, Monseigneur the Count of
Provence, rose to the emergency. At this vexatious juncture the prince
took an energetic step. Without even asking the King, he hired the
Tennis Court for a whole month!"

Victoria broke out into a peal of grim and mocking laughter. "There is a
party leader," she said, "of great bravery and great wisdom! One need go
into no ecstasies over his courage!"

"Madam the Marchioness is right," chimed in the Viscount of Mirabeau
again. "This measure had no other effect upon the rebels than to cause
them, the next day, to instal themselves in the Church of St. Louis."

"And then the clergy, or at least a part of the clergy, committed
another imbecility--they rallied to the Third Estate. The shaven-heads
have their share of responsibility in all this," said the Count of
Plouernel.

"The high clergy protested, against this treason, the blame of which
should be thrown on the curates of the country districts," declared the
Cardinal in self-defense.

"Monsieur the Cardinal is in error!" it was the harsh voice of Abbot
Morlet that broke in. "That fraction of the clergy which went over to
the Third Estate displayed great political sense. The low clergy did
just what they should have done."

"Peace, Abbot, peace there!" cried the Cardinal in accents of sovereign
scorn. "You are talking nonsense, my dear sir!"

"I maintain what I stated--'tis but little I care for the approbation of
Monsieur the Cardinal," snapped Morlet.

"What's that you say, Abbot?" flashed back the Cardinal in great
irritation. "Measure your words!"

"I wish to talk with reasonable men," returned Morlet, impassibly. "This
is addressed to you, gentlemen. The royal power having tolerated the
existence of this Assembly of malcontents, the clergy, both high and
low, should have seized upon the fact, and turned it to its own
advantage. By the simple means of choosing its best men, and joining
them to the Third Estate, it would then have been able at need to stand
in with revolutionary motions, in order to drive the dissatisfied
element to the last extremes in the paroxysms of their rage."

"Monsieur the Abbot is a profound politician; he is in the right of the
matter," assented Victoria.

"At the risk of contradicting you, Madam the Marchioness," objected the
Cardinal passionately, "I must declare that the Abbot has only once more
exhibited the evil spirit of the Society of Jesus, which has always been
a veritable pest to the Church. Our holy mother were well rid of that
abominable, execrable society!"

"So the priest is a Jesuit!" thought Victoria to herself, a light
dawning upon her.

"The true pest of the Church," retorted Abbot Morlet, "has always been
clad in the purple--cardinals and prelates, nearly all sots, imbeciles
and peacocks!"

"The impudence of this priestlet, this scoundrel, this hypocrite!" the
Cardinal cried in a fury. "Out of here with the insolent fellow!"

"By the blood of Christ," interjected Victoria quickly, addressing the
two churchmen, "is this the hour for discord and recrimination? Do you
forget, your Eminence, and you, Monsieur Abbot, that at this moment the
safety of the Church depends upon the unity of her defenders?"

All the company, with the sole exceptions of the Cardinal and the Abbot,
took up the word: "'Tis true--'tis evident! Let us not forget. Let us
remain united for the conflict!"

When the tumult had subsided, Victoria took up again her interrupted
discourse: "In casting a rapid glance over the past, I did not intend to
arouse suspicion among you or raise dissension. In pointing out the
faults committed, I wished only to forewarn you against similar errors,
and to show you how to escape new mistakes. Please, then, to give me
your attention a few minutes longer: The session in the Tennis Court was
a brutal challenge hurled in the teeth of royalty. The Queen, who is a
woman of valor, understood it; she pressed the King to take energetic
measures, and pledged him to have the National Assembly dissolved by
force. Louis XVI submitted to the influence of the Queen; on the 28th of
June he went into the heart of the Assembly, surrounded by his guards,
and through his chancellor ordered the deputies to disperse, abolished
their decrees, and annulled their deliberations. He acted the part of a
sovereign."

"His Majesty indeed displayed great courage that day, and many of the
deputies of the nobility and the clergy applauded the act of dissolution
and immediately left the chamber," declared the Duke.

"The King," assented Victoria sardonically, "his faithful nobles and his
faithful clergy left the hall. But they left the rebels behind them.
Then Abbot Sieyes sprang to the tribunal and cried 'Continue in session,
Representatives of the people! We are to-day what we were yesterday!'"

"But the King did not falter, thank God!" continued the Duke. "His
Majesty commanded the Marquis of Breze to convey to the malcontents his
orders to disperse."

"Shame and misfortune!" exclaimed the Viscount of Mirabeau. "It was my
own brother who then answered Breze, 'Go and say to your master who sent
you, that we are here by the will of the people, and that we shall never
quit this hall save by force of bayonets!'"

"Very well, Monsieur Viscount! Your brother pointed out to the royal
power its means of safety--_force of bayonets_," answered Victoria. "By
the blood of Christ, what did Louis XVI do to restore the rebels to
their senses? Absolutely nothing. Then the latter, encouraged by their
immunity from punishment, declared, in their next session, the
inviolability of the National Assembly."

"Alas, it was upon the motion of my abominable brother that that
declaration was carried! God's blood, I think I could have turned
fratricide at the moment," declared Barrel Mirabeau.

"Your house was not the only one to tremble at such felony," Victoria
replied. "Did not nearly all the deputies of the nobility, even the most
hostile to the revolution, rally around the Third Estate, dragging with
them all the clericals?"

"Should the members of the nobility, then, Madam Marchioness," objected
the Duke, "because the monarchy showed weakness, have abandoned it
without attempting to defend it from within the Assembly? No, certainly
not."

"Sir Duke," replied Victoria, "the members of the nobility and of the
clergy who remained faithful to the throne were in the minority. What
could they do for the monarchy? Nothing. Their presence among the ranks
of the rebels served only to excuse the slips of the King, for then he
could respond with a show of reason, 'I can not dissolve an Assembly
which contains so great a number of my servants.'"

"Such was, in fact, the response made by his Majesty to the Queen when
she secured the recall of Necker and the appointment of a new minister
chosen by Monsieur Broglie. Nevertheless, with the assistance of the
Marshal, the monarchy will still prove able to overcome the revolution.
At least, that is my opinion," vouchsafed the Count of Plouernel.

"May God so will it," rejoined Victoria again. "But up till now the new
minister has done nothing but make mistakes--"

Victoria was interrupted by the entrance of one of the lackeys, whom
Plouernel had dismissed from the banquet hall in order that his guests
might discuss political affairs confidentially and in safety, who said:

"The steward, my lord, asks to see you immediately."

"Let him enter," said the Count; and as the lackey went to fetch him,
the host explained to his guests: "I charged my steward to send out
several of my men in disguise, in order to learn through them what was
going on in the several quarters of Paris."

"It is indeed very useful, in these days of effervescence," nodded
Victoria, "to keep closely informed on the state of affairs."

The steward entered, bowed humbly to the company, and took up his post
close by the door, like a servant awaiting orders.

"Well, Master Robert, what news?" demanded the Count. The company turned
around in their chairs and fixed their attention upon the new arrival.




CHAPTER VII.

NEWS FROM THE BARRICADES.


Pursuant to the Count's order, the steward, bowing again, proceeded with
his account of what he had learned.

"The news, alas, is very bad, my lord," he began. "One of our men has
just arrived from the suburb of St. Antoine. The streets are blocked
with barricades; they are forging pikes in the iron-mongers' and
blacksmiths' shops; the houses are all illuminated. People are carrying
up to the roofs of their dwellings beams and paving stones, to hurl down
upon the troops of his Majesty Louis XVI, whom may God protect! Women
and children are pouring musket balls and making cartridges. They have
pillaged the armorers' shops in the district. In short, the whole of
that impious plebs is swarming in the streets, screeching like the
damned, especially against her Majesty our good Queen, his Royal
Highness the Count of Artois, and their Holinesses our lords the Princes
of Conti and Conde."

"And what are the pretexts for these insolent cries and rebellious
preparations?" asked the Count.

"My lord, it is the word among this blasphemous people that the court is
plotting evil against the deputies of the Third Estate, and that his
Majesty our Sire--may God protect him--is preparing to march on Paris at
the head of fifty thousand troops, to deliver the suburbs to the
flames, blood, sack and pillage, and the girls and women to infamy!"

"The rabblement is at least aware of the punishment it deserves--and
will receive!" cried the younger Mirabeau.

"What is the feeling in the other quarters," queried the Count of
Plouernel. "Are they also, perchance, boiling over?"

"In the neighborhood of the St. Honore Gate the mob has invaded the
Garde-Meuble, or King's Storage-House, and seized the old arms they
found collected there. It is a pity, my lord; you can see tattered
brigands, in their bare feet, yet casqued and cuirassed, and with lances
in their fists. Such magnificent arms in such hands! What a
desecration!"

"Oh, the gallant cavaliers--armed cap-a-pie for the tourney!" cried the
Marquis, affecting laughter.

"Those among this awful horde who have bonnets on," continued the
steward, "have fastened in them cockades of green cloth or paper, as a
sign of hope. My lord, it is like a frenzy. Out in the open street the
scoundrels hug without knowing each other, and with tears in their eyes,
cry, like henhawks 'To arms, citizens! Down with tyranny! Long live
liberty! Long live the nation!'"

"But the other suburbs," pursued the Count. "Are they also wrought up
like this cursed suburb of St. Antoine?"

"Aye, my lord--unless it be the suburb of St. Marcel, which is almost
deserted. The evil creatures of that district, to the number of twenty
thousand, flocked to the City Hall during the day to demand arms. The
Provost of the merchants, Monsieur Flesselles, sent them to the
Lazarist monks. When the great band of beggars arrived at the holy
convent, the good and religious men made answer to them that Monsieur
Flesselles was making game of them, for never had a grain of powder or a
firearm found its way into the Convent of St. Lazare. Then these bandits
from St. Marcel broke out into threats of death against Monsieur
Flesselles, and being presently joined by another mob of rascals from
the suburb of St. Victor, they went off all together to the Hospital of
the Invalids in search of weapons."

"And were received, no doubt, with the gun-fire of the brave veterans
sheltered there?" said the Count.

"Alas, no! my lord. The pensioners made not the slightest resistance,
and the scoundrelly people fell into possession of more than thirty
thousand guns and several cannon."

"The veterans!" gasped the Viscount of Mirabeau. "They, old soldiers, to
give up their arms! Do we then face defection and treason on every side!
Very well! we shall hang and shoot the invalids, men and officers, to
the last one."

"Oh, the idea!" shouted the Marquis, with another burst of forced
laughter, "So now our bare-feet have thirty thousand guns--and some
cannon--which they don't know how to use!"

"You have nothing else to tell us?" said Plouernel to the steward.

"No, my lord."

"Then send our men out again for information. The instant they return,
come to me with what they have learned."

The steward bowed for the third time and withdrew. Upon the faces of the
convivial friends blank consternation reigned at the news he had
brought. They gazed at one another speechless.

"Do you know, gentlemen," at last spoke up the Cardinal, "that all this
is getting frightful? The very marrow in my bones is chilled."

"It is my opinion," the Duke answered, "that France will soon be no
longer habitable. We shall have to flee abroad."

"Come, come, my dear Duke," said the Count of Plouernel, "a few
regiments of infantry, supported by a piece of artillery or two, will
suffice to exterminate these upstarts. The French nobility will whip
them down. We shall unsheath our swords."

"I think the rabble will whip better troops than those, once they have
got the smell of gunpowder," said Abbot Morlet.

"You are talking nonsense, Abbot," replied Mirabeau. "It is impossible
that bare-footed ragamuffins, poorly armed, and without discipline,
should be victorious over seasoned troops. If it ever came to that pass,
I should snap my sword."

For the first time since the arrival of the momentous news, Victoria
spoke: "A traitorous King would prevent you from breaking it; he would
order you to return it to its scabbard."

"It is for us to have the courage to sacrifice the King to the safety of
the monarchy. We shall have all the brave ones--" Mirabeau began.

"By heaven!" interrupted the Duke, "this is serious, and requires
thought. Sacrifice the King!"

"What shall we do with the King?" questioned the Cardinal.

"In other times," replied Victoria, "they shut up do-nothing Kings in,
the depths of a cloister. Force Louis XVI to abdicate. The Dauphin is an
infant, you will constitute a council of regents, composed of men of
inflexibility. The shameless plebeians have too much blood; it will rise
to their heads and give them a false energy. Bleed them, bleed them
white, by repression and defeat. You have cannons and muskets; bombard
them--blow them back into the depths they sprung from!"

"Ah, Marchioness," answered Plouernel, "you are the terrible archangel
who with her flaming sword will defend the monarchy and nobility. You
are right. Safety lies in the abdication of the King and the formation
of an inflexible council of regents. The monarch must be eliminated."

"Your most dangerous enemy, Count of Plouernel," replied she, "is the
Third Estate! Has this bourgeoisie not told you, through Sieyes's organ,
that up till now it has been nothing, it _which ought to be everything_!
There is the enemy. The people, its intoxication once passed, will fall
back into its misery and abject submissiveness. Having cried its cry in
the public place, hunger will again seize it by the throat. 'The people,
always ridden by want, has never the time to carry out the revolutions
which it essays.' It is against the bourgeoisie that war to the knife
must be carried on."

"For one proof out of a thousand of the truth of that statement,"
assented the Count, "is not Desmarais the lawyer one of the firiest
tribunes in the National Assembly?"

"My dear Count," said the cavalry officer to Plouernel, "did you not
once treat a fellow of that name to a good cudgeling?"

"This Desmarais is himself the hero of that episode you refer to--the
very same whippersnapper," answered the Count.

Aside Victoria said to herself: "And my brother John is the sweetheart
of Mademoiselle Desmarais. A singular coincidence!"

"How did you come to give him his cudgel sauce, Count?" inquired the
Cardinal.

"My counsel were arguing before the court a case involving an estate
left to my brother, Abbot Plouernel, at present in Rome. Desmarais,
forgetting the respect due to a man of my station, had the insolence to
speak of me in terms hardly reverent. Informed of the fact by my
attorneys, I had Desmarais seized by three of my servants one night as
he was leaving his lodgings. They administered to him a sound drubbing
with green sticks, after which my first lackey said to him: 'Sir, the
thrashing which we have just had the honor of presenting to you, is from
Monseigneur Plouernel, our master. Let the lesson be a profitable one.'"

"That," said the Viscount of Mirabeau, "was as good as the exquisite
bastinado given to Arouet 'Voltaire' by the orders of the Prince of
Rohan. That's the way to treat the bourgeoisie."

"Voltaire perhaps owes his fame to that little chastisement," suggested
the Duke.

Coming back to the subject which was on everyone's mind, Abbot Morlet
was the next to speak. "Madam the Marchioness has just uttered a great
truth," said he. "The Church, the nobility and royalty have no more
terrible enemy than the bourgeoisie. In a state, three elements are
necessary for a good organization--a God, a King, and a people. In order
to carry on production and nourish the representatives of God and the
King, the bourgeoisie should be suppressed."

"You are stingy in your allotments, Abbot," put in the Duke. "Would you,
then, suppress the nobility?"

"Who says _King_ says _nobility_, and who says God says clergy," replied
the Abbot. "In other words, if we wish to enjoy our privileges in peace,
we must either extirpate or annul the bourgeoisie. Now, if we know how
to use the people skilfully, they will come to our aid in this task of
extirpation, for the plebeian hates a bourgeois more than he does a
noble."

"Still, we see the populace gone mad over the deputies of the Third
Estate. Several of them have already grown to the bulk of idols," said
the Count.

"The bourgeoisie is, and will for still a long time remain, as hostile
toward the people as it is toward the nobles. The people know this, and
that is what renders them hostile to the bourgeoisie," Victoria
declared.

"It is marvellous how the thoughts of Madam the Marchioness accord with
mine," exclaimed Abbot Morlet. "This antagonism which she has just
mentioned will some day, perhaps, be our salvation; for I have no faith
in the party of the court, composed in part, as it is, of young
mad-caps."

"By heaven, Abbot," the whole company cried with one voice, "but you are
impertinent!"

The Abbot shrugged his shoulders and continued impassively. "The
revolution will plunge on in its course. First the royalty and the
nobility will fall beneath the blows of the tribunes of the Third
Estate. Then will fall the Church--but only to rerise more powerful than
before, to rear again the scaffolds and relight the pyres of the
Inquisition."

"You are talking nonsense, Abbot," again put in Barrel Mirabeau. "Your
prophecies partake of desperation."

"Nobility and royalty will disappear in the tempest," pursued the Abbot,
"but it remains with us to make that disappearance one of the phases of
a rebirth that will establish theocracy more powerful than ever. The
instant will be decisive, momentous. It may one day come about that the
bourgeoisie will merge its cause with that of the populace; that it will
establish education free, unified, common, and uncontrolled by the
Church; that it will abolish private property, making common to each and
all the tools of production. Should the bourgeoisie decide thus to
emancipate the proletariat, Throne and Altar are done for forever. It is
for us, then, to nurse the antagonism already existent between the two,
to envenom their mutual mistrust and reproaches. We must inflame the
fear of the bourgeoisie for the populace; we must kindle the mistrust of
the laborers toward the bourgeois; we must prick the people on to
excess; above all we must invoke to pillage and massacre that furious
beast which is not the people, but which in times of revolution is
confounded with it--it is the _red specter_ which we must make use of to
terrify the bourgeoisie and drive it to sunder its cause from that of
the people. That is how we can countermine the revolution, and force the
sovereigns of Europe to unite, to invade France, and to exterminate our
enemies. Let us mingle, in disguise, with the people; let us provoke and
irritate their appetite for blood. Let us and our agents strike the
first blows--pillage--burn--mow off heads--those of our friends, too,
for we must above all avert suspicion; make the blood pour, to rouse the
beast and put it in appetite for sack and massacre!"

Even Barrel Mirabeau was taken aback at this diatribe. "God's death, Sir
Abbot," he cried with horror, "do you take us for gallows-tenders?"

"To make of us mowers of heads!" cried the Count of Plouernel. "'Tis
insanity!"

"What exquisite fastidiousness!" retorted Morlet.

"You must have clean lost your senses, Abbot," returned Plouernel. "To
dare to propose such a role to us--to make hyenas out of us!"

"We sons of the Church," answered the Abbot, "shall then assume the role
ourselves, if it is so repugnant to you, gentlemen of the nobility.[8]
You fear to soil your lace cuffs and silk stockings with mire and blood;
we of the clergy, less dainty, and arrayed in coarser garb, are free
from any such false delicacy. We shall roll up our cuffs to the elbow,
and perform our duty. We shall save you, then, my worthy gentlemen, with
or without your aid; that will be an account to be settled afterwards
between us."

"The priest has been vomited forth from hell," thought Victoria, to
herself. "He is a demon incarnate."

"We shall know how to save the monarchy, Sir Abbot," replied the Count
of Plouernel to his friend Morlet, "even without the need of you folks
of the Church; have no worry on that score. You forget that it was our
sword which established the monarchy in Gaul and revived the Catholic
Church, fourteen centuries ago, without the aid of the cassocks of that
time."

"Fine words--but empty," answered the Abbot. "If you are indeed so
determined to draw the sword, Monsieur Count, will you then please tell
me why, this very day, you resigned into the hands of the King the
command of your regiment? Your boast comes at a poor season."

"You well know why, Monsieur Abbot," the Count retorted. "My regiment
grew uncontrollable. The evil, however, dates far back. The first
symptoms of insubordination in the French Guards showed themselves two
years ago. A sergeant named Maurice"--Victoria shuddered--"had the
insolence to pass me without saluting; and after I took off his cap with
a stroke of my cane, he had the audacity to raise his hand against his
colonel. I handed the mutineer over to the scourges till he dropped
dead. That is how I avenge my honor."

As Monsieur Plouernel thus told the story of Sergeant Maurice, Victoria
was unable to control herself. Her features contracted, and she fixed on
Plouernel a look of menace. Then a sudden flush overspread her
features. None of this was lost upon the Abbot. "What is this mystery?"
he pondered. "The Marchioness casts an implacable look at the Count,
then she blushes--she who till now has been as pale as marble. What can
there have been between this Italian Marchioness and this sergeant in
the French Guards, now two years dead?"

At that moment the steward again entered the banquet hall and approached
the Count of Plouernel.

"What news, Robert?" asked the latter.

"Terrible, my lord!"

"My Robert is not an optimist," explained Plouernel to the company. "In
what does this terrible news consist?"

"The barriers of the Throne and St. Marcel are on fire. Everywhere the
tocsin is clanging. The people of the districts are gathering in the
churches."

"Behold the sway of our holy religion over the populace--they pray
before the altars," cried the Cardinal briskly.

"Alas, my lord, it is not to pray, at all, that the rebels are swarming
into the churches, but to listen to haranguers, and among others a
comedian by the name of Collot D'Herbois, who preaches insurrection.
They trample the sacred vessels under foot, spit on the host, and tear
down the priestly ornaments."

"Profanation! Sacrilege!" exclaimed the Cardinal, suddenly modifying his
ideas on the sway of his faith over the people.

"One of our men," continued the steward, "saw them putting up bills
which the rabble read by the light of their torches. One of the placards
read: 'For sale, because of death, the business of Grand Master of
Ceremonies. Inquire of the widow Breze.'"

"Ah, poor Baked one," sang out the Marquis, making a hideous pun on the
unfortunate officer's name, "you are cooked! All they have to do now is
to eat you!"

"On other placards were written in large letters, 'Names of the Traitors
to the Nation: Louis Capet--Marie
Antoinette--Provence--Artois--Conti--Bourbon--Polignac--Breteuil--Foulon'--and
others."

"That is intended to point out these names to the fury of the populace!"
gasped the Viscount of Mirabeau.

"The rumor runs through Paris that to-morrow the people will rise in
arms and march on Versailles."

"So much the better," exclaimed the Viscount. "They will be cut to
pieces, this rabble. Cannoniers--to your pieces--fire!"

"Go on, tell us what you know," said Plouernel to his steward Robert.
"Is that all?"

"Alas no, my lord. This miserable populace in arms surrounds and
threatens the City Hall. The old Board of Aldermen is dissolved, and is
replaced by a new revolutionary committee, which has taken the power
into its own hands."

"Are the names of this committee known?" asked the Count.

"Yes, my lord. From the City Hall windows they threw to the rioting
people lists with the names. Here is one which our emissary got hold
of:--'President of the permanent committee, Monsieur Flesselles,
ex-Provost of the merchants'--"

"Oh, well," laughed the Duke, "if the other members of the committee
are revolutionists of that stamp, we can sleep in peace. Flesselles is
in our employ."

"Finish reading your paper," ordered the Count.

"'The said committee, in session assembled, decrees: Article I--A city
militia shall immediately be organized in each district, composed of
licensed business men. Article II--The cockade of this militia shall be
blue and red, the city colors.'"

"Is that all? Finish reporting," said Plouernel, seeing the steward
pause.

"One of our spies, on entering the neighborhood of the Palais Royal,
heard threats hurled against his Majesty Louis XVI, and especially
against her Majesty, the Queen. Everyone looks for terrible events
to-morrow, my lord."

Seeing he had nothing more to report, Plouernel allowed the steward to
depart, first ordering him to come back with any fresher information.

"Now gentlemen," Victoria began when the steward had withdrawn from the
room, "the gravity of the situation takes foremost place. There is no
longer room for deliberation--there must be action. Time is pressing.
Count, has the court foreseen that the agitation in Paris would drive
the malcontents to open revolt? Is it prepared to combat the uprising?"

"Everything has been anticipated, madam," answered Plouernel. "Measures
are on foot to repulse the rebels. This very morning I received word as
to the plans of the court."

"Why then do you allow us to wander into objectless suppositions and
discussions?" asked the Cardinal.

"I was commanded to exercise the utmost discretion in the matter of the
court's projects. But in view of the information which my steward has
just brought in on the popular frenzy in Paris, and on the assaults
which the discontented element is meditating, I hold it my duty to
inform you of the plans laid down."

Drawing a note from his pocket, the Count continued, reading:

     "Monsieur the Marshal Broglie is appointed commander-in-chief. He
     said this morning to the Queen: 'Madam, with the fifty thousand men
     at my command I pledge myself to bring to their senses both the
     luminaries of the National Assembly and the mob of imbeciles which
     hearkens to them. The gun and the cannon will drive back under
     earth these insolent tribunes, and absolute power will again assume
     the place which the spirit of republicanism now disputes with it.'

     "Monsieur the Marshal Broglie is invested with full military
     powers. Bezenval is placed in command of Paris, De Launay holds the
     Bastille and threatens with his artillery the suburb of St.
     Antoine; the garrison of that fortress has for several days been
     secretly increased, and ammunition worked in. The Bastille is the
     key to Paris, inasmuch as it commands the respect of the most
     dangerous suburbs, and can annihilate them with its guns.

     "The last regiments recalled from the provinces by the Marshal will
     arrive to-night on the outskirts of Versailles and will powerfully
     re-enforce the Swiss and the foreign regiments. An imposing array
     of artillery and a large troop of cavalry will complete this corps
     of the army. Thus united, the troops will move, day after
     to-morrow, July the 15th, to the invasion of the National Assembly,
     which will have been allowed to convene. The Assembly will be
     surrounded by the German regiments, and the ring-leaders of the
     Third Estate forthwith arrested."

In a lowered and confidential tone the Count continued:

     "The most dangerous of the rebels will be shot at once. A goodly
     number of them will be thrown into the deepest dungeons of the
     different State prisons of the kingdom. Finally, the small fry of
     the Third Estate will be exiled to at least a hundred leagues from
     Paris. A royal warrant will dissolve the National Assembly and
     annul its enactments. After which Monsieur Broglie, at the head of
     his army, will march on Paris, take military possession of it,
     establish courts-martial which will at once judge and put to death
     all the chiefs of the sedition, banish the less culpable, and
     confiscate their goods to the benefit of the royal fisc. Should it
     resist, Paris will be besieged and treated like a conquered
     city--three days and three nights of pillage will be granted to the
     troops. After which, the royal authority will be re-established in
     full glory."

"There, gentlemen, that is the plan of campaign of the court."

Loud acclamations from the company--excepting only the Abbot--greeted
the reading of the communication by Monsieur Plouernel.

"This plan seems to me to be at all points excellently expeditious and
practical," said Victoria. "It has every chance of success. Still, has
the court foreseen the event of Paris, protected by barricades and
defended by determined men, resisting with the force of despair? Has the
court foreseen the event of Monsieur Broglie being defeated in his
conflict with the people?"

"Madam, that case also is provided for," answered Plouernel. "The King
and the royal family, protected by a powerful force, will leave
Versailles and retire to a fortified place on the frontier. The Emperor
of Austria, the Kings of Prussia and Sweden, and the majority of the
princes of the Germanic Confederation, will be prepared to assist the
royal power. Their armies will cross the frontier, and his Majesty, at
the head of the arms of the coalition, will return to force an entry
into his capital, which will be subjected to terrible chastisement."

"One and all, we are prepared to shed our blood for the success of this
plan," cried the Viscount of Mirabeau, swelling with enthusiasm. "To
battle!"

"Has this plan the approval of the King?" asked Victoria. "Can one count
on his resolution?"

"The Queen but awaits the hour of putting it into practice to inform his
Majesty of it," answered the Count. "Nevertheless, the King has already
consented to the assembling of a corps of the army at Versailles. That
is a first step gained."

"But if the King should refuse to follow the plan? What course do you
then expect to take?" persisted Victoria.

"It will go through without the consent of Louis XVI. If necessary, we
shall proceed to depose him. Then Monseigneur the Count of Provence will
be declared Lieutenant-General of the kingdom, and the Queen, Regent,
with a council of unbending royalists. Then we shall see courts-martial
and firing squads in permanence! Volleys unceasing!"

"It is done for royalty if the court dare put its plan, into execution,"
muttered Victoria to herself. "To-morrow the Bastille will be taken."
Then, rising, her face glowing with animation, and holding her glass
aloft, she called, in her brilliant voice:

"To the death of the Revolution! To the re-establishment of Royalty! To
the triumph of the Church! To the Queen!"

And catching her fire, the whole company, with one voice, cried:

"Death to the Revolution!"

"Meet me to-morrow morning at Versailles, gentlemen, in battle," cried
Plouernel.

And all except the Abbot shouted back the reply:

"In battle! We shall all be at Versailles to deal the people its
death-blow!"

The sarcastic coolness of the priest sat the Count ill. "Are you
stricken dumb, Abbot," he inquired, "or do you lack confidence in our
plan?"

"No, I have not the slightest confidence in your plans," answered the
prelate calmly. "Your party is marching from blusterings to retreats,
and on to its final overthrow, which will be that of the monarchy. But
we shall be there, we the 'shaven-heads,' the 'priestlets,' as you dub
us; the 'creatures of the Church,' 'hypocrites and Pharisees,' to repair
your blunders, you block-heads, you lily-livers! We of the frock and
cassock contemn you!"

This deliverance of the Abbot was followed by a storm of indignant cries
from the assembled guests. Threats and menaces rose high.

"By heaven!" shouted Barrel Mirabeau, "if you were not a man of the
cloth, Abbot, you would pay dear for your insults!"

"Let him rave," said the Cardinal, shrugging his shoulders, "let him
rave, this hypocrite of the vestry-room, this rat of the Church, this
Jesuit!"

"Mademoiselle Guimard awaits his Eminence in her carriage!" called out a
lackey, stepping into the room.

"The devil! The devil!" muttered his Eminence the Cardinal as he rose
to go. "I clean forgot my Guimard in the midst of my political cares.
Well, I must go to face the anger of my tigress!"

The banquet broke up. The guests left the table, and gathered in little
groups before parting, still carrying on the discussion of the evening.
Only Abbot Morlet stood apart, and as he let his sardonic glance travel
from group to group, he muttered to himself grimly:

"Simpleton courtiers! Imbecile cavaliers! Stupid prelates! Go to your
Oeil-de-Boeuf! Go to Versailles--go! To-morrow the dregs of the populace
will have felled their first head. The appetite for killing comes by
killing. As to that foreign Marchioness, of whom it is well to have
one's doubts, if it becomes advisable to get rid of her, her handsome
head with its black hair will look well on the end of a pike some of
these days. So let's be off. I must prepare that bully of a Lehiron, the
old usher of the parish of St. Medard, to call together to-night his
band of rascals, ready for anything. And then to get ready my disguise
and that of my god-son, little Rodin!"




CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE HALL OF THE PORTRAITS.


Half an hour later none of that brilliant company remained in the home
of the Count of Plouernel save the Count himself, and Victoria Lebrenn.
The two were in the Hall of the Portraits, in contemplation of which the
beautiful Marchioness seemed lost. Struck with her long silence, and
seeing her gaze riveted upon the pictures, the Count approached her,
saying in a surprised and passionate voice:

"Do you know, Madam Marchioness, that I shall end by becoming jealous of
my ancestors? For several minutes they alone have been happy enough to
draw your attention."

"True, Count. I was reflecting on the glory of your race. Proud was I,
for your sake, of your illustrious origin."

"Ah, Victoria, such words! But allow me to tell you, my radiant
Marchioness, how I love you. Every day I feel my mad passion grow. By my
honor as a gentleman, you could have led me on to treason as easily as
you have confirmed me in the path of loyalty which I now tread. You have
so mastered me that to possess your love I would have betrayed my King,
and forever stained my escutcheon." Then, casting himself on his knees
before the Marchioness, the Count continued in a trembling voice, "Is
that not yet sufficient, Victoria?"

At the moment that the Count of Plouernel had seized and was covering
with kisses the hand of Victoria, a loud knock was heard at the door of
the salon.

"Rise, Count," said Victoria, quickly. "It is one of your men."

Robert the steward entered precipitately, bearing in one hand a tray on
which lay a despatch. He said to his master:

"A courier from Versailles brought this despatch for my lord. The
courier reached the house only with the greatest difficulty. To escape
arrest by the people in the streets he was forced to leave his horse
some distance from the barrier, and to throw off his royal livery."

"You may go," replied Monsieur Plouernel, as he took the message.

He tore open the envelope and made haste to read the contents of the
missive, while Victoria followed him with curiosity burning in her eyes,
and said in her most winning voice as she drew close to him, "News of
importance, no doubt, my dear Gaston? You seem much moved by it."

"Read, Marchioness, for I have no secrets from you," answered Plouernel,
handing the despatch to Victoria. "Judge of the extreme urgency of my
information!"

The young woman eagerly grasped the letter, cast her eyes over it, and
then said, with a silvery laugh: "But it is in cipher. Give me the key.
I cannot read it--without your help."

"True--pardon my distraction," replied the Count, and he read as
follows, translating the cipher as he went:

     "To-day's events in Paris, and the news from the country, are of
     such nature that our measures must be pushed forward to execution.
     Repair to Versailles at once. Let not one of our friends be
     missing. It will probably be done to-morrow.

     "Versailles, seven o'clock in the evening."

"And it is now past midnight!" exclaimed Victoria, "You should have
received the message at least two or three hours ago. Whence the delay?
Must it be laid to negligence, or treachery? Both suppositions are
possible."

"You forget, Marchioness, that the messenger was compelled to use great
precautions to enter Paris, and that his precautions in themselves, were
quite capable of causing the delay. So that it is neither false play nor
carelessness--no one is guilty."

"So it may be. But there is not a moment to lose. You must be off to
Versailles at once. Order your carriage immediately. Let your
coach-wheels scorch the pavement."

"It would be imprudent to take a carriage into the streets to-night. I
shall go on horseback accompanied by one of my men; I shall go towards
Great Rock and Queen's Court, till I pick up the road that runs from
Courbevoie to Versailles. Then, like the wind for Versailles."

Monsieur Plouernel grasped the young woman's hand and added in a voice
of emotion--"God save the throne!"

Victoria turned towards the door, paused a moment on the sill to make a
final gesture of farewell, and left the room, musing to herself:

"_In order to strike terror to the court, to make their plant miscarry,
the people must take the Bastille to-morrow! No hesitation--it must be
done!_"




CHAPTER IX.

FILIAL CONFIDENCES.


The home of Monsieur Desmarais, attorney at the court of Paris, deputy
of the Third Estate to the National Assembly, the same who had been
beaten by the orders of the Count of Plouernel, was situated near the
St. Honore Gate. There he occupied a beautiful dwelling of recent
construction and decorated with taste. The day after the banquet
participated in at the Plouernel mansion by the heads of the court
party, Madam Desmarais and her daughter Charlotte, a charming girl of
seventeen, were engaged in a sad interchange of thoughts.

"Ah, my child," said Madam Desmarais, "how troubled I feel at what is
going on in Paris!" As her child did not answer, the mother stopped and
looked at her. The girl was plunged in deep revery.

For a moment longer the girl maintained her silence. Then, her face
suffused and her eyes filled with tears, she fell upon her mother's
neck, buried her face in the maternal breast, and murmured in a
smothered voice:

"Mother, dear, for the first time in my life I have lacked confidence in
you. Pardon your child!"

Surprised and disturbed, Madam Desmarais pressed her daughter to her
bosom, dried her tears, urged her to calm herself, and said, embracing
her tenderly: "You, to lack confidence in me, Charlotte? You have a
secret from me? Am I not, then, your _bestest_ friend?"

"Alas, I fear I had almost forgotten it. Be indulgent toward your
daughter!"

"My heaven! What anguish you are putting me to! I can not believe my
ears. You--to have committed a fault?"

"I doubted your heart and your justice. I formed a bad judgment of my
father and you, who have surrounded me with tenderness since my birth."

"Finish your confidence, painful as it may be. Put an end to my
uncertainty," pleaded the mother.

Charlotte drew back a moment; then she proceeded in broken accents:

"About six months ago, we came to live on the second story of this
house, then still unfinished. Father was much taken with one of the
workmen--"

"You speak of John Lebrenn, the foreman of our ironsmith, Master
Gervais?"

"Struck with the excellent education of Monsieur John Lebrenn, father
offered him the freedom of our library, and made him promise to come and
visit us on his holidays. Father therefore considered Monsieur John
Lebrenn worthy of admission to our friendship. That is how I must
interpret father's actions."

"Your father evinced, perhaps, too much good will towards the young
fellow, and my brother has taken my husband to task for authorizing too
intimate relations between us and a simple workman. Each should keep
his place."

"Uncle Hubert," answered Charlotte, "always showed himself hostile
towards Monsieur Lebrenn, and even jealous of him."

"Your uncle Hubert is a banker of wealth, and could have entertained for
the protege of my husband neither jealousy nor animosity."

"Nevertheless, father's 'protege' has been able to be of value to him,
for I have often heard father say to Monsieur John that it was to him
and his efforts that he owed his election as deputy for Paris."

"It is a matter of common kindness for my husband to thank this young
workman for some services he was able to perform in the interest of his
election."

"Allow me, dear mother, to tell you that father does not look at things
as you do; for last Sunday he invited Monsieur John to dinner with us,
calling him _my friend_. Father repeated to him several times that,
thanks to the progress of the revolution, privileges of birth would be
soon wiped out, and that equality and fraternity would reign among men."

"Well, Charlotte! And suppose equality were to reign among men--what
conclusion do you draw from that?"

"Monsieur John Lebrenn being the equal of my father, bonds of friendship
could exist between them."

"I shall admit, for the moment, that an ironsmith's apprentice might
think himself the equal of an attorney at the bar of Paris. What do you
conclude therefrom?"

"I hoped you would have understood," stammered the young girl in
confusion, and more embarrassed than ever at seeing her mother so far
from suspecting the nature of the confidence she was about to make.

Suddenly a dull and heavy roar, prolonged and repeated from echo to
echo, shook and rattled the windows of the room.

"What noise is that!" cried Madam Desmarais with a start, and raising
her head.

Crash upon crash, more distinct than the first, rattled again the
windows and even the doors of the dwelling. At that instant in rushed
one of Madam Desmarais's maids, screaming out with affright:

"Madam, Oh, madam! It is the cannon! It is the roar of artillery!"

"Great God!" exclaimed Madam Desmarais, turning pale. "And my husband!
To what dangers will he be exposed!"

"Do not worry, dear mother. Father is at Versailles," spoke out
Charlotte, now the comforter.

"They are attacking Paris. The counter-attack will lead on to
Versailles. There will be uprisings, insurrections, massacres!"

"The suburbs are attacking the Bastille," answered Gertrude, the maid,
all of a tremble. "At daybreak our neighbor, Monsieur Lebrenn the
ironsmith, armed with sword and gun, placed himself at the head of a
troop, and marched upon the fortress."

"Alas, he rushes into the arms of death--I shall never see him more!"
cried Charlotte, starting to her feet. And overcome with emotion and
fear, she paled, her eyes closed, and she fainted in the arms of her
mother and the servant, who bent over her plying their simple
restorative cares.

For a long time the detonation of the artillery and the rattle of
musketry continued unabated. At length the firing slackened, became
desultory, and finally ceased altogether. The tumult gave way to a
profound silence. Charlotte regained consciousness. Her face hidden in
her hands, she was now seated beside her mother, who regarded her
daughter with a severe and saddened look. The older woman seemed to
hesitate to speak to the girl; finally she addressed her in a voice that
was hard and dry:

"Thank heaven, Charlotte, you have recovered from your faint. Let us
continue our interview, that was so unfortunately interrupted. Meseems
it is of extreme importance for us all. I can guess its conclusion."

The hard lines in the face of Madam Desmarais and the iciness in her
tone took the young girl aback; but overcoming the passing emotion, she
raised her head, revealing her countenance wet with tears, and answered:

"I have never practised dissimulation towards you. So, just now, I could
not conceal the fears which assailed me for John Lebrenn--for I love him
passionately. I have pledged him my faith, I have received his in
return. We have sworn our troth, one to the other. There, my dear
mother, that is the confidence, I wished to make to you."

"Oh, woe is us! The predictions of my brother are realized. How right he
was to reproach my husband for his relations with that workingman!
Unworthy daughter!" continued Madam Desmarais addressing Charlotte, "How
could you so far forget your duties as to think of uniting your lot with
that of a miserable artisan? Shame and ignominy! Dishonor to your
family--"

"Mother," replied Charlotte, raising her head proudly, "my love is as
noble and pure as the man who calls it forth."

Gertrude, the serving maid, here again broke precipitately into the
room, joyfully crying as she crossed the threshold:

"Madam, good news! Your husband has just entered the courtyard."

"My husband in Paris!" exclaimed Madam Desmarais. "What can have taken
place at Versailles? Perhaps the Assembly is dissolved! Perhaps he is
proscribed, a fugitive! My God, have pity on us!"

She rushed to the door to meet her husband, but checked herself long
enough to say to Charlotte:

"Swear to me to forget at once this shameful love. On that condition I
consent to withhold from your father all knowledge of the wretched
affair."

"My father shall know all!" replied Charlotte resolutely, as Monsieur
Desmarais entered the room.




CHAPTER X.

DEPUTY DESMARAIS.


The deputy of the Third Estate was a man in the prime of life; his
intellectual face betrayed more of diplomacy than of frankness. The
disorder of his apparel and the perspiration that covered his brow
bespoke the precipitancy of his return. His pallor, the contortion of
his features, the fear portrayed upon them, disclosed the anxiety of his
mind. But his whole expression relaxed at sight of Charlotte and her
mother. He pressed them several times in turn to his bosom, and cried
joyously:

"Dear wife--dear daughter--embrace me again! I never before thought what
a consolation in these cursed times the sweet joys of the domestic
hearth would prove."

And again embracing his wife and daughter, the advocate added,
"Blessings on you both for your presence. You have made me forget for a
moment the atrocities committed by a cannibal people!"

As Monsieur Desmarais uttered these last words, a storm of triumphal
outcries, first distant, then gradually drawing nearer, smote upon his
ear: "Victory! The Bastille is taken by the people! Down with the court!
Down with the traitors! Down with the King! Death to the King! Long live
the Nation!"

Then as gradually the cries moved away and died out in the distance.

"The Bastille is taken--but how much blood had to be shed in the heroic
attack!" thought Charlotte, endeavoring to curb her apprehensions for
John Lebrenn. Then, carrying her handkerchief to her lips to smother a
sob, she added to herself, "He is dead, perhaps. O, God, have pity on my
grief."

"What mean these cries, my friend?" asked Madam Desmarais of her
husband. "Is it possible that the Bastille has fallen into the hands of
the people? Can the working classes have overcome the army? In what sort
of times do we live?"

"The Bastille is taken! Cursed day--the people are on top!"

Charlotte heard with astonishment the execrations of her father on the
victory just won by the people. But before she was able to explain to
herself this revulsion in her father's beliefs, Gertrude re-entered the
room, calling out through the open door--

"Good news again! Mother Lebrenn, our neighbor, has sent one of her
apprentices to inform you that she has just received a note from
Monsieur John, saying that he received a slight gunshot wound in the
shoulder during the battle--and announcing that the people is everywhere
victorious!"

"John Lebrenn!" exclaimed Monsieur Desmarais, enraged. "He took part in
that insurrection! Send answer to Mother Lebrenn that I take no interest
in parties to massacre!" Then recollecting himself, he added, "No--say
to the apprentice that you have delivered the message."

"Not a word of interest, and John wounded," thought Charlotte. "Ah, at
least, thanks to You, my God, John's wound is slight. I need not tremble
for his life."

"If the revolution one of these days miscarries, it will be the fools of
the stamp of this Lebrenn who will be to blame," continued Desmarais
bitterly. "They will not comprehend that the ideal government is a
bourgeois, constitutional monarchy, amenable to the courts, disarmed,
and subordinated to an assembly of representatives of the Third Estate.
These miserable workingmen dishonor the revolution by assassination."

"Father," responded Charlotte firmly, her forehead flushed with a
generous resolve, "Monsieur John Lebrenn can not be called an assassin."

"I, too, believed in the honesty of that workman whom I showered with
favors, in spite of the warnings of your uncle Hubert," replied
Desmarais. "But when John Lebrenn takes part in this insurrection, I
withdraw my esteem. I look upon him as a brigand!"

"John Lebrenn a brigand!" exclaimed Charlotte, unable to restrain her
indignation. "Is it you, father, who thus insult a man whom you but now
called your friend! What a contradiction in your language!"

"My dear husband," interposed Madam Desmarais, interrupting her daughter
to <DW44> an explanation of which she dreaded the issue: "You have not
yet told us what compelled your departure from Versailles, and why you
are in Paris instead of in session with the National Assembly."

"Last evening and night the most sinister rumors were in circulation
about Versailles. According to some, the court party had secured from
the King the dissolution of the Assembly. The members of the Left were
to be arrested as seditious characters, and imprisoned or banished from
the kingdom."

"Great heaven--that is where you sit, my friend! To what danger have you
not been exposed!"

"They would not have taken me from my curule chair alive," responded the
attorney grandly. "But the court party, frightened by the peals of the
cannon at the Bastille, the roar of which carried to Versailles, drew
back before the fearsome consequences of such an attempt."

"I breathe again," exclaimed Madam Desmarais with a sigh of relief. "You
are neither a fugitive nor proscribed. God be praised!"

"Still, other reports agitated Versailles and the Assembly on the score
of the uneasiness in Paris. During the night they saw, from the
housetops, the gleam of burning barriers. In the morning a courier
despatched by Baron Bezenval, commandant of Paris, brought news to the
government that the people of the suburb of St. Antoine, assisted by
those from the other suburbs, were besieging the Bastille. This sort of
aggression was considered by the majority of the representatives an
enterprise as blameworthy as it was senseless. No one could conjecture
that a mob of people, in rags, almost without arms, could take a
fortress defended by a garrison and a battery of artillery. The attempt
was in the highest degree extravagant."

"The victory of the people was truly heroic," answered Madam Desmarais.
"It really savors of the miraculous."

"Alas, a few more miracles of that stamp and the royal power is
overthrown, and we fall into anarchy," moodily replied the advocate.
"The people, drunk with its triumph, will not content itself with wise
reforms. Having overthrown the royalty, the nobility, and the clergy, it
will turn on the bourgeoisie, and we, its allies during the combat,
shall become its victims after the victory. It will push to the end the
logic of its principles."

"Good heavens, my friend, you express to-day the same opinions you till
lately fought in my brother!"

"Your brother Hubert is a violent man who knows nothing of politics,"
answered the attorney, much embarrassed by his wife's observation; and
he added, "This morning the National Assembly, wishing to ascertain the
truth as to the conflicting rumors of events in Paris, commissioned
several of its members, myself among the number, to learn by actual
witness the march of affairs, and, if possible, to check the shedding of
blood. In spite of our haste to the city, when we arrived the people
were already masters of the Bastille and had already disgraced their
victory by slaughtering the Marquis De Launay, governor of the fortress,
and several officers. These murders were then followed by ghoulish
scenes, which I beheld with my own eyes. But everything in its time. My
colleagues and I went to the City Hall. We succeeded, with much effort,
in working our way through the swarms of people in arms. We saw the
unhappy Flesselles, President of the Committee of Notables, livid,
whelmed with blows and insults, his clothing torn to ribbons, dragged
into the square and massacred: after the noble, the bourgeois! Among the
assassins I remarked a brawny giant, with the face of a gallows-bird,
and a little short man whose visage half vanished under a shock of red
beard, evidently false, who dragged at his side a young boy of eight or
nine years. At one instant I thought that the unhappy Fleselles might
be saved, but the declamations of the red-bearded man and the giant
raised to a paroxysm the fury of a band of savages whom they seemed to
direct, and I knew then that the Provost of the merchants was lost. The
fellow with the red beard drew up to him and cracked his head at one
blow, with the butt of his pistol. The savage band hurled itself upon
the unfortunate man as he fell to earth, and riddled him with wounds.
The giant put the climax to the horrible deed: he cut off the head and
impaled it on the end of a pike. Then the whole band of scoundrels, the
little boy along with the rest, began to dance around the hideous
trophy, singing and shouting."

"My blood freezes in my veins, my friend, when I think of the danger you
ran in the midst of that frantic populace," said Madam Desmarais. "Those
madmen are worse than cannibals--and Paris seems to be in their power."

"That is what I saw; but unfortunately that is not the only crime there
is to deplore. Other murders followed this first one. The blood thus
shed threw the populace into a species of frenzy. Finally I was able to
escape, to get out of the crowd, and I hastened to you, dear wife, and
to our daughter. These are the crimes that the takers of the Bastille
either perpetrated, or are accomplices in. By giving the signal for
insurrection, they have thrown the people into all the dangers of a
revolt. That is why John Lebrenn is no better in my eyes than a common
bandit."

"You are unjust, father, toward him whom you called your friend,"
ventured Charlotte, in a voice firm with resolution. "On reflection you
will return to sentiments that are more just to Monsieur Lebrenn."

Struck with astonishment at his daughter's words and tone, the advocate
questioned his wife with a look, as if to seek the cause of this strange
appeal on the part of Charlotte for Monsieur John.

"It is I, father, who can give you the explanation you seek of my
mother. I shall not falter in doing so," said Charlotte; and after a
momentary pause she continued:

"I shall not recall to you how many times you have uttered yourself in
terms of friendship and esteem for Monsieur Lebrenn. The good opinion
you held of him was merited, and I dare vouch that he will continue to
show himself worthy of it. I shall not recall to you the proofs of
devotion Monsieur Lebrenn has given you, notably at the time of your
election. It is not willingly that I bring back to your memory the
incident of the outrage of which you were the victim at the instigation
of Monsieur the Count of Plouernel, and which you communicated to
Monsieur Lebrenn in confidence one evening about two months ago. It
costs me much to reopen in your heart that rankling wound. But do you
remember the generous choler with which Monsieur Lebrenn was seized at
your revelation? 'I am but a mechanic, and without doubt this great lord
will consider me unworthy to raise a sword against him,' said Monsieur
John to you, 'but I swear to God, I shall punish the wretch with these
stout arms that heaven has bestowed upon me.' Already he was bounding
towards the door to be off to avenge your insult, when you and my mother
stopped him with great difficulty, plying your supplications to make him
promise not to attack your enemy. And then, clasping him in your arms,
you said to him, your voice quivering with emotion, and your eyes filled
with tears, 'Ah, my friend, you shall be my son; for no otherwise than
as a son did you feel the insult I received. This mark of attachment,
joined to all the other proofs of your affection, renders you so dear to
my heart that from this moment I shall look upon you as one of the
members of our family. You have won all our hearts--'"

"And what has all this to do with the excesses which Monsieur Lebrenn
has been one of the instigators of, and with the assassinations which I
have witnessed? Come, speak clearly, explain yourself. I understand
nothing of all this pathos."

"By what right, father, do you render Monsieur Lebrenn responsible for a
murder to which he was an entire stranger?"

"But whence this great interest, my daughter, in taking the part of
Monsieur Lebrenn against your father?"

"In spite of my ignorance of politics, dear father, I know that in
attacking the Bastille the people wished to destroy the house of durance
where shuddered so many innocent victims. And perhaps Monsieur Lebrenn,
in joining himself with the insurgents, hoped to find his father in one
of the dungeons of the fortress."

"And if by chance he should discover him!" exclaimed advocate Desmarais,
more and more surprised and irritated at his daughter's persistence in
defending Lebrenn. "Does that chance absolve him from the excesses for
which the taking of the Bastille was the signal? Ought not the
responsibility for these acts fall upon those who took part in the
attack, among others on Monsieur Lebrenn, who, it seems, is one of the
leaders of the insurrection?"

"Does the memory of services rendered, father, weigh so heavily upon
you that you seek to evade all recollection of them, under the pretext
of a responsibility which you endeavor to load on a generous man for the
crimes committed by others?"

"Do you know, Charlotte," answered the advocate severely, after a few
moments' reflection, "that your persistence in defending that man would
justly give me strange suspicions regarding your conduct?"

"My friend," interrupted Madam Desmarais, "do not attach any importance
to a few words which have escaped our daughter in a moment of
excitement."

"You are mistaken, dear mother. I am perfectly calm. But I can not
submit to hearing a man of heart and honor calumniated without
protesting against what I regard as a great wrong to him. Why should I
not say to father what I have just said to you, mother--that for two
months my faith has been pledged to Monsieur John Lebrenn, that I have
sworn to him to have no other husband than he? And I shall add, before
you, my father, and you, my mother, that I shall be true to my promise."

"Great God!" cried the advocate, stunned with amazement, "that miserable
workman has dared to raise his eyes to my daughter! He has stolen my
child from me! Death and damnation, I shall have vengeance!"

"You are in error, father; your daughter has not been stolen away,"
proudly returned Charlotte. "That _miserable_ workingman in whose
presence you have so many times argued against the privileges of birth,
against the artificial distinctions which separate the classes in
society--that _miserable_ workingman whom you treated as a friend, an
equal, when you judged his support necessary to your ambition--that
_miserable_ workingman placed his faith in the sincerity of your
professions, father, he saw in me his equal--and his love has been as
pure, as respectful as it has been deep--and devoted--and my heart--is
given to him--"

"You are a brazen hussy!" yelled the lawyer, pale with rage. "Leave my
presence! You disgrace my name!"

"On the contrary, father, I hope I do honor to your name, in putting
into practise those principles of equality and fraternity whose generous
promoter you have made yourself."

At that moment the noise of many voices was heard under the windows of
the Desmarais apartment, crying enthusiastically: "Long live Citizen
Desmarais! Long live the friend of the people! Long live our
representative!" These eloquent testimonies of the popular affection for
Monsieur Desmarais offered so strange a contradiction to the reproaches
which he had just addressed to Charlotte, that under the impression of
the contrast the lawyer, his wife and his daughter fell silent.

"Do you hear them, father?" Charlotte at last ventured. "These brave
people believe, the same as I, in the sincerity of your principles of
equality. They acclaim you as the friend of the people."

At the same instant Gertrude ran into the room breathless with
excitement, exclaiming: "A troop of the vanquishers of the Bastille,
with Monsieur John Lebrenn at their head, has halted before the house.
They want monsieur to appear on the balcony and address them."

"Death of my life! This is too much," snarled the advocate, at the
moment that new cries resounded from without:

"Long live Citizen Desmarais. Long live the friend of the people! Come
out! Come out! Long live the Nation! Down with the King! Death to the
aristocrats!"

"My friend, you can not hesitate. You will run the greatest danger by
not appearing and saying a few good words to these maniacs. In bad
fortune we must show a good heart," said Madam Desmarais, alarmed; then
addressing Gertrude: "Quick, quick, open the window to the balcony."




CHAPTER XI.

LIONS AND JACKALS.


Gertrude hastened to execute her mistress's order, and revealed to the
deputy's family St. Honore Street, packed, as far as the eye could
reach, with a dense crowd. The windows of the houses bordering on it
were filled by their inhabitants, drawn thither by the commotion. The
column of the vanquishers of the Bastille was stationed in front and to
both sides of the Desmarais domicile; it was composed for the most part
of men of the people, clad in their working clothes. Some carried guns,
pikes, or swords; several among them were armed with the implements of
their trade. All, bourgeois, mechanics, soldiers, acclaimed the victory
of the people with the cry, a thousand times repeated:

"Long live the Nation!"

In the center of the column glowered two pieces of light artillery
captured in the courtyard of the redoubtable prison. On the caisson of
one of these cannon, erect, majestically leaning on a pike-staff from
which floated the tricolor, stood a woman of massive stature, a red
kerchief half concealing the heavy tresses which fell down upon her
shoulders. Her dark robe disclosed her robust arms. She held her pike in
one hand--in the other a shattered chain. Woman of the people as she
was, she seemed the genius of Liberty incarnate.

To the rear of the cannon rested a cart trimmed with green branches and
surrounded by men who bore at the end of long poles or of pikes chains,
garrottes, gags, iron boots, iron corsets, pincers, and other strange
and horrible instruments of torture gathered up in the subterranean
chambers of the Bastille. In the car were three of the prisoners
delivered by the people. One of these was the Provost of Beaumont,
imprisoned fifteen years before for having denounced the famine
agreement. Another, who seemed to have lost his reason in the sufferings
of a long and drear captivity, was the Count of Solange, imprisoned by
_lettre de cachet_ during the reign of Louis XV. The last of the three
prisoners was broken, bent to the ground, tottering. He lifted to heaven
his colorless eyes--alas, the unfortunate man had become blind in his
dungeon. It was the father of John Lebrenn. Poor victim of tyranny! He
feebly supported himself by the arm of his son, wounded though the
latter was.

Such was the picture that met the gaze of advocate Desmarais as he
stepped out upon the balcony of his dwelling, his wife and daughter on
either side of him. Charlotte's first glances went in search of, and as
soon found, John Lebrenn. With a woman's intuition she divined that the
aged figure beside him, snatched from the cells of the Bastille was
indeed his father.

The appearance of advocate Desmarais and his family was greeted with a
new outburst of acclaim:

"Long live the friend of the people!"

In stepping forth upon the balcony, Desmarais had yielded merely to
policy. He made a virtue of necessity. Condescending, gracious,
complaisant, he began by greeting with smile, look, and gesture the
populace assembled beneath his windows. Then he bowed, and placed his
hand on his heart as if to express by that pantomime the emotion, the
gratitude, which he experienced at the demonstration of which he was the
object.

Silence was re-established among the crowd. John Lebrenn, still standing
in the cart beside his father, addressed the attorney in a voice clear
and sonorous:

"Citizen Desmarais, defender of the rights of the people, thanks to you,
our representative in the National Assembly! Your acts, your speeches,
have responded to all that we expected of you. Honor to the friend of
the people!"

The advocate signified that he wished to reply. The tumult was hushed,
and the deputy of the Third Estate delivered himself as follows:

"Citizens! my friends, my brothers! I can not find words in which to
express the admiration your victory inspires me with. Thanks to your
generous efforts, the most formidable rampart of despotism is
overthrown! Be assured, citizens, that your representatives know the
significance of the taking of the Bastille. The Assembly has declared
that the ministers and the councillors of his Majesty, whatever their
rank in the state, are responsible for the present evils and those which
may follow. Responsibility shall be demanded of the ministers and all
functionaries!"

"Bravo! Long live Desmarais! Long live the Assembly! Long live the
Nation! Death to the King! Death to the Queen! Down with the
aristocrats!"

"Nothing could be more pleasing to me, citizens," continued Desmarais,
"than the choice you have made of Citizen Lebrenn as the spokesman of
the sentiments that animate you. Honor to this young and valiant
artisan, the son of one of the victims rescued from the Bastille!"

This allocution, pronounced by advocate Desmarais with every appearance
of great tenderness, moved the people. Tears dimmed the eyes of all. The
father of John Lebrenn seized his son in his arms, and Charlotte, unable
to restrain her tears, murmured as she cast a look of gratitude toward
heaven, "Thanks to you, my God! My father is his true old noble self
again. He sees the injustice of his opposition to John!"

When the emotion produced by his last words had somewhat subsided,
advocate Desmarais resumed: "Adieu till we meet again, citizens, my
friends--my brothers! I return to Versailles. The Assembly has
despatched three of my colleagues and myself to learn at first hand how
it fares with the good people of Paris. When our report is called for,
we shall be ready. Long live the Nation!"

With a final farewell gesture to the throng, Desmarais quitted the
balcony and re-entered his apartment. In a few moments the column took
up its interrupted march, and disappeared. Almost immediately there
disgorged itself tumultuously into St. Honore Street a band of men of an
aspect strangely contrasting with that of the populace just addressed by
Monsieur Desmarais. Some were dressed in rags, others wore a garb less
sordid, but nearly all bore on their faces the stamp of vice and crime.
The band was composed of men without occupation; do-nothing workmen;
debauched laborers; petty business men ruined by misconduct, become
pickpockets, sharpers, infesters of houses of ill fame and other evil
resorts; robbers and convicts, assassins--a hideous crowd, capable of
every crime; an execrable crowd, whom our eternal enemies keep in fee
and easily egg on to these saturnalia, for which the people is but too
often held culpable; wretches in the hire of the priests, the nobles and
the police.

At the head of these bandits marched a man with the face of a brigand,
of gigantic stature and herculean frame, and conspicuously well clad.
Once a "cadet," then a gaming-house proprietor, then usher of the Church
of St. Medard, Lehiron, for such was the name of the leader of the band,
had been expelled from his last employment for the theft of the
poor-box. Around his waist a sash of red wool held two horse-pistols and
a cutlass that had parted company with its sheath. His coat and the
cuffs of his shirt rolled back to the elbow, he gesticulated wildly with
his bare hands, which were clotted with blood. At the end of a pike he
still bore the head of Monsieur Flesselles, and from time to time, while
brandishing the hideous trophy, he would cry out in a stentorian voice:

"Long live the Nation! To the lamp-post with the aristocrats! Death to
all the nobles!"

"Death to the enemies of the people! The aristocrats to the lamp-post!"
repeated all the bandits, brandishing their pikes, their sabers, or
their guns blackened with powder.

"To the lamp-post with the aristocrats!" also cried the shrill and
piercing voice of an urchin who gave his hand to a miserably clad
character, the man of the false beard of whom Desmarais had spoken. It
was the Jesuit Morlet, and the boy his god-son, little Rodin. At the
moment that the band hove in sight of the lawyer's dwelling, the Jesuit
drew close to Lehiron, and spoke a few words to him in a low voice. The
latter stopped, signed to his followers for silence and cried at the top
of his leathern lungs:

"Death to the bourgeois! Death to the traitors! To the lamp-post with
Desmarais!"

Then the band resumed its way; and Abbot Morlet, posted at the head of
the troop, made haste to bring it up to the last straggling files of the
vanquishers of the Bastille. Then, upon the carriage of the cannon
whence she dominated the throng, he beheld the woman with the red
handkerchief and the dark robe. In spite of the change which her costume
imparted to her features, the Jesuit was stupefied to
recognize--Marchioness Aldini!

Barely had he recovered from his surprise when the Marchioness descended
from the piece of artillery. As hastily, the Jesuit quitted his
companions in order to trace her, and, if possible, clear up the
suspicions which in his mind surrounded this one-time Marchioness, now
heroine of the people. Little Rodin followed his dear god-father, and
the two, elbowing their way through the people of the quarter, who were
seized with surprise and affright at the murderous cries uttered by the
sinister band which approached, inquired, as they went, for the
beautiful dark woman coiffed in a red handkerchief who had just leaped
down from the cannon--having, so the Abbot pretended, a message for her.
Finally a woman haberdasher, drawn to the threshold of her booth,
replied to Abbot Morlet's interrogations:

"Yes, the beautiful young woman you seek has entered house No. 17, along
with our neighbor John Lebrenn. That is all I can tell you."

"Then the Lebrenn family lives in this street, my dear woman?"

"Certainly. Mother Lebrenn and her family occupy two rooms on the fourth
floor of No. 17."

"Thank you for your information, my dear woman," replied the Jesuit,
with difficulty concealing the joy that the unexpected discovery caused
him. "Many thanks!"

"And so," continued the Abbot, "I recover the traces of that family whom
we have lost from sight for over a century. What a lucky chance! Two
woodcocks in one springe--Marchioness Aldini and the family of Lebrenn.
An enemy spotted, is one-half throttled. Let us train our batteries to
suit."

"Dear god-father," put in little Rodin at that moment, with a determined
air, "I am not afraid to look at heads mowed off."

"My child," replied the Jesuit with fatherly pride and happiness, "it is
not enough to have no fear; one must actually feel his heart grow
lightened when he sees the enemies of our holy mother, the Church of
Rome, put to death."

"Dear god-father, was Monsieur Flesselles, then, an enemy of our holy
mother, the Church?"

"My child, the death of Monsieur Flesselles, innocent or guilty, was
useful to the good cause."

Meanwhile, Lehiron's band, just then passing under the windows of
Desmarais's home, continued to shriek, "Death to the enemies of the
people! Death to the bourgeois! To the lamp-post with Desmarais!"

The cries had not yet reached the ears of the attorney, who had no
sooner withdrawn from the balcony than his daughter, throwing herself
into his arms, said to him in a voice broken with sobs of joy:

"Thanks, Oh, thanks, father, for what you have just said!"

"What are you thanking me for now?"

"For the noble utterances you have just addressed to Monsieur John
Lebrenn," replied Charlotte delighted, not noticing the brusque
transformation which came over the face of the advocate at her words.

"How! You have the presumption to abuse the necessity I found myself
reduced to, in speaking a few words of good will to that laborer in
order to save my house from pillage, and perhaps to protect my own life
and that of my wife and daughter--you presume to abuse that necessity to
oblige me to give my consent to your union with an ironsmith's
apprentice? You are an unworthy daughter!"

"Then--your cordial words, your touching protestations, were but lies!"
murmured the young girl, crushed by her father's rough speech. "It was
all comedy and imposture!"

"Charlotte," continued Desmarais in a tone of harsh resolve, "cut short
this passion which is a disgrace to all of us! I swear you shall never
see that man again. To-morrow you leave Paris. It is my will."

"Father, my father--I implore you--revoke that sentence--"

"My dear friend," pursued Desmarais, addressing his wife and not heeding
his daughter, "I shall delay for twenty-four hours my return to
Versailles. Hasten all your preparations for the trip. We shall leave
to-morrow morning. I shall take you along, as well as our daughter."

"Pity, father! Do not drive me to despair--"

"You know my will. Nothing can bend it."

"Cursed be this day," cried the young girl with indignation; "cursed be
this day when you force me to forget the respect I owe a father. Helas!
it is you, you yourself, father, who just now, this very hour, protested
your love for the people, your disdain for the privileges of birth and
wealth. And now you declare before me that your protestations were
false, that you despise the people, fear them, hate them. The imposture
and the lie drive me to rebel."

"Hold your tongue, unworthy minx! Do you not see the window is open, and
that your imprudent words can be heard without? Have you resolved to get
us all killed?" cried Desmarais, running to the window to close it.

It was just the minute that Lehiron's band was passing the house. At the
instant that the lawyer took hold of the casement fastening to draw shut
the window, over the rail of the balcony, at the height of his own
countenance, there appeared the livid head of Flesselles, impaled on its
pike. A cry of fear broke from Desmarais, and he recoiled from the sill,
clapping his hands before his eyes to shut out the grisly spectacle. The
band halted before the attorney's door. Anew the cries burst loose
without:

"Long live the Nation!"

"Death to the enemies of the people!"

"To the lamp-post with the aristocrats!--to the lamp-post with
Desmarais!"

The clamors seemed to come so pat upon the words of Charlotte, that
Madam Desmarais, stricken with affright, threw herself on her knees in
an attitude of prayer, clasped her hands, and stammered out an appeal to
God.

"To the lamp-post with Desmarais! Death to the traitor!" shrieked
Lehiron's band once more, and passed on its way. The cries of "Death!"
faded away in the distance as Lehiron's troop followed in the wake of
the conquerors of the Bastille. It was the pack of jackals following the
lions.

Desmarais gradually recovered from the state of rigid fright in which he
was plunged, and cried out to Charlotte in a voice trembling with
repressed rage:

"Unnatural daughter! Parricide! Did you hear the cries of death hurled
at your father by those cannibals of Paris, who carry in triumph the
head of Flesselles? These men, who perhaps quite soon will have made
your father undergo the same torture, are the friends, the brothers of
John Lebrenn. Your lover is, like them, an assassin. Horror upon all
this revolted plebs!"




CHAPTER XII.

REUNITED FROM THE BASTILLE.


While advocate Desmarais was whelming his daughter with reproaches on
the score of her love for John Lebrenn, the latter was at his mother's
knee in their modest lodgings on the fourth floor of the old house in
St. Honore Street. In the larger of the two rooms composing the family's
apartments, were to be seen two beds. One had never been occupied for
years, since the day Ronan Lebrenn disappeared without a soul knowing
what had become of him. The room also contained a sort of little
bookshelf garnished with books printed with his own hand, a portable
workbench at which John in the evenings finished up pieces belonging to
his ironsmith's trade, tools, some little furniture, and a buffet of
walnut-wood in which reposed the relics and legends of the family.

Madam, or Mother, Lebrenn, as she was called in the neighborhood, was
nearly sixty years of age. Domestic griefs, rather than years, had
enfeebled and ruined her health. Her venerable countenance was of an
extreme pallor, and sadly sunken. The poor woman held in her hands the
head of her son, kneeling before her. The aged mother stroked it several
times, saying in a voice thrilled with emotion:

"Dear boy, you have come back to me at last. I can now reassure myself
on the state of your wound. Helas! how great was my anguish during all
the time of that frightful combat. The little note you sent me after the
taking of the Bastille indeed calmed a little my terrors for you, but
without stilling them completely. I feared lest, out of tenderness, you
sought to deceive me as to the gravity of your hurt. Now I am coming to
myself from my fears, and yet I still must hold you in my arms. Dear and
only child whom God has left to a poor widow--how sweet it is for a
mother to embrace her son!"

"Come, good mother, I see your spirit is still troubled by the pangs of
this morning. But are you quite sure you are a widow? Am I truly your
only child?"

"Helas! have not your father and sister both disappeared? Are they not
lost forever to your poor mother?"

"But why should they not return to us some day?"

"Dear boy, if they lived, your father and sister whom you love so much,
would we not have heard some news of them, even if it were impossible
for them to come to us?"

"You are right, good mother. But you presume that it would have been
possible for them to have sent us some intelligence of their fate. May
we not suppose, though, that father was thrown into some state prison,
and that he was deprived of all communication with the outside? So sad a
supposition has nothing strange in it."

"In that case, my child, the prison would have proven your father's
tomb, so frail was his health. We could not dare to hope that he would
be able to surmount the rigors of his captivity."

"But it might also be, good mother, that the hope of seeing us some day
may have helped him to endure his sufferings."

"Do not essay, dear boy, to raise in my heart hopes, which, deceived too
soon, will but plunge me back again into despair. My dear husband is
indeed lost to me, helas! As to your sister, we may well believe we
shall never see her more. She also is lost to us. Without doubt she has
sought in death a refuge from her anguish, since the fatal revelation of
her earlier life to her fiance, Sergeant Maurice."

"Nothing has come to light so far to confirm your apprehensions on the
subject of these afflictions--dear, good mother--"

"If my poor girl is not dead--what can have been her lot? I shudder even
to think of it--misery, or dishonor!"

"I do not wish, good mother, to hold out to you hopes, which, when
deceived, will revive your sorrow and seriously compromise your health,
perhaps your life. But I believe I can without danger accustom you to
the idea that my sister still lives, and has not ceased to be worthy of
your affection; and also that father, after having languished long years
in a prison pit, may still recover his liberty, and that we may see
him.--That is a hope in my heart which I would cause you to share.
Follow well my reasoning--"

"'Twould be too much happiness for me--I cannot believe it. And if I
could believe it, I ask myself whether I have the strength to bear so
much joy. Rapture can kill, as well as grief, my dear son."

"And so, dear mother, if such events are to be told, I shall have
recourse to roundabout methods to make you acquainted with such
unhoped-for news. If it were about father--for example--I would say,
that the victorious people penetrated into the Bastille to deliver the
persons thrown into the dungeons, and that, among them, we found one who
resembled father; that we seized the prison registrars and made them
search in their registers for the records of a prisoner who was very
dear to me, as it might have chanced that my father was among the
number; that, in one of these registers, I read the date, 'April 22,
1783,' and right after it, 'No. 1297--incarcerated--upper tier--cell No.
18.'"

"April 22, 1783," repeated Madam Lebrenn pensively. "That is the day
after your father disappeared."

"I would tell you that beside the date there was no name given for the
prisoner, it being the usage to replace the name with a number. I would
add, that, struck by the singular coincidence between the date and the
time of father's disappearance, I went down to visit cell No. 18, as was
indicated in the register--"

"And then?" exclaimed Madam Lebrenn feverishly, and with growing
anxiety.

"The cell was empty. But they told me that the prisoner who occupied it
was an old man grown blind, alas, during his confinement. I asked where
they had taken the unfortunate man, and dashed off to seek him. Isn't
this all interesting, mother?"

"Why do you break off your story? For I feel that your supposings are
but preparations for some revelation that you are about to make. You
look away from me--John, my boy, my dear boy!" cried Madam Lebrenn,
reaching towards her son and making him turn his face up to her--"You
weep! No more doubt of it--Lord God! the old man--was--he was--"

She could not finish. The word died on her lips, and she nearly swooned
away. John, still kneeling before her, sustained her in his arms,
saying: "Courage, good mother. Hear the end of my tale."

"Courage, say you? But you are deceiving me, then? It was not then--your
father?"

"It was he! 'Twas indeed he whom I held in my arms. He lived--you shall
see him soon. But, poor dear mother, have courage. We are not yet at the
end of our trials."

"Since your father lives, courage is easy to me! Let them bring him to
us quick!"

"Alas, you forget that in his dungeon father lost his sight. Besides,
the weight of his irons, the humidity of his cell, have palsied, have
paralyzed his limbs. He can hardly drag himself along."

"But he lives! Ah, well! His infirmities will render him more dear to
us," cried Madam Lebrenn in lofty exaltation, and suddenly rising. "Let
us go to meet him."

"One moment, good mother. They are bringing him to us. But I have still
to prepare you for another piece of good fortune. You know the proverb,
good mother, 'Good fortune never comes singly.' But, first, I want to
acquaint you with the person who broke open father's cell, who freed him
from his irons, and who bestowed upon him the simple cares that he long
needed."

"Tell me, dear son, who was your father's liberator?"

"His liberator was a woman--an intrepid, heroic woman, who during the
assault of the Bastille braved the fire of musketry and cannon and led
the attackers, red flag in hand. Under a perfect hail of bullets she
let down the drawbridge across one of the moats of the fortress, and was
the first to run to the dungeons to free the prisoners. It was she who
rescued father from his living grave."

"Blessed be that woman! I shall cherish her as a daughter!"

"That heroic woman, who is truly worthy of your love--is Victoria! Is
that enough happiness for us? Father and sister, both have come home to
your caresses. They are there, close to us, at our neighbor Jerome's,
and await but the pre-arranged signal to come in."

And John Lebrenn, joining the action to the words, struck three blows on
the wall.

The door flew open, and on the sill appeared father Lebrenn, leaning on
one side on the arm of Victoria, on the other on that of neighbor
Jerome. Madam Lebrenn, intoxicated with joy, flung herself into the arms
of her husband and daughter.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE LEBRENN FAMILY.


Thus reunited, the Lebrenn family gave themselves up to those sweetest
of reminiscences, the recollections of sorrows now no more. The father
recounted to his wife and children the tortures of his long captivity.
Victoria retold the events in which she had been an actor since she had
left them, not neglecting her affiliation with the sect of the Voyants,
or "Seeing Ones." Due tribute having been paid by the family to the
civil cares of the day, the conversation turned upon their private
interests.

John informed his father of his love for Charlotte Desmarais, and of the
hope he cherished of soon uniting his destiny with hers. After listening
attentively to his son, the old man said, in a voice marked with
sadness:

"Alas, my dear John, I augur no good of your love. Advocate Desmarais is
rich; he belongs to the bourgeoisie, and the bourgeoisie, like the
nobility, has its arrogance, its haughtiness. I much doubt whether he
will give his consent to the marriage."

"That would have been true before, good father," replied John. "But
ideas have changed of late years; great progress has been made during
your sad imprisonment. People and bourgeoisie are now but one party,
united by the same interests, by the same hopes, and both resolved on
ending the privileges of our enemies, royalty, the Church, and the
nobility. The bourgeoisie has learned that in the struggle it has joined
with the monarchy, it has but one support, the people. If it is the
head, we are the arms. The Third Estate possesses the shining lights,
the wealth; but we, of the seed of the people, we have the numbers, the
force, the courage. And then, to accomplish the revolution, our
co-operation is absolutely necessary to the bourgeoisie. They must count
on the workingmen, the proletariat. We have the power and the right."

"Perhaps, my son. Yet, social prejudices are not effaced in a day. And
for a long time to come, I fear, the bourgeois will see between himself
and the artisan the same distance which separates him, the bourgeois,
from the nobility."

"Nevertheless, my friend," interposed Madam Lebrenn, "Monsieur Desmarais
has always received our son on a footing of equality, calling him
friend, and inviting him to pass his evenings with him. He has heaped
upon our son many marks of his gratitude."

"Marks of gratitude, Marianne? For what?" asked the blind man. "What
service has our son done Monsieur Desmarais? Or is his friendship
disinterested?"

"I did my best to insure his election to the States General," replied
the young artisan.

"So," said the old man, thoughtfully, "advocate Desmarais owes his
election to your efforts, to your exertions?"

"He owes it to his merit, to his value. I only suggested Monsieur
Desmarais to those of our fellow citizens who had confidence in me, and
all acclaimed him."

"In short, you powerfully aided in his election. I am no longer
astonished that he treats you as a friend, an equal. But it is a far
cry, my son, from words to acts. I doubt the sincerity of this lawyer's
affection."

"That doubt would never enter your thoughts, good father, if you knew
the excellent man. If you had heard him inveigh, as I have, against the
distinctions of birth and fortune--"

"Perhaps he had in mind only the privileges of the nobility," observed
Victoria, who until then had remained grave and silent. "The prejudices
of the Third Estate are tenacious."

"I should add, dearest sister, that he idolizes his daughter so, that to
see her happy, he would sacrifice all the prejudices of his class--even
if he were still under their influence, which I can not believe. I am
well assured of that."

"And his daughter is an angel," added Madam Lebrenn. "I have seen and
can appreciate her."

"The excellence of our son's choice is not doubted," replied the old
man, half convinced. "And, after all, it may be that Monsieur Desmarais
does belong to that portion of the bourgeoisie which sees in the
proletariat, disinherited for so many centuries, a brother to be guided
and helped along the path of emancipation. If such is the case, my son,
your marriage with Mademoiselle Desmarais may be consummated, and become
the joy of my old age."

"Brother," asked Victoria, "has Mademoiselle Desmarais informed her
family of this projected union?"

"At our last meeting, she assured me that she would soon broach the
subject to her mother, and inform her that she had pledged me her
faith, as I have mine to her. But I can not yet tell you whether the
confidence has been made."

"Does Mademoiselle Desmarais seem to have any doubts as to the consent
of her relatives?"

"Among those relatives there is an uncle, Hubert, a rich banker, who
without doubt will oppose the project. This moneyed bourgeois entertains
for the working class the most supreme contempt. But the violence of his
opinions has brought about a rupture between him and Monsieur Desmarais.
As to the latter and his wife, Mademoiselle Charlotte has no doubt of
their consent, by reason of the affection and esteem they have always
evinced for me."

"Brother," continued Victoria after a moment's reflection, "I counsel
you, make your demand for the hand of Mademoiselle Charlotte this very
day. I base my advice on urgent grounds. If Monsieur Desmarais really
sees in you a friend, an equal, if his devotion to the people and the
revolution is sincere, the glory you have won at the taking of the
Bastille can not but plead in your favor; his consent will be given
immediately. On the contrary, if his protestations of love for the
people have been but a mask of hypocrisy, it is better to know at once
how to regard him; in that case, he will repulse you, or will evade
giving you a direct answer. It is not merely a question of your love,
brother, but of our cause--of a grave responsibility that weighs upon
you. Your friends placed their faith in you when you asked their votes
for Monsieur Desmarais; you owe it to them, now that the occasion
presents itself, to make a decisive test, and assure yourself whether
the convictions expressed by Monsieur Desmarais are sincere. If he
refuses you the hand of his daughter, it shows that he is with us from
the lips only, not from the heart. In that case, it will be proven that
advocate Desmarais is a hypocrite and a traitor! Would not then your
duty, your honor, brother, demand that you unmask the double-dealer?"

"Nothing more just than what Victoria has said," declared the old man.
"You should, my son, go this very day and lay your suit before Monsieur
Desmarais."

John thought for an instant, and answered: "You are right, father. My
line of conduct is mapped out for me. I go at once to Monsieur
Desmarais's, and formally present my request for the hand of Charlotte."

"Brother," interposed Victoria, suppressing a sigh, "have you informed
Monsieur Desmarais fully on our father's disappearance? He should know
all that relates to that mournful event."

"Monsieur Desmarais knows that immediately upon the publication of a
hand-bill by father, he disappeared, and that we believed him dead or
shut up in some state prison. He even knows the contents of the pamphlet
which father wrote, and often has he shed tears in my presence when
speaking of the disgrace of which you were a victim at the hands of
Louis XV."

A bitter smile contracted Victoria's lips, and she replied, "My father
hid the truth in what he wrote, in order to stigmatize the first crime,
and he threw a veil over the consequences of my dishonor. Have you
raised the veil which covered my life? Did you speak of the series of
assaults of which I was the victim?"

"Sister," answered John Lebrenn, "out of respect for our family, I did
not inform Monsieur Desmarais of the consequences of that first royal
dishonor. I merely told him that you had been snatched from us, the same
as my father, and that we knew not what had become of you. My
confidences did not extend beyond that."

"Your reserve was wise and prudent, dear brother. Continue to guard my
secret from Monsieur Desmarais and his daughter. For them, as for all
who know you, I must remain as dead."

"Let it be as you desire, sister. But the dissimulation weighs on my
heart like an act of cowardice."

"The dissimulation is necessary to-day, brother, but it will not last
forever. When you shall have a deeper knowledge of the character of your
wife; after some years of marriage and motherhood shall have ripened her
judgment, then, and only then, you may make to her a complete confidence
of my past. Until then, I must remain dead to her, as to all--except you
three and one other of our relatives, the Prince of Gerolstein, my
initiator into the Voyants. Dead I shall be to the world, but living to
you and to Franz of Gerolstein."

"This Franz of Gerolstein," asked Victoria's father, "is he not one of
the princes of that sovereign house of Germany founded of old by the
descendants of our ancestor Gaelo the Pirate?"

"Yes, father; the heir to a reigning prince was to-day one of the most
fearless attackers of the Bastille."

At this moment a knock was heard at the door.

"Enter," cried John, and to the astonished eyes of the Lebrenn family
appeared Franz of Gerolstein. In the Prince, whom Victoria had just
named, John recognized one of his fellow-combatants of the day.

"Franz, here is my brother, of whom I have often spoken to you," said
Victoria, taking John's hand and pressing it into that of the Prince.
"You are relatives--now be friends. You are both worthy, one of the
other. Both march in the same path."

"My dear John--for so it is that friends and relatives of the same age
should greet," answered Franz with cordial familiarity, affectionately
closing in his own hand that of the young artisan, "I know through your
sister all the good that can be thought of you. That will tell you how
glad I am to meet you."

"I also, my dear Franz, am happy to find in you a relative and a
friend," John made answer, no less affectionately than the Prince.
"Chance has made you of the sovereign race, yet you fight for the
freedom of the people."

"My dear John, I am, like you, a son of Joel, the brenn of the tribe of
Karnak. More than once, across the ages, the republican ardor of the old
Gallic blood has roused itself in my plebeian race--although, by an
uncouth stroke of destiny, it has been muffled under a sovereignship and
a grand-ducal crown."

"Aye, we are indeed of the same blood--your words, your acts prove it,"
said the blind father. "Your hand--let me also press your hand, my brave
young man."

Franz stepped toward Monsieur Lebrenn. "I am deeply sensible of these
marks of fatherly good-will," he said. "They console me for the rigors
of my own father, who has banished me from his presence and forbade me
from his states."

"What can have been the cause of such severity!" rejoined the old man in
surprise. "What is your crime?"

"My crime?" replied Franz, with a slight smile. "My crime consists in
attaching scant weight to our sovereignty. I tried more than once to
bring my father to more just, more modest appreciation of our origin.
'Did not our family,' I said to him, 'come into its power through the
audacity of an adventurer? May the earth lie light on our ancestor
Gaelo! But he was the companion and pupil of old Rolf, a frightful
bandit, who, each spring, came to ravage the banks of the Loire and the
Seine.' My father's answer was that all the crowned heads of the world,
big or little, were sprung from no less savage a beginning. To which I
retorted that there would come the day when the people, enlightened as
to the origin of their pretended masters, would tire of being the
exploitable property, the forced laborers, the chattels of a few royal
families whose founders were fit for the galleys or the gibbet; and that
I feared for kings, princes, emperors and Popes lest, by some terrible
reversal of things here below, the people, driven to the limit of
endurance, should treat them as their august founders deserved, and the
most of them to this very day deserve to be treated."

"In good sooth," said John Lebrenn, laughing, "that language was surely
severe for a Prince to hold--and to monarchs!"

"So, my dear John, my father grew furious at my language. In fine, I
concluded by urging him to set a great example to the other princes of
the Germanic Confederation, by laying aside his grand-duchy. 'Lay
aside,' I said to him, 'a power stained with crime in its very origin,
and lead the people of your states and the other German principalities
to unite in a republic like the cantons of the Swiss, or the provinces
of the Netherlands. The Poles, the Hungarians, the Moldavians, the
Wallachians, enslaved by Prussia, by Russia and by Austria, but trained
to republicanism by their old elective customs, will soon be attracted
by the example and the cry of liberty! Then the three last powerful
despotisms of Europe--Prussia, Austria, and Russia--will find themselves
hemmed in, threatened by free peoples, and we shall soon have an end of
these last lairs of royalty!'"

"That was preparing for the future!" the old man exclaimed. "The United
States of Europe! The Universal Republic!"

"But my father preferred to hang to his throne," continued Franz. "Then
convinced of the futility of my appeals, and holding the duty of a
citizen in precedence over that of a son, I passed from word to action.
With all my power and by every means at my disposal I propagated in
Germany, its cradle, the society of the Illuminati; my father banished
me."

"Your account of yourself, Monsieur Gerolstein, deepens still more the
esteem in which I needs must hold you," nodded the old man.

"These words of regard are doubly precious, Monsieur Lebrenn. They shall
add their bonds to those of the relationship already existent between
us. It is in the name of those very bonds that I am about to reveal to
you one of the motives of my visit--a cordial offer of my services. It
is a blood-relation, it is a friend who speaks, Monsieur Lebrenn; do not
then, I beg of you, yield to a susceptibility in itself honorable, but
perhaps exaggerated. You were a printer. For long your labor provided
for the wants of your family. But now you have lost your sight in
prison; you are feeble. Madam Lebrenn is old. What are to be your
resources against the material needs of existence?"

"My health, thanks to God, is not so weakened that I can no longer
work," replied Madam Lebrenn brightly. "The presence of my husband will
double my strength."

"And I, mother," added John, "am I not here by you? Reassure yourself,
Franz, my father and mother shall want for nothing. We are,
nevertheless, deeply sensible of your offer. We thank you, but we
decline, firmly."

"John, allow me to interrupt you," began the Prince. "I know from your
sister what an industrious and skilful workman you are. But, please you,
let us look at the situation together. Have you been able to go to your
shop for the last four days? Considering the great events close at hand,
of which the taking of the Bastille is but the precursor and sign, can
you count on the full disposition of your time? The struggle once
engaged between the nation and the royal power, will it not continue
impetuous, implacable? Is it at a season when the liberty of the people
trembles in the balance that you ought to abandon the field of battle?
And still your family must live, and it can only live by your daily
labor."

"Often have I said," exclaimed Victoria, "that the people has never had
the time to complete the revolutions it began! or else, if they were
accomplished promptly, decisively and overwhelmingly, the time has
always been lacking to defend the conquest, to maintain it, consolidate
it, and fructify it. The people's enemies, on the other hand, gentlemen
of leisure, free from care, kings, priests, nobles or tax-farmers, have
awaited, under cover, the certain hour to ravish from the people the
benefits of its short-lived conquest."

"Alas, it is but too true," assented her father. "The time has always
been lacking--the time and the money."

"Such is the fatal verity!" continued Gerolstein. "Would that verity
could convince the people that if they can, which is rarely the case,
make some little savings from their meager pay, it is not at the tavern
they should spend them. For those savings of the worker should, when the
day arrives, insure to him a portion of the necessary leisure to
emancipate himself. And if he has been able to put aside nothing, he is
in error to yield to an exaggerated scruple of delicacy and repulse the
aid fraternally offered to him by his friends in order that he may be
assured one of the means to clinch his victory."

"A singular occurrence which I witnessed this morning," responded the
young artisan, "strikingly reinforces your argument. One of my friends,
a journeyman carpenter, and several others of our comrades, were
gathered at break of day in the neighborhood of the Bastille, awaiting
the signal for the attack. A man simply clad, and with an open
countenance, accosted them: 'Brothers,' said he, 'you go to-day to fight
for your liberty. It is your duty. But to-day you will not go to your
shops, and will earn nothing. If you have families, how will they live
to-morrow? If you are bachelors, what will you live on yourselves? Allow
then, one of your unknown friends to come to your aid as a brother. It
is not an alms that I offer; I only assure you your leisure for this
great day, by delivering you from your cares for the morrow.'"

"That 'unknown friend' was the banker Anacharsis Clootz, the treasurer
of the Voyants, and rich enough in his own name to aid our brothers for
a long time to come," explained Franz in an undertone to Victoria,
without interrupting John, who continued:

"My comrades accepted the offer so delicately made, without much
hesitation."

"Now, Monsieur Lebrenn, can you still shrink from accepting, as John
does, my tenders of service?"

"No, Monsieur Gerolstein, neither I nor my son will hesitate any further
in accepting your generous offer, should there arise any necessity of
falling back upon it," replied the father of the house.

"John," said Victoria, suddenly, "it is growing late. Go at once to
Monsieur Desmarais, who is liable at any moment to leave for Versailles.
Your plan must not be altered."

"True," answered the young man with a shudder. "The project is now
doubly important. I must to it without delay."

"My friends, you know advocate Desmarais, deputy of the Third Estate in
the States General?" asked Franz of Gerolstein. "He is reputed a good
citizen and a friend of the revolution."

"We all believe that Monsieur Desmarais is not one of those suspicious
and craven bourgeois who tremble at the revolution," John answered, as
he made toward the door. Then he returned--"Till we meet again, Franz, I
hope; meseems we are already old friends."

"Franz will await here the result of your visit, brother," said
Victoria.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE BOURGEOIS UNMASKED.


Monsieur Desmarais, still affected by the cries uttered by Lehiron's mob
and unable to account for the apparently sudden revulsion of the
sentiments entertained for him by the people, was earnestly conversing
with his wife and her brother, Monsieur Hubert. The latter he had
summoned to his side to consult on the weighty resolves he felt forced
to take, both on the score of his daughter, and on the line of policy
which he should adopt to ride the gathering political storm.

Monsieur Hubert, Desmarais's brother-in-law and a rich banker of Paris,
was a very honest man, in the accepted sense of honesty in the
commercial jargon; that is to say, he scrupulously fulfilled his
engagements, and never loaned his money at higher rates than the law
allowed. At heart he was dry; his spirit was jealous and sinister. A man
of inflexible opinions, he nursed an equal aversion for the clergy, the
nobility, and the proletariat. He regarded the Third Estate as called to
reign under the nominal authority of a constitutional head, an emperor
or king, whom he called a "pig in clover," in imitation of the English;
the intervention of the people in public affairs he considered the
height of absurdity. Monsieur Hubert lived in the St. Thomas of the
Louvre quarter, a quarter hostile to the revolution, where he had
recently been promoted to the grade of commander of the battalion. This
battalion, called the "Daughters of St. Thomas of the Louvre," was
almost entirely composed of royalists. The banker was about fifty years
of age; of slight build, one could see in his physiognomy, in his
glance, that in him nervous force supplied the place of physical energy.
At this moment he was plunged in a deep silence. His sister and Monsieur
Desmarais seemed to hang with an uneasy curiosity on the result of the
financier's reflections. The latter at length seemed to have reached the
end of his cogitation, for he raised his head and said sardonically:

"In the light of your confidences, dear brother-in-law, I can only
remind you that four months ago I told you you were wrong to let
yourself be dragged into what you called the 'cause of the people.' My
sincerity caused a sort of break between us, but at your first call, you
see me back again. My previsions have been fulfilled. To-day the
populace has been unchained, and I see you all struck with fright at the
cries of death that have rung in your ears."

"My dear Hubert," replied Desmarais, restraining his impatience, but
interrupting the financier, "please, do not let us concern ourselves
with politics now. We begged you to come to our aid with your advice;
you put to one side our disagreement; we thank you. So please you then,
help us to recall to her senses our unworthy daughter, who is madly
smitten with an ironsmith's apprentice, our neighbor, whom you have
several times met in our house."

"Very well then, my dear Desmarais; let us put aside politics for the
moment. Nevertheless, since we are concerned with the unworthy love of
my niece for that artisan, I must, indeed, recall to your mind that I
have often reproached you for your intimacy with the young fellow.
To-day, a grave peril menaces you. Your regrets are tardy."

"My dear Hubert, we waste precious time in vain recriminations of the
past. Unfortunately, what is done, is done. Let us speak, I pray you, of
the present. My wife and I, in order to cut short this attachment of
Charlotte for John Lebrenn, have decided to take our daughter with us to
Versailles. What do you think of that resolution?"

"That it will not accomplish the object you seek. Versailles is too near
to Paris. If your man is as persevering as enamored--not of Charlotte,
but of her fortune, for, do not mistake, the fellow is after nothing but
her dower--he will find a way to meet her. My advice would be to send
Mademoiselle Charlotte, instantly, a hundred leagues from Paris, to
throw this lover off the track. Send her, say, to Lyons, to our cousin
Dusommier; my sister will accompany her and remain beside her until this
puppy-love is forgotten. A month or two will do for that."

"Your advice, brother, seems wise. But I fear that Charlotte will not
consent to the trip."

"Heavens, sister! Is paternal authority an empty word! A flightabout of
seventeen years to dare disobey the orders of her parents? That is not
probable, surely. Have some strength."

"But it is well to be prepared for everything. Let us suppose this
case--she refuses to obey--"

"In that case, brother-in-law, willy-nilly, bundle Mademoiselle
Charlotte into the stage for Lyons--then, whip up, coachman!"

Just then Gertrude the servant entered and said: "Monsieur John Lebrenn
desires to speak with monsieur on a very pressing matter. He is in the
vestibule."

"What! The wretch still has the audacity to present himself here!" cried
Hubert, purple with rage.

"He does not know that my daughter has revealed their engagement; and
besides--a while ago--" stammered Desmarais, turning red with confusion,
"I had to give him a cordial greeting."

"Yes, brother," said Madam Desmarais, coming to the aid of her husband,
"a while ago, a column returning from the Bastille, commanded by John
Lebrenn, halted before our house, shouting 'Long live Citizen Desmarais!
Long live the friend of the people!'"

"And so, I had to bow to necessity," acknowledged the lawyer. "I was
forced to harangue the insurgents."

"Wonderful, brother-in-law, wonderful!" retorted Hubert, with a burst of
cutting laughter. "The lesson and the punishment are complete!"

"My friend--if you receive this young man, be calm, I conjure you," said
Madam Desmarais uneasily to the lawyer. "Refuse him politely."

"Death of my life! my poor sister, have you not a drop of blood in your
veins?"

"Brother, I beg of you, do not speak so loud. John Lebrenn is even now,
perhaps, in the dining room."

"Ah, heaven, if he is there--so much the better! And since no one here
dares speak outright to one of the famous conquerors of the Bastille, I
take it upon myself," cried Hubert still louder, his eyes glaring with
anger, and starting for the door of the room.

But Madam Desmarais, alarmed and suppliant, seized the financier by the
arm, exclaiming in a trembling voice, "Brother, I beg you! Oh, God, have
pity on us!"

Hubert yielded to the prayers of his sister and stopped just as
Desmarais, emerging from his revery, said to his wife with a sigh of
relief, "Dear friend, I have hit upon quite a plausible way, in case
Monsieur Lebrenn has the impudence to ask for our daughter's hand, to
reject his demand without giving him anything to be offended at. I shall
refuse him without irritating him."

"Another cowardice that you are meditating," cried Hubert, exasperated.
"Let me receive your workingman!"

"I thank you, brother-in-law, for your offer. Please leave me alone. I
shall know how to guard my dignity." Then, addressing Gertrude.

"Show Monsieur Lebrenn in."

"We shall leave you, my friend," said Madam Lebrenn to her husband.
"Come, brother, let us find Charlotte. I count on your influence to
dissuade her from this match, and to bring her back to herself."

Hubert took the arm of his sister, and left the room; but not without
saying to himself as he did so, "By heaven, I shall not lose the
opportunity of speaking my mind to that workingman, if only for the
honor of the family. I shall have my chance to talk."

As the wife and brother-in-law of lawyer Desmarais disappeared through
one of the side-doors of the room, John Lebrenn was shown in by Gertrude
through the principal entrance. Desmarais, at the sight of John,
controlled and hid his anger under a mask of cordial hospitality. He
took two steps to meet the young man, and clasped him affectionately by
the hand:

"With what pleasure do I see you again, my dear friend! Your hurt, I
hope, is not serious? We were quite alarmed about you."

"Thanks to God, my wound is slight; and I am truly touched by the
interest you show in me."

"Nothing surprising, my dear John. Do you not know that I am your
friend?"

"It is just to throw myself upon your friendship that I have come to see
you."

"Well, well! And what is it?"

"It is my duty at this solemn moment to answer you without
circumlocution, monsieur," said John Lebrenn in a voice filled with
emotion. "I love your daughter. She has returned my love, and I am come
to ask of you her hand."

"What do I hear!" exclaimed advocate Desmarais, feigning extreme
surprise.

"Mademoiselle Charlotte, I am certain, will approve the request that I
now prefer to you, and which accords with the sentiments she has shown
me."

"So, my dear John," continued the attorney with a paternal air that
seemed to augur the best for the young workman, "my daughter and
you--you love, and you have sworn to belong to each other? So stands the
situation?"

"Six months ago, Monsieur Desmarais, we pledged ourselves to each
other."

"After all, there is nothing in this love that should surprise me,"
continued Desmarais, as if talking to himself. "Charlotte has a hundred
times heard me appreciate, as they deserve to be, the character, the
intelligence, the excellent conduct of our dear John. She knows that I
recognize no social distinction between man and man, except only that of
worth. All are equal in my eyes, whatever the accidents of their birth
or fortune. Nothing more natural--I should rather say, nothing more
inevitable--than this love of my daughter for my young and worthy
friend."

"Ah, monsieur," cried the young mechanic, his eyes filling with tears
and his voice shaken with inexpressible gratitude, "you consent, then,
to our union?"

"Well!" replied Monsieur Desmarais, continuing to affect imperturbable
good-fellowship, "if the marriage pleases my daughter, it shall be
according to her desire. I would not go against her wishes."

"Oh, please, monsieur, ask mademoiselle at once!"

"It is needless, my dear John, perfectly needless; for, between
ourselves, a thousand circumstances until now insignificant now flock to
my memory. There is no necessity for my questioning my daughter
Charlotte to know that she loves you as much as you love her, my young
friend. I am already convinced of it!"

"Hold, monsieur--pardon me, I can hardly believe what I hear. Words fail
me to express my joy, my gratitude, my surprise!"

"And what, my dear John, have you to be surprised at?"

"At seeing this marriage meet with not a single objection on your part,
monsieur. I am astonished, in the midst of my joy. The language so
touching, so flattering, in which you frame your consent, doubles its
value to me."

"Good heaven! And nothing is more simple than my conduct. Neither I nor
my wife--I answer to you for her consent--can raise any objection to
your marriage. Is it the question of fortune? I am rich, you are
poor--what does that matter? Is the value of men measured by the franc
mark? Is not, in short, your family as honorable, in other words, as
virtuous as mine, my dear John? Are not both our families equally
without reproach and without stain? Are not--"

And Desmarais stopped as if smitten with a sudden and terrible
recollection. His features darkened, and expressed a crushing sorrow. He
hid his face in his hands and murmured:

"Great God! What a frightful memory! Ah, unhappy young man! Unhappy
father that I am!"

Apparently overcome, Desmarais threw himself into an arm-chair, still
holding his hands before his eyes as if to conceal his emotion. Stunned
and alarmed, John Lebrenn gazed at the lawyer with inexpressible
anguish. A secret presentiment flashed through his mind, and he said to
Charlotte's father as he drew closer to him, "Monsieur, explain the
cause of the sudden emotion under which I see you suffering."

"Leave me, my poor friend, leave me! I am annihilated, crushed!"

John Lebrenn, more and more uneasy, contemplated Charlotte's father in
silent anguish, and failed to notice that one of the side doors of the
room was half-opened by Monsieur Hubert, who warily put his head through
the crack, muttering to himself, "While my sister and her daughter are
in their apartment, let me see what is going on here, where my
intervention may come in handy."

After a long silence which John feared to break, advocate Desmarais
rose. He pretended to wipe away a tear, then, stretching out his arms to
John, he said in a smothered voice:

"My friend, we are very unfortunate."

The young artisan, already much moved by the anxieties the scene had
aroused, responded to Desmarais's appeal. He threw himself into the
latter's arms, saying solicitously:

"Monsieur, what ails you? I know not the cause of the chagrin, which,
all so sudden, seems to have struck you; but, whatever it be, I shall
fight it with all my spirit."

"Your tender compassion, my friend, gives me consolation and comfort,"
said Desmarais in a broken voice, pressing John several times to his
heart; and seeming to make a violent effort to master himself, he
resumed in firmer tones, "Come, my friend, courage. We shall need it,
you and I, to touch upon so sad a matter."

"Monsieur, I know not what you are about to say, and yet I tremble."

"Ah, at least, my dear John, our friendship will still be left to us. It
will remain our refuge in our common sorrow."

"But to what purpose?"

Perceiving out of the corner of his eye the nonplussed countenance of
John Lebrenn, who stood pale and speechless, advocate Desmarais heaved
another lamentable sigh, pulled out his handkerchief and again buried
his face in his hands.

"What the devil is my brother-in-law getting at?" exclaimed Hubert to
himself, cautiously introducing his head again through the half-open
door, and observing the young artisan. The latter, dejected, his head
bowed, his gaze fixed, was in a sort of daze, and searched in vain in
his troubled brain for the true significance of Desmarais's
lamentations. Finally, desirous at any price to escape from the
labyrinth of anxiety that tortured his soul and filled his heart with
anguish, he said falteringly to the lawyer:

"Monsieur, it is impossible for me to picture the apprehension with
which I am tortured. I adjure you, in the name of the friendship you
have up to this moment shown me, to explain yourself clearly. What is
this cause for our common sorrow? You have just appealed to my courage;
I have courage. But, I pray you, let me at least know the blow with
which I, with which we, are threatened!"

"You are right, my dear John. Excuse my weakness. Let us face the truth
like men of heart, howsoever hard it may be." Desmarais took the hands
of the young artisan in his own and contemplated him with an expression
of fatherly tenderness. "You would have rendered certain the happiness
of my only child, of that I am sure. But this marriage is impossible!"

Seeing the young artisan, at these words, grow mortally pale, and
stagger, the lawyer supported him, and continued in his mock-paternal
voice: "John, I counted on you to help us bear the blow that was to fall
on us. Now you weaken--"

Young Lebrenn pulled himself together, summoned back his spirits, and in
a voice which he strove hard to render firm, said: "Now I am calmer. Be
pleased to inform me how these projects of marriage, first hailed by you
with such kindness, are now suddenly become impossible?"

"Helas!--because of all the joy--which your proposal heaped upon me, I
forgot, as you did--a sad circumstance. And then, all of a sudden the
memory--came back to me. Your family--is it, like mine, stainless? Alas,
no! Your father wrote--printed--published a pamphlet in which he
recorded that his daughter--your sister--had been the mistress of King
Louis XV. You know my susceptibility where honor is concerned! My
daughter may never enter the family which bears that indelible blot."

"Ah, by my faith! The trick is great!" muttered Hubert, the financier,
stepping out of the neighboring room and slowly entering the parlor
without at first being perceived by either John Lebrenn or Desmarais.

Hearing only the words of the father of his beloved one, John at first
reeled with dismay. But his good sense quickly coming to his aid, and
remembering the doubts of his father and Victoria as to Desmarais's
consent to his daughter's union with an ironsmith's apprentice, he
detected the refusal hypocritically veiled under the excuse employed by
the advocate. Cruel was the young man's disillusionment. It dashed at
once his dearest hopes, and his confidence, until then implicit, in the
sincerity of the principles professed by the deputy of the Third Estate.
The double shock was so severe that John, refusing, like all generous
characters, to believe evil, began to cast about for excuses for the
advocate's conduct. The following thought sprang up in his head: Perhaps
Desmarais had learned of the consequences of the debauchery of Louis XV;
perhaps he knew that Victoria had been held in the lupanar in King
Louis's "Doe Park," and had later been imprisoned in the Repentant
Women. If he knew all this, John thought, Desmarais could not help, as
Victoria had told him, but refuse, upon a very pardonable scruple, to
grant him his daughter.

Preserving, then, his hope, not indeed of overcoming the objections of
Charlotte's father, but of being saved from having to regard him as a
double-dealer and a traitor, John controlled his emotions, raised his
head, and turned his eyes square upon Desmarais. Only then did he
perceive the presence of banker Hubert, the sight of whom always
inspired him with the profoundest antipathy. Surprised and pained, above
all, at the presence of this personage at so delicate a juncture, John
remarked that the financier conversed in a low and sardonic voice with
his brother-in-law.

"Monsieur," said John to Desmarais, "you will recognize, I hope, that
our interview is of such a nature that it can not continue except
between you and me?"

"From which it seems that Citizen John Lebrenn politely shows me the
door!" retorted Hubert, with a mocking leer.

"Sir," impatiently answered the young mechanic, "I desire to remain
alone with Monsieur Desmarais, to discuss family matters."

"I would beg to remark to--Citizen John Lebrenn, that my brother-in-law
has no secrets from me, in what touches the honor of our family. I
shall, therefore, assist at this conference."

Desmarais, at first highly opposed to the unforeseen presence of the
banker, soon resigned himself gracefully to the intrusion, hoping to
find in it a pretext for hastening to an end an interview which was
becoming quite embarrassing to him. Accordingly, he made haste to say
very affectionately to the young artisan:

"My dear friend, I have acquainted you with the cause which bars a
marriage that would otherwise have been the embodiment of my views. Let
us never again refer to a subject justly so painful to us both."

"Pardon me, monsieur," returned the young workman firmly; "but before
taking my leave of you, I have just one more question to ask, and which
you will please to answer."

"Speak, my dear John, what is it?"

"You refuse me the hand of Mademoiselle Charlotte because my sister was
the mistress of Louis XV?"

"Alack, yes. Your father himself, without naming, it is true, his
daughter, stigmatized, denounced to the public indignation that horrible
fact. He told how your unfortunate sister, having been kidnapped at the
age of eleven and a half, left the Doe Park only to disappear forever.
Since that sad day, no one has ever heard of the poor creature, who
embarked in all probability for America, there to await the end of her
unhappy life. That is my opinion."

"So, monsieur, you share our belief on the subject of my sister's
disappearance? The victim has been sacrificed?"

"Eh, surely! But whence your insistence on the subject, my dear John?"

The voice, the features of the lawyer proved his sincerity. He was
manifestly ignorant of Victoria's prolonged sojourn in the royal
pleasure-house at Versailles, and her subsequent imprisonment in the
Repentant Women--fatal circumstances, which in John's mind, might have
explained Desmarais's refusal. The last illusion that John Lebrenn
still hugged to heart now vanished. But containing his indignation, he
addressed the advocate: "And so, monsieur, my marriage with Mademoiselle
Charlotte is impossible, solely because my sister, snatched from the
bosom of her family by a procuress at the age of eleven, was violated by
Louis XV?"

"Is not that good and sufficient cause?"

"And is not Citizen Lebrenn satisfied?" put in Hubert, who for several
minutes had been with difficulty bottling up his rage. "The dismissal is
given in good form, by heaven! You have nothing to do but retire."

"Please, my dear John, attach no importance to the temper of my
brother-in-law," interposed advocate Desmarais, extending his hand to
the young man. "Excuse, I beseech you, his thrusts; I should be very
sorry to have you depart from my house under a false impression."

"Citizen Desmarais, I long trusted in your friendship," replied John,
without taking the hand that the lawyer held out to him. "I am not the
dupe of the vain pretext with which you color your refusal. It is not
the brother of the unhappy child dishonored by Louis XV that you
repulse; it is the artisan, the ironsmith."

"Ah, my dear John, I protest, in the name of our common principles,
against such a supposition. You are in error!"

"Blue death! brother-in-law, have the courage of your opinion!" shouted
Hubert, unable to contain himself. "Dare to tell the truth! Such
hypocrisy and cowardice revolt me."

"Once more, brother-in-law, mix in your own affairs!" cried the
advocate, exasperated. "I know what I am saying! I find intolerable your
pretension to dictate my answers to me."

John Lebrenn turned to the financier, as if to address his words through
him to the lawyer. "You, Citizen Hubert, are sincere in your aversion,
in your disdain for us. You are an enemy of the working class, but an
open one. We can esteem you while we join battle with you. You are a man
of courage, in spite of your prejudices. Alas, the people and the
bourgeoisie, united and pursuing the same object, would be invincible
and would change the face of this old world. But the bourgeois mistrust
the workers and turn against them, when they should sustain them, guide
them, direct them in the uprisings whose object is the reconquest of
their common rights. The people have so far borne witness by their
conduct to their affection, their trust in the bourgeoisie. They have
had, they will have faith in it to the end. But sad and irreparable will
be the evil for you and for us, if one day the bourgeoisie, having
utilized the people to overcome the nobility, should seek to reign in
the shadow of a fictitious royalty; to substitute its own privileges for
those we will have helped it to overthrow; to perjure itself by merely
changing the style of our yoke; and refuse to satisfy our legitimate
demands. That day, we shall fight the bastard royalty of the shekel, the
bourgeois oligarchy, even as we now fight the royalty of divine right
and the aristocracy!"

"And hunger will defeat you, vile mechanics! For the moment always comes
when you must resume the yoke of forced labor!"

Hardly had Hubert hurled this threat of savage exultation at John
Lebrenn, when the door flew open, and Charlotte, her eyes red and filled
with tears, rushed in, followed by her mother.

The change in Charlotte's features, her grief-stricken appearance,
gripped John Lebrenn's heart as if in a vise. Lawyer Desmarais and his
brother-in-law seemed as much irritated as astonished at the presence of
the young girl. She, after a momentary struggle, spoke straight to
Desmarais in a firm and even voice:

"I have just learned from mother that Monsieur John Lebrenn came to ask
of you my hand, and that your intention was to answer the request with a
refusal--"

"Yes, niece," interjected Hubert, "your father has just now refused your
hand to Monsieur Lebrenn. We all oppose the union, which would be a
disgrace to our family."

"Father, have you so made up your mind?"

"Daughter, reasons which it is useless to inform you of, oppose, indeed,
this marriage. I can not give my consent to it."

"Do these reasons attaint, in any way, the honor, probity, or conduct of
Monsieur John Lebrenn?" asked the young girl unfalteringly.

"Monsieur Lebrenn is an upright man; but the lawyer Desmarais can not
give, will not give, his daughter in marriage to an ironsmith's
apprentice. It is out of all reason."

"So, then, father, you refuse for no other reason than prejudice against
the inequality of condition between Monsieur Lebrenn and me?"

"No other reason; but that suffices to make this union impossible."

"Monsieur John Lebrenn," then said Charlotte, advancing toward the
young artisan and tendering him her hand with a gesture full of grace
and dignity, "in the presence of God, who sees me and hears me,--you
have my pledge! I shall wed none other but you. I shall be your
wife,--or die a maid."

"Adieu, Charlotte, thou love of my life. I, too, shall be till death
true to my promise. Let us have faith in the future to break down all
barriers."

The betrothed exchanged a tender hand-clasp, and Charlotte, followed by
her mother, left the room; while John Lebrenn, bowing to Monsieur
Desmarais and his brother-in-law, withdrew without a word.




CHAPTER XV.

THE MYSTERIES OF THE PEOPLE.


While the Lebrenn family patiently awaited the outcome of John's visit
to advocate Desmarais, the blind old father, restored once more to his
humble hearth, was eager, if not to see--that faculty had long been
snatched from him--at least to touch again his beloved family relics,
carefully locked, along with their accompanying legends, in the walnut
cabinet. The Prince of Gerolstein was smitten with lively emotion as
Victoria deposited on the table, together with the parchments, or the
papers yellowed with age, those objects so precious to the family by
reason of the memories interwoven with them.

"Oh! Franz," said Victoria to the Prince with emotion, after having
contemplated at length the sacred relics transmitted in her family from
generation to generation for eighteen hundred years and more, "what
touching souvenirs! What woes, what miseries, what iniquities, what acts
of oppression, what tortures, are recalled to our memory by these
inanimate objects, witnesses of the age-long martyrdom of our plebeian
family. Malediction on our oppressors--Kings, men of the Church, men of
the sword!"

"Alas, our sad history is that of all enslaved people, oppressed from
age to age since the Frankish conquest," replied Franz of Gerolstein.
"If one should dare to doubt the right of this decisive and holy
Revolution which the taking of the Bastille this day ushers into being,
would not that right be proven by these legends inscribed in the tears
and blood of our fathers? What a heritage past generations hand down to
the present!"

"Perhaps the moment has come to act on the view expressed by our
ancestor Christian the printer," observed Monsieur Lebrenn. "He was of
the opinion that sooner or later it would be of value to publish our
legends, as a work of historic instruction for our brothers of the
people, kept till now in the densest ignorance concerning their own true
history."

"Nothing, in truth, could be more opportune. Aye, these tales, published
now under the title of the MYSTERIES OF THE PEOPLE, would have a
powerful influence on the spirit of the masses."

"The Society of Jesus is in our days still as active as of old," added
Victoria, thinking of her encounter with Abbot Morlet the previous
evening. "Facile in all disguises, the adepts of that body will without
doubt, as in the days of the League, take on the popular mask, in order
to drive the people to excesses and smother their cause under the
results of their own misguided exasperation. The recommendation of
Loyola, relative to our legends, has most certainly been preserved in
the archives of the Society, where the name of our family and those of
so many others are inscribed on their Index. We must expect, sooner or
later, some attempt on the part of these Jesuits to seize our records."

"Good father," assented Franz, "I share Victoria's uneasiness. Here is
what I would suggest: I know a retreat almost inaccessible to the
Jesuits. Let us thither transport the manuscripts; there they will be in
perfect safety. An energetic, intelligent, and discreet editor, for whom
I will vouch as for myself, shall to-morrow morning begin the copying of
the legends; and soon we shall be on the way to publish our Mysteries of
the People."

Further discussion of Franz's plan was interrupted by the return of John
Lebrenn. As soon as he entered the room, Victoria divined, by the
expression he wore, the ill success of his mission.

"Alas! Monsieur Desmarais has refused you the hand of his daughter?"

"It is true," replied John. "Charlotte made a solemn declaration, before
her assembled family, that she would never have another husband but me.
That is the sole favorable result of my errand."

"Son, listen, what noise is that!" suddenly exclaimed Madam Lebrenn,
turning her head toward the stairway. "There seems to be a gathering in
our yard."

With a crash the chamber door was flung open, and their neighbor Jerome,
who lodged on the same story, entered, pale, fearsome, and crying in a
voice of alarm:

"You are lost--they're coming up--there they are--they want to kill
you!"

Then arose from the staircase the noise of tumultuous steps, mingled
with cries of,

"Long live the Nation!"

"Death to the traitors!"

"To the lamp-post with the aristocrats!"

"Death to the nobles and those who support them!"

John Lebrenn, after sharing for a moment the surprise of his family,
cried out as he ran towards the door, "What do these men want?"

"It is a band of mad-men," answered Jerome, gasping. "They pretend that
there is a noblewoman here--some Marchioness or other whom they want to
hang to the lamp-post. Flee! Do not attempt resistance!"

At Jerome's words a light dawned upon Victoria. The Jesuit at Neroweg's
banquet had recognized her in the column of the victors of the Bastille!
It was he who had pointed her out to the swords of the assassins as a
Marchioness!

"As to me," quoth the Prince of Gerolstein, drawing two double-barrelled
pistols from his pockets, "I shall singe the heads of four of these
brigands!"

"Franz, let us see, first of all, to the defense of mother and father,"
cried Victoria; and drawing from its sheath the hunting knife which the
Prince carried at his side, she gripped the weapon with a virile hand,
and prepared to protect the aged man and his wife, who instinctively
retreated into a corner of the room.

All this occurred with the rapidity of thought. John, who, in spite of
the prayers and efforts of neighbor Jerome, had stepped out upon the
landing to see what manner of men were invading the house and mounting
the stairway, was immediately hurled back across the sill by Lehiron. A
dozen scoundrels armed with pikes and sabers were ranged on the landing
and the topmost stairs. Seizing his musket and clapping on the bayonet,
John then drew near to Franz and Victoria in order to cover with his
body his mother and father, who, mute and terrified, trembled at every
limb. Thus ranged, the two men and Victoria prepared to meet their
assailants.

Lehiron, who strode alone into the chamber, was taken aback by the
resolute attitude of the three. Franz, with his double-barrelled
pistols, covered the intruders; Victoria, fearless, her eyes flashing,
held aloft her hunting-knife; and John Lebrenn stood ready to plunge his
bayonet into the bandits' breasts. Suddenly little Rodin appeared. He
slipped through Lehiron's followers, entered the room, approached the
giant, made him a sign to stoop over, and then, stretching on tiptoes,
whispered in his ear:

"Don't forget the papers!"

"Hush, vermin, I know what's to be done here," retorted the Hercules;
and taking two steps toward John, whom he threatened with his cutlass,
he roared:

"Citizen Lebrenn, you play the people false! You are hiding here an
aristocrat, Marchioness Aldini--there she stands--" and Lehiron
designated Victoria with his weapon. "She is one of the harpies of the
Austrian party. She sat last night at the board of a royalist
council-feast. You are conspiring with her against the Nation. You will
deliver the jade to us, and also all the papers in your house, which are
claimed by justice. Quick! Or your lives shall pay the penalty."

"To the lamp-post with the noblewoman! Live the Nation! Death to the
traitors!" cried Lehiron's band of jackals, and brandishing their pikes
and swords they poured into the room. But the giant, held in awe by the
pistols trained upon him and not anxious to have recourse to force
except in the last extremity, waved back his brigands with a gesture and
addressed himself again to John:

"Deliver up the noblewoman and the papers, and your life will be spared.
But be quick about it."

"Helas! My God! Have pity on us!" murmured Madam Lebrenn, overcome with
terror and throwing her arms about her blind old husband.

"Out of here, you scoundrels!" was the answer of John Lebrenn. Lehiron
waved his hand to his gang of bandits and cried:

"Forward! To the lamp-post with the traitors!"

As the valiant leader of the cut-throats gave the command, he himself
leaped to one side and ducked his head to escape the pistol-fire of
Franz of Gerolstein. But the latter no less quickly changed the aim of
his weapon, and pulled the trigger. The giant flew back almost his full
length, flung out his arms, dropped his cutlass, tumbled to his knees,
and rolled over, face down, on the floor, almost mortally wounded.

All of a sudden, above the tumult was heard a cry of pain from Madam
Lebrenn:

"Oh, the wicked child! He is biting me!"

John turned, and while his two companions fell upon their adversaries,
ran to his mother and found her in a desperate struggle with little
Rodin. The latter, faithful to the tuition of his dear god-father, and
hoping to profit by the turmoil, was about to make off with the bundle
of manuscripts. Madam Lebrenn seized hold of him to take them away, and
the little rat had bitten her savagely on the hand. To snatch from the
Jesuit's god-son the treasured legends, seize him by the slack of his
pantaloons, and send him rolling ten paces away, was the work of an
instant for young Lebrenn. The terrible child, wriggling and sliding
like a snake between the legs of John's companions, gained the stairway
and escaped with his discomfited accomplices.

The attempted arrest of Victoria and theft of the legends added fuel to
the fears of the family on the machinations of the Jesuits. That very
day the Prince deposited in safe keeping the records and relics of the
family of Lebrenn.

       *       *       *       *       *

Two days after our interview, Charlotte Desmarais wrote to me, John
Lebrenn, a letter that was touching, and in all points worthy of her.
She informed me of her departure for Lyons, whither her mother was to
accompany her.

From the month of July, 1789, up till December, 1792, nothing of
importance occurred in our family save the death of our beloved parents.
My father died on the 11th of August, 1789; my mother, ill for years,
survived him but briefly; she expired in our arms on October 29th of the
same year.

Monsieur Desmarais continues to hold his seat at the extreme Left of the
National Assembly, near Robespierre. He defended Marat from the
tribunal, and makes one of the republican group headed by Brissot,
Camille Desmoulins, Condorcet and Bonneville. Formerly a member of the
Jacobin club, Desmarais later transferred his allegiance to the
Cordeliers. He seemed to fear losing his popularity, which he regards as
the safeguard of his property and perhaps of his life. Monsieur Hubert,
differently from his brother-in-law, has the courage of his convictions;
he declares frankly for the Moderates. The financier still commands the
battalion of the Daughters of St. Thomas, one of the most hostile to
the Revolution. Franz of Gerolstein was suddenly called to the side of
his father, who had been stricken gravely ill. Our relics and legends
are still in the place of security where he deposited them.

My sister Victoria shares my dwelling and lives on the proceeds of her
sempstress's trade. We have promised Franz to fall back on his aid in
case of necessity. I notice with disquietude the character of Victoria
growing somber apace; at times her revolutionary fervor becomes wild in
its exaltation. In vain I attempt to calm her, in vain I appeal to her
heart, to her good sense, in order to convince her that, apart from
cases of insurrection or legitimate defense, we must strike our enemies
only with the sword of the law, unorganized popular justice being always
blind in its execution.

"And when the sword of the law, confided to the hands of our enemies,
rusts in its sheath? When treason enwraps the great criminals from
justice, and insures them impunity, what shall the sovereign people do
then?" Victoria asks me.

To which I reply: "The sovereign people, the source and dispenser of all
power, by election, should depose its faithless officers at the
expiration of their term, and, if they be traitors, send them before
their natural judges. That is the rational course to pursue."

"No," my sister makes answer. "All these formalities are too slow. On
certain occasions the people should exterminate its enemies in the name
of public safety."

Alas, it was in the name of public safety that men, the most pure and
heroic of the Revolution, were one day to smite each other down, to the
profit of our eternal enemies.

Victoria did not soon again see the Count of Plouernel. Seized, in spite
of his braggadocio, with panic and alarm at the taking of the Bastille,
he was among the first to emigrate at the heels of the Count of Artois
and the Princes of Conti and Conde. We did not set eyes on him again
till 1793.

Lehiron survived his wound. Doubtless at the instigation of Abbot
Morlet, he later made a similar descent, I know not for what purpose,
upon an old and isolated house in St. Francois Street, in the Swamp,
occupied by an aged Jew and his wife. The Voyants had for a long time
held their meetings in this building. Lehiron's attempt upon it was
without result, according to what the Jew later told my sister, without,
however, going at all into the causes that led to it.

The interval between the months of July, 1789, and December, 1792, a
period so uneventful in our private life, was nevertheless fertile in
great occurrences in the life of the Nation, occurrences the importance
of which was immense. I have preserved these to our family legends by
means of extracts from a journal kept by me, in which, of an evening, I
would inscribe the striking events observed by Victoria and myself
during the day. To these notes I have often added salient passages from
the Revolutionary journals of the time--a heroic epoch which will leave
its mark on the annals of the people!




PART II.

THE BOURGEOIS REVOLUTION.




CHAPTER I.

THE NATION INSULTED--AND AVENGED.


The taking of the Bastille on July 14, 1789, dealt a mortal blow to the
power of the monarchy, the same as its influence and that of the
nobility and the clergy were wiped out when, upon the closing of the
Tennis Court at Versailles, and braving the orders of dissolution
pronounced by Louis XVI, the deputies of the Third Estate constituted
themselves a sovereign, constituent, and inviolable assembly. The
results of that immortal day of the Fourteenth of July were in the
highest degree advantageous to the cause of the people. The King was
forced to return to Paris to render homage to the popular victory, and
threw off the white cockade for the new national tricolor, blue, white,
and red.

The fall of the Bastille re-echoed throughout France. Everywhere the
people and the bourgeoisie of the towns rose against the representatives
of the royal power, and replaced them with municipal governors elected
by the citizens.

This general insurrection against royalty, and against the privileges of
nobility and clergy, threw into affright the Right side of the National
Assembly, where sat the most violent antagonists of the Revolution.

The Center of the Assembly, called by turns the Plain and the Swamp, had
no settled convictions whatsoever. The Left was almost entirely composed
of the deputies of the Third Estate, among whom, famous for their
eloquence, were Sieyes, Duport, and Barnave. On this side also were some
few scattering representatives of the nobility, such as the Duke of
Orleans, the Marquis of Lafayette, the Lameths, and, most illustrious of
all, the elder Mirabeau, a magnificent orator, but corrupt in his
private life. At the extreme Left sat a deputy, then obscure and next to
unknown, but destined soon to become the incarnation of the French
Revolution. 'Twas Maximilien Robespierre, attorney at the bar of Arras.

In one single night, the night of the 4th of August, 1789, the old
feudal edifice crumbled before the determined attitude of the nation. O,
sons of Joel, let us glorify the memory of our obscure ancestors, who
prepared the triumph of the Revolution.

The imperishable work of the National Assembly was the Declaration of
the Rights of Man. This monumental document embraced territorial and
administrative unity; social, civil, political and religious equality;
and above all, the formal recognition of the sovereignty of the people
as the source of all power and of all functions, which it delegated to
its representatives by election. Nevertheless we must admit that the
Constitution of 1789-1791 lacked much that it should have contained, and
contained much which it would have been better without. Such, for
instance, were its several breaches of the sovereignty of the people,
like the distinction drawn between "active" and "passive" citizens, the
two-degree election, and the requirement of a certain amount of direct
taxation to qualify one for election as a representative. The Convention
later corrected these injustices; but it must be noted that the
Constitution of 1789-91 made no provision for the rights of women. Our
Gallic fathers admitted women into their city councils, even when the
deliberations turned on matters of war. Equality of civil and political
rights for men and women should have figured at the very head of the
Constitution. The question of marriage should there have been taken up
and established as a matter of free unions, ruled by mutual tastes and
agreements. Property should also have been reorganized, and declared
collective in the state, the department, the district, or the commune,
according to its nature, and no individual should have possessed more
than a temporary title to the instrument of labor or the plot of ground
which he needed for his support, and which should have been assigned to
him gratuitously by the commune. The abolition of inheritance would have
logically followed, and the suppression of interest on capital. A system
of free, compulsory, and nonsectarian education should have been
proclaimed, and also the right to assistance during youth, old age,
illness or unemployment.

However that may be, and in spite of the regrettable omissions in the
Constitution, honor to the labors of the legislators of '79. The clergy,
the nobility, the monarchy, smitten in their prestige, in their
property, in their privileges, and in their temporal authority, received
their death blow. The National Assembly inaugurated the era of
enfranchisement. It could, with good right, date its work the Year I of
Liberty. But we must not forget that it was the revolutionary attitude
of the populace of Paris at the attack on the Bastille, that ushered in
our freedom.

But a fact often before made manifest, almost one century after another,
was now once more to come into play. The royal power, forced to grant
concessions, sought only how best to elude or annul them, employing to
this end, each in its turn, perfidy, perjury, and violence!

Soon the hostility of the court showed itself in the open. Louis XVI
refused to sanction the Declaration of the Rights of Man, the
corner-stone and basis of the Constitution, and opposed his veto to the
law attaching for sale the goods of the clergy. Thereupon, projects
fatal to liberty began to rear their heads with unheard-of insolence. On
October 1, 1789, the foreign troops were summoned to Versailles. The
Body Guard bespoke to a banquet the newly arrived officers, together
with those of the Montmorency Dragoons, the Swiss regiments, the
Hundred-Swiss, the mounted Police, and the Mayor's Guard. Several
monarchical captains, picked out from among the National Guard of
Versailles, were also invited. The officers of the army, instead of
wearing the national tricolored cockade, affectatiously displayed
enormous cockades of white. The Court was tendering to the Army a
sumptuous banquet, the expenses of which were paid by the King. The
tables were spread in the Opera Hall of the palace, which was
brilliantly lighted. The bands of the Flanders regiment and the Body
Guard played during the repast royalist or topical airs, such as "Long
Live Henry IV," or "O Richard, O My King, the World Is All Forsaking
Thee." The wine, liberally distributed, rose to all heads. They drained
their bumpers to the health of the royal family; one captain of the
National Guard proposed the health of the Nation; he was drowned with
hoots.

Soon the officers called in their soldiers, who were massed in all the
alcoves. Then the King entered the hall in a hunting habit, accompanied
by the Queen, who held the Dauphin by the hand. At the sight of Louis
XVI, the officers were transported with enthusiasm. The German
regimental band struck up the "March of the Uhlans," a foreign war song.
The drunkenness rose to frenzy. Insults and bloody threats were hurled
against the Revolution, against the Assembly. The cavalry trumpets
sounded the charge. The officers whipped out their sabers to cries of
"Long live the King!" The tricolored cockade was trampled under foot.
Then these rebels, dragging after them their soldiers, as drunk as
themselves, poured out into the courtyard of the palace, crying savage
imprecations against the Representatives of the people. The National
Assembly, intimidated, defenseless, surrounded by these saturnalia of
military force and placing little reliance in the National Guard of
Versailles, hardly dared show its fears. Unpardonable weakness!

But the people of Paris were watching in their clubs. The press sounded
the alarm.

"That Saturday night," wrote Camille Desmoulins in his journal,
_Revolutions of France and Brabant_, "Paris rises. It is a woman, who,
seeing that her husband is not listened to in his district meeting, is
first to run to Foy's Cafe, at the Palais Royal, and denounce the
royalist orgy. Marat flies to Versailles, returns like the lightning,
and cries to us, 'O ye dead,--awake!' Danton, on his part, thunders in
the club of the Cordeliers; and the next day this patriotic district
posts its manifesto demanding a march on Versailles. Everywhere the
people arm; they seek out the white cockades and the black ones, the
latter the Catholic rallying sign, and--just reprisals--trample them
under foot. Everywhere the people gather, discussing the imminence of
the danger. They hold councils in the gardens of the Palais Royal, in
the St. Antoine suburb, at the ends of the bridges, on the quays. They
say the hardihood of the nobility is growing visibly, that the boat
laden with flour, which arrives morning and night from Corbeil, has not
come at all for two days. Is the court, then, going to take Paris by
famine? They say that despite the orders of the Assembly, the local
councils are still functioning; that that of Toulouse is burning
patriotic leaflets; that the council of Rouen has ordered the seizure of
citizens acquitted by the Assembly; that the one of Paris has recorded
itself, and is obstinately determined to make use of its Gothic formulas
'Louis, by the grace of God, King' and 'Such is our good pleasure.' And
finally they say that conclaves are being held in the aristocrats'
mansions, and that they are secretly enrolling gangs of ruffians for the
court."

Loustalot, a fearless young man, a generous and noble character, and one
of the most brilliant spirits of his time, wrote in his journal, _The
Revolutions of Paris_ (No. XIII):

"There must be a _second burst of revolution_, we have maintained for
several days. Everything is ready for it. The soul of the aristocratic
party has not yet left the court! A crowd of Knights of St. Louis, of
old officers, of gentlemen, and of employes already included in the
reforms or desiring to be, have signed agreements to enlist in the Body
Guards or other troops. This roll includes already more than thirty
thousand names. The project of the court is to carry the King to Metz,
there to await foreign aid, in order to undertake a civil war and
exterminate the Revolution!"

And finally Marat, in _The Friend of the People_, of the 4th of October,
1789, gave the following advice, with that promptitude of decision, that
deep sagacity, and that admirable and practical good sense which were
his characteristics:

"The orgy has taken place! The alarm is general. There is not an instant
to lose. All good citizens should assemble in arms, and send strong
detachments to take possession of the powder at Essonne; let each
district supply itself with cannon from the City Hall. The National
Guard is not so senseless as not to join with us, and to take care of
its officers if they give orders hostile to the people. Finally, the
peril is so imminent that we are done for if the people does not
establish a tribunal and arm it with public powers!"

Admonished, enlightened, aroused by these ardent appeals to its
revolutionary spirit, Paris was soon assembled in insurrection. But,
strange and touching at once as it was, the signal for this new
revolution was given by the women. Flour and grain, by reason of the
court's complot, began to run low. A young girl of the market quarter
entered the barracks of the St. Eustace body guard, seized a drum, and
marched through the streets beating the charge, and crying "Bread!
Bread!" A great throng of women fell in behind her, and together they
invaded the City Hall, where the monarchical directorate was in session.
These virile Gallic women demanded arms and powder, exclaiming, "If the
men are too cowardly to go with us to Versailles, we shall go alone, and
demand bread of the King and avenge the insult to the national cockade!"
Stanislas Maillard, an usher and a Bastille-hero, addressed the
courageous women. They hailed him as their chief, and marched on
Versailles.

Close upon their heels a deputation of grenadiers of the National Guard
presented itself at the City Hall, and addressing Lafayette, their
General, held to him the following language:

"General, we are commissioned by six companies of grenadiers. We do not
yet wish to believe you a traitor, but we believe the government has
betrayed us. That must end! The people want bread, and cry for it. We
shall not turn our bayonets against women. The source of the evil is at
Versailles--let us go after the King and fetch him to Paris.
Chastisement is demanded for the Body Guards and the Flanders regiment,
who, at the royal orgy, trampled on the national cockade. If the King is
too weak to bear the crown, let him be deposed."

In the face of the exasperation of the people, Lafayette decided to take
horse, and himself gave the signal for departure. The National Guard
took the road for Versailles, preceded by an advance guard of about ten
thousand women. My sister Victoria joined the Amazons. From her I have
the following account of their expedition:

Along the way, they recruited their ranks steadily from among their own
sex. The Old Iron Quay was thronged with women recruiting agents and the
troops they had marshalled. The robust kitchen maid, the trim modiste,
and the humble sempstress, all swelled the phalanx of warriors. The old
devotee, who was on her way to mass, found herself carried off for the
first time in her life, and protested vehemently against the abduction!
The women elected a president and a council board. All who were
"borrowed" from their husbands or parents were first presented before
the president and her aides-de-camp, who pledged themselves to watch
over the morals and honor of all who joined the troop. And the promise
was religiously kept; not the slightest disorder marred the journey.

The vanguard of women arrived at Versailles. Usher Maillard counseled
his companions to send a committee of twelve to the National Assembly,
to request that several Representatives of the people be added to their
number to accompany them before the King. The Assembly granted their
request, and commissioned several of its members to conduct to the
palace the delegates of the women of Paris. The deputation was brought
before Louis XVI. He greeted the women with apparent good will, and
promised them to watch over the provisioning of Paris.

But during this very talk of the King with the delegation of women, a
plot was being hatched out for Louis's flight. The plot was discovered
in time, and the palace placed under the surveillance of the National
Guard. During the night, the multitude of men and women from Paris,
augmented by Lafayette's army, sought shelter in the churches, or
bivouacked on the palace grounds. At early dawn, several citizens,
seeing a trooper at one of the windows, addressed some insults to him.
The latter loaded his gun, took deliberate aim at a citizen, and killed
him. The pretorians of Louis XVI opened the fight. The Parisian women
and the National Guards, yielding to their legitimate indignation,
invaded the palace. Blood was shed. The victorious people demanded and
secured the return of the King and the royal family to Paris.

Such were the results of the days of the 5th and 6th of October, 1789.




CHAPTER II.

MIRABEAU.


At the end of that same year of 1789, the National Assembly decreed the
abolition of tithes, without redemption, and the immediate sale of the
properties of the clergy. The value of these properties amounted to more
than four thousand million francs. At the beginning of the year 1790,
the Assembly decreed itself the Convention. In that memorable session,
Mirabeau took the floor, concluding a magnificent speech with this
peroration:

"They ask since when the Deputies of the people have become a National
Convention? I reply, The day when, finding the entrance to their seats
blocked with soldiers, they adjourned to the Tennis Court, where they
swore to die rather than abandon the rights of the people! That day our
powers changed their nature, and those that we have exercised have been
legitimatized, sanctified, by the adherence of the people! I would
recall to you the words of that grand man of antiquity, who disregarded
the formal laws to save his country. Summoned before a factious tribunal
to answer, Whether he had observed the laws, he said, 'I swear that I
have saved the country!'" And turning toward the deputies, Mirabeau
concluded, "I swear that you have saved France!"

The entire Assembly rose to its feet with enthusiasm, and vowed that it
would disband only after the completion of its work.

In spite of this energetic attitude of the Assembly, the court continued
its intrigues against the Revolution. Louis XVI planned a new flight,
for the purpose of seeking aid from the foreign rulers. It was at this
moment that the great scandal occasioned by the discovery of the Red
Book electrified the city.

Deputy Camus had found among the papers whose surrender had been
demanded by the Committee on Finance, a certain ledger bound in red
morocco, containing the account of the secret expenses of Louis XV and
Louis XVI. In the items on this ledger figured princes, grand seigneurs,
and all the royal coterie. The Count of Artois, brother to the King, was
recorded as having, under the ministry of Calonne, put his fingers on
14,050,050 livres, merely for "extra expenses." Monsieur the Count of
Provence, another brother of the King, had gone through, for his part,
13,880,000 livres. Among the courtiers, the Polignac family was down for
700,000 livres pension: a Marquis of Autichamp for four several
pensions: the first for services of his late father; the second, for the
same object; the third, same reason; and the fourth--for the same cause.
A German prince was also the beneficiary of four pensions: first, for
his services as a colonel; the second, the same; the third, the same;
and the fourth, as a _non-colonel_. A certain Desgalois of La Tour was
drawing 22,720 livres as the total of his four pensions: the first, as
first president and intendant; the second as intendant and first
president; the third for the same considerations as above, etc., etc..

"At last we have it, the Red Book," wrote Camille Desmoulins with his
brilliant imagery and pitiless incisiveness. "The Committee on Finance
has broken all the seven seals which locked its fatal pages. Here is
fulfilled the terrible threat of the prophet, here it is accomplished
before the last judgment: _Revelabo pudentia tua_--I shall uncover your
shame!"

All the while inflaming the inhabitants in whatever provinces it could,
the clergy but awaited the opportune instant to blow into a blaze the
carefully sown sparks of civil war. The court and Louis XVI thought
themselves at the moment of triumph in having gained Mirabeau over to
their cause by the power of gold--Mirabeau, the mettlesome tribune, the
mighty orator, who had so far served the cause of liberty. Alas, it was
but too true. Consumed with a thirst for luxury and pleasures, that
great spirit had sold himself to the court for a million down and a
pension of a hundred thousand livres monthly.

But death did not permit him to enjoy the fruits of his treason. On the
2nd of April, 1791, he died. Some hours before his death he heard the
boom of cannon, and said, in his gigantic self-conceit, "Do they already
sound the knell of Achilles?" His last words, in which his treason
stands revealed, were: "I am in mourning for the monarchy; its remains
will be the prey of the malcontents."

The people, trusting and credulous, and ignorant as yet of the
renegading of their tribune, learned of his death with profound
consternation. I traveled over Paris that day. Everywhere the mourning
was deep. One would have thought a public calamity had fallen upon
France; people accosted one another with the words, impressed with
mournful despair: "Mirabeau is dead!" Tears flowed from all eyes. The
weeping multitude religiously followed the ashes of the great orator,
which were deposited in the Pantheon. Nevertheless two voices, two
prophetic voices, rose alone above this concert of civic commiseration,
protesting against the pious homage rendered to the memory of a traitor.

"As for me," wrote Camille Desmoulins in his journal, "when they raised
the mortuary cloth that covered the body of Mirabeau, and I saw the man
I had idolized, I vow I felt not a tear--I looked at him with an eye as
dry as Cicero's regarding the body of Caesar pierced with twenty-three
dagger-thrusts. It was the remains of a traitor."

And Marat, guided by a sort of intuition, wrote in _The Friend of the
People_ the day after Mirabeau's funeral: "Give thanks to the gods,
people! Your most redoubtable enemy is no more! He died the victim of
his many treasons, by the farsighted barbarism of his accomplices.[9]
The life of Mirabeau was stained with crimes. May a veil forever hide
that hideous picture. Mirabeau in the Pantheon! What man of integrity
would desire to repose beside him? The ashes of Rousseau, of
Montesquieu, would shudder to find themselves in company with the
traitor! Ah, if ever liberty is established in France, if ever some
legislator, according to what I may have done for the country, should
attempt to decree me the honors of the Pantheon, I here vigorously
protest against the black affront! Rather would I never die! Curses on
the name of Mirabeau."

Strange prophecy! Mirabeau's secret papers, discovered on August 10,
1792, in the King's secret Iron Cupboard in the Tuileries, laid bare
irrefutable proofs of his treason, and the National Convention on
November 27 of the following year, issued the following memorable
order:[10]

     "The National Convention, considering that there is no greatness in
     man without honor, decrees that the body of Honore Gabriel Riquetti
     Mirabeau be withdrawn from the Pantheon. The body of Marat shall be
     transferred thither."

Ah, sons of Joel! Never forget those sacred words, _There is no
greatness in man without honor_. For none was ever more exalted in
genius than Mirabeau! And nevertheless, the National Assembly,
responsive to a sentiment of justice and impartiality that reflects
honor on it, expelled from the Pantheon the body of the man of genius,
of the grand orator, of the fiery tribune who sold himself to the court,
and replaced it by that of Marat, the humble journalist, the man of
probity and disinterestedness, the friend of the people, the
incorruptible citizen.

The death of Mirabeau disconcerted the court of Louis XVI, and shattered
its hope of dominating, disarming, and vanquishing the Revolution by
means of the National Assembly; the court then resolved to execute a
project it had long been revolving, and had already vainly attempted at
Versailles, on the days of the 5th and 6th of October. That project was:

"The King shall fly to some fortified place on the frontiers. There,
surrounded by devoted troops under the command of a royalist general
(the Marquis of Bouille), Louis XVI shall protest solemnly to all Europe
against the usurpatory acts of the National Assembly, shall strongly
invoke against the French Revolution the spirit of solidarity which
ought to bind all sovereigns, and stamp out the revolt under the heel of
the foreign armies."

This criminal project Louis XVI was on the point of carrying out. But
Marat, always watchful, always prophetic, had, several days before the
flight of the King, denounced the fact in these terms in _The Friend of
the People_ (June 16, 1791):

"They are working might and main to get the King into the Netherlands,
on the pretext that his cause is that of all the Kings of Europe! You
will be brainless enough not to prevent the flight of the royal family.
Parisians--senseless people of Paris! I am tired of repeating it to you:
Hold fast the King and the Dauphin within our walls; watch them with
care; shut up the Queen, her brother-in-law, and her family. The loss of
one day may prove fatal to the nation and dig the graves of three
million Frenchmen."

Here I, John Lebrenn, begin the extracts from my journal.




CHAPTER III.

AT THE JACOBIN CLUB.


JUNE 21, 1791.--The expected has happened. To-day, early in the morning,
the rumor of the flight of Louis XVI and his family spread over Paris.

Victoria and I went out to observe what impression the desertion of the
King and Queen would make upon the people. An innumerable multitude
covered the garden of the Palais Royal, the place before the City Hall,
and the grounds of the Tuileries and the National Assembly. At ten
o'clock in the morning the municipal officers fired three cannon as an
alarm. The tocsin sounded, the drums of the National Guard rang out the
"assembly." The confusion was indescribable.

In the course of our travels we met Monsieur Hubert. It was the first
time I had come face to face with him since the day I asked his niece in
marriage. In full uniform, the banker was repairing to his Section,
where his royalist district battalion, the Daughters of St. Thomas, was
assembling. He approached me and cried brusquely:

"Well? The King has gone. But we don't want the Republic, and shall
defend the Constitution to the death."

"What Constitution do you pretend to defend?" replied Victoria. "The
Constitution recognizes a hereditary King, the King absconds.
Circumstances themselves demand the Republic."

Hubert was dumb for a moment. Then he said, "Citizeness! The Assembly
will name Lafayette provisionally Protector of the kingdom. For the
rest, the Assembly has sent commissioners after the King, and we hope
that they will succeed in reaching him before he gains the frontier. The
question will be simplified."

At that moment a flux of the crowd tore Victoria and me away, and
carried us on towards the palace of the Tuileries. The sentinels at the
foot of the great stairway allowed everyone up into the apartments. The
thronging visitors were, like ourselves, all under the influence of a
mocking curiosity, remembering, as they did, that the monarch who
inhabited these sumptuous apartments complained of the insufficiency of
his 40,000,000 francs on the civil list, and pretended that he could not
procure the necessaries of life. Leaving the palace again, we followed
the boulevards back to the St. Antoine suburb. Everywhere were
manifested aversion for royalty, contempt for the person of Louis XVI,
and hatred for the Austrian, Marie Antoinette.

Several organs of the patriotic press lent their encouragement to the
republican tendencies in the air, either by openly demanding the
Republic, or by insisting that Louis had forfeited his title. Marat, in
_The Friend of the People_, voiced in these words the indignation of the
people against the King, the court, and the ministers:

"Citizens, Louis XVI has this night taken flight.... This King,
perjured, faithless, without shame, without remorse, has gone to join
the foreign Kings, his accomplices. The thirst for absolute power which
devours his soul will soon turn him into a ferocious assassin. He will
return to steep himself in the blood of _his subjects_, who refuse to
submit to his tyrannical yoke.... And, as he waits, he laughs at the
dullness of the Parisians, who took him at his word.... Citizens, you
are lost, if you give ear to the National Assembly, which will not cease
to cajole you, to lull you to sleep, until the enemy has arrived under
our walls! Despatch this instant couriers to the Departments. Call the
federated Bretons to your aid! Make yourselves masters of the arsenal.
Disarm the mounted constables, the guards at the gates, the patrols of
the fortifications, the hired troops--all counter-revolutionists!
Citizens, name within the hour a pitiless dictator, who, with the same
blow, will sever the heads of the ministers, of their subalterns, of
Lafayette, of all the scoundrels of his staff, of all the
counter-revolutionists, of all the traitors in the National Assembly."

In his _Revolutions of France_, Camille Desmoulins, with his brilliant
mockery, characterized the situation thus:

"The King has fired point blank on the Nation; the shot has hung fire.
Now it is the Nation's turn to shoot. Doubtless it will disdain to
measure itself against a disarmed man, even if he be a King! And I would
be the first to fire in the air--but the aggressor must beg of me his
life."

Placards, inscriptions of all nature, posted on the walls of Paris,
powerfully stirred the opinions of the people. Towards the close of the
day, the journal called _The Mouth of Iron_ published in a supplement a
proclamation addressed to the French by Louis XVI, which had been seized
at the domicile of Laporte, one of the onhangers at court, who had been
commissioned to print it and flood Paris with it.

"The King," so declared the manifesto, "has for a long time hoped to see
order and happiness restored by the Assembly; he renounces that hope.
The safety of persons and of property is compromised. Anarchy is
everywhere. The King, considering himself a prisoner during his forced
stay in Paris, protests against all the acts of the Assembly, and
against the Constitution, which outrages the Church, and degrades
royalty, subordinating it to the Assembly, reducing it to an
insufficient civil list, etc., etc. In the face of such motives, in the
disability under which I labor of stopping the evil, I had to seek my
own safety. Frenchmen, you whom I call the inhabitants of my good city
of Paris, beware of these insurgents! Return to your King! He will be
always your friend, when our holy religion is respected, when the
government is stable, and when liberty is established on unshakable
foundations!

"_Signed_,

LOUIS."

Hard by the site of the Bastille, on a pile of the ruins of the
fortress, a young citizen, who by the elegance of his dress and the
careful powdering of his hair seemed to be of the upper bourgeoisie,
made the following motion:

"Gentlemen, in the present state of affairs, it would be very
unfortunate for our disgraceful and perfidious King to be brought back
to us! What can we do with him? This fugitive will come like Thersite,
shedding those fat tears of which Homer speaks. So, then, if they commit
the enormous mistake of bringing Louis XVI back to us, I propose this
motion: That the Executive be exposed three days to public ridicule.
That he be conducted by stages to the frontier, and that there the
commissioners of the Republic who shall have so far escorted him shall
solemnly present to this last of the Kings--their boots in his rear, and
send him to the devil."

This novel motion was received on the part of all who heard it with
shouts of laughter and applause. "Yes, yes! Let them plant their boots
in the royal rear!" they echoed.

Such, in short, was the spirit of Paris on the 21st of June, 1791. The
bulk of the bourgeoisie, thunder-struck at the absconding of its King,
was resolved, in case the commissioners despatched by the Assembly were
unable to overtake Louis XVI and bring him back, to shelter itself
behind the protectorate offered to Lafayette, if they should fail to
induce the Duke of Orleans to accept the constitutional royalty. The
people on the contrary, were rejoiced to be rid of the King, and looked
forward to a Republic.

That evening we attended the Jacobin Club, where a great audience was
packed.

O, sons of Joel! I know not how to depict for you the emotions of
patriotism, mingled with respect, with which we, the contemporaries of
the great days of the Revolution, entered this ancient hall of the
Convent of the Jacobins in St. Honore Street, an immense hall, with
walls of stone blackened and crumbled with age, lighted only by a few
tapers placed on a heavy table, behind which sat the president and
secretaries of the club.

The Jacobin Club was the revolutionary church most frequented by the
people. In that plebeian forum were debated the great questions that
agitated Paris, France, Europe! It was from that hearth glowing with
patriotism that radiated the civic virtues which from one end of the
country to the other fired all hearts. The Club of the Jacobins was the
political school of the proletariat; it was there that the workingmen
took direct hold of public affairs; it was in the midst of its
tempestuous debates that the opinion of the people cleared itself and
took form, whence it often went to weigh, with no negligible force, upon
the deliberations of the National Assembly. It was from the heights of
the ringing tribunal of the Jacobins that the vigilant citizens watched
and heralded the manoeuvres of our enemies, and kept their eyes on the
public functionaries; it was from this popular tribunal that issued the
cries of mistrust or alarm. It was, in brief, from this tribunal that
the patriots, at the approach of grave perils, reawoke the slumbering,
misled or wearied public opinion, infused into it new activity, and
rekindled in it the fever of revolution--a sublime mission!

Alas, by an unexplainable error of judgment, or of political tact, the
Jacobins on the 21st of June, the day of the flight of Louis XVI, did
not respond to the prayers of the people. The Jacobins did not profit by
the circumstance, as favorable as unexpected, of the desertion of the
King, to demand of the National Assembly, in the name of the
Constitution, that the title of Louis XVI be declared forfeit. In this
meeting, otherwise so moving, the conduct of the Jacobins was
indecisive, equivocal, and blameworthy; for, in a revolution, not to
profit by every favorable event is an unpardonable fault. A single error
brings defeat.

When, about eight in the evening, Victoria and I entered the hall of the
Jacobins, the chamber and the galleries were packed with spectators
drawn thither by the importance of the debates which the events of the
day were expected to call forth. Men, women, young girls, waited with
feverish impatience for the meeting to be thrown open. One of the
striking features of our revolution was the passionate interest taken by
women in the affairs of the community; already, sons of Joel, you have
seen them, these valiant Gallic women, taking as virile a part in action
as in discussion, like their mothers of Gaul in the centuries agone.

The members of the bureau of the club took their places, and the tumult
hushed. Citizen Prieur, of La Marne, presided; at his sides were the
secretaries, Goncourt, Chery, Jr., Lampidor, and Danjou. The president
rang his bell, and announced the reading of an address sent to all the
societies in the departments, which were in correspondence with the
central club. Thus was explained the marvelous unanimity between the
parent society of the Jacobins and the affiliated societies in the
provinces. A profound silence now reigned in the chamber, while Citizen
Danjou read the address:

     "Brothers and friends:

     "The King, led astray by criminal suggestions, has separated
     himself from the National Assembly. Far from being downcast over
     this development, our courage and that of our fellow citizens is
     risen to the emergency. Not a shadow of trouble, not a disordered
     movement, has accompanied the impression made upon us by this fact.

     "A calm and determined firmness leaves us the disposition of all
     our forces; consecrated to the defense of a great cause, they will
     be victorious!

     "All divisions are forgotten, all patriots are united. The National
     Assembly--that is our guide; the Constitution--that is our rallying
     cry."

It would be difficult to express the surprise, the disfavor, I had
almost said the sorrow, which were produced in the audience by the
reading of this opiate-laden manifesto, accepted by the majority of the
members of the club.

But unexpectedly Camille Desmoulins appeared on the scene. He strode
toward the tribunal and demanded of the president the floor for a
communication he had to make to the Jacobins. Though still a young man,
Desmoulins was an influential member of the Club of the Cordeliers. His
physiognomy was expressive, ironical, and finely cut. He leaped to the
platform, and in his incisive voice, while sober in gesture and bearing,
he let loose his biting sarcasm:

"Citizens, while the National Assembly decrees--and decrees and decrees
and never lets up decreeing--as much good as bad, and more bad than
good--the people is acting admirably as police; and, showing itself no
less a friend of provisional rule than the Assembly, it has decreed that
all pillagers shall be provisionally--hanged to the lamp-post. Crossing
Voltaire Quay just now, I saw Lafayette preparing to review the
batallions of the blue-bonnets, drawn up on the quay. Convinced of the
need of uniting on one leader, I yielded to an attraction which drew me
over to the famous white horse. 'Monsieur Lafayette,' I called to him,
'I have indeed said some evil of you during the year, and thought no
less. Now is the time to convict me of false testimony in safeguarding
public affairs!' 'I have always known you for a good citizen,' gallantly
replied the General, holding out his hand to me; 'the common danger has
united all parties. There is no longer in the Assembly but one single
spirit!'--'One single spirit! That is very few for so numerous and
illustrious an assembly,' quoth I to the General. 'But why does this
single soul of the Assembly affect to speak in its decrees of the
_carrying off_ of the King, when the Executive writes to the Assembly
that no one is carrying him off at all, that he is going himself? I can
pardon the lie of a servant who lies in the fear of losing his place if
he tells the truth,' continued I, 'but the Assembly is not, to my
knowledge, the servant of the Executive, whether present or in flight.
The Assembly has three million pikes and bayonets at its service.
Whence, then, comes the baseness, or the treason, which dictated to it
such a vile falsehood!' '_The carrying off of the King!_ The Assembly
will correct that mistake in wording,' the General answered me. And he
added several times, 'The conduct of the King is indeed infamous.'"

Camille Desmoulins stopped. He had seen Robespierre enter the hall, and
prepared to descend from the tribunal, saying with cordial deference:

"Here is my friend and master. I yield him the floor."

Had it not been for the certainty of hearing Robespierre, the audience
would undoubtedly have insisted on the completion of the lively oration
just begun. But Robespierre was one of the most esteemed orators of the
Jacobin Club, a high appreciation which he merited by his great talent,
his tireless energy, the loftiness of his character, his integrity, the
austerity of his morals, and his devotion to the revolutionary cause.
Unhappily, that medal had a reverse: Robespierre carried his mistrust of
men to an extreme; he showed himself always cold, harsh, and suspicious,
to the point of committing acts of injustice towards citizens as
devoted as himself to the public cause, but who had the pretension to
serve it by means different from his.

The deep silence in the hall was re-established. The scattering
conversation ceased. Robespierre was on the platform. His features,
ordinarily impassible as a mask of marble, were now marked with a bitter
irony, and he uttered his words in a voice that was at once curt,
sonorous and metallic:

"It is not to me, citizens, that the flight of the first functionary of
the State comes as a disastrous event. This day could be the finest day
of the Revolution. It can still become so! The recovery of the forty
millions which the entertainment of this royal individual costs would be
the least of its blessings. But for that, citizens, other measures must
be taken than those adopted by the National Assembly. And I seized the
moment when the session was suspended to come here to speak to you of
these measures, which there they do not allow me to propose. In
deserting now his post, the King has chosen the very moment when the
priests are trying to raise up against the Constitution all the idiots
and blind-men who have survived the light of philosophy in the whole
eighty-three departments of France; the moment when the Emperor of
Austria and the King of Sweden are at Brussells to receive this perjured
and deserting King. That does not alarm me a bit. Oh, no! Let Europe
league herself against us--the Revolution will conquer Europe!

"No, I fear not the coalition of Kings," continued Robespierre, in a
tone of proud disdain. "But do you know, fellow citizens, what frightens
me? It is to hear our enemies hold the same language as we, it is to
hear them exclaim like us, that we must rally to the defense of the
Constitution. Louis XVI does not count alone on the assistance of
foreign forces to re-enter his kingdom in triumph; he counts as well on
the support of a party within, which to-day wears the mask of
patriotism; of that party the National Assembly is the accomplice."

This new affirmation, so clear, so precise, of the culpable conduct of
the Assembly excited afresh the murmurs of the Jacobins and the applause
of the people. Every ear was strained to catch, with anxious impatience,
the measures which Robespierre was about to announce as necessary to
make this the most splendid day of the Revolution.

"What I have just said to you is the exact truth," proceeded Robespierre
solemnly. "But could I make the National Assembly listen to the truth?
No! I was not heard. Ah, I know, this denunciation is dangerous for me.
What does that matter--it is useful for the public good. This
denunciation will sharpen for me a thousand poniards! I shall become an
object of hatred to my colleagues of the Assembly, who are nearly all
counter-revolutionists--some through ignorance, others through fear,
some through private reasons, others through blind confidence, others
through corruption. I devote myself to hate--to death. I know it!" added
Robespierre, with stoical tranquility.

"Ah! when, still unknown, I sat in the Assembly, I had already made the
sacrifice of my life to truth, to the country. But to-day, when I owe so
much to the recognition, to the love of my friends, I accept death as a
blessing. It will prevent me from witnessing inevitable evils."

Then, overcoming his passing emotion and returning to his natural
inflexibility of bearing, he added in a voice short and firm:

"I have just held trial over the Assembly; now let it hold trial over
me!"

The conclusion of this discourse produced an extraordinary effect upon
the audience, and when Robespierre left the platform, the Jacobins rose
with one spontaneous motion. Camille Desmoulins ran to the orator, and,
his face moist with tears, said to Robespierre as he clasped him in a
fraternal embrace:

"We shall die with you!"

One of the striking characteristics of Robespierre's policy was never to
venture a motion when its success was problematical. Hence the apparent
contradiction between the beginning and the end of the address he had
just delivered. He had evidently intended to advise prompt and decisive
measures against the royal power and against the Assembly; but, feeling
the ground, and becoming assured that the measures he had to propose
would meet with opposition among the Jacobins, Robespierre considered it
wiser, more politic, to temporize, and to confine himself to casting
suspicion upon the National Assembly.

Almost as soon as Robespierre left the tribunal, there were seen to
enter the hall first Danton, a man of energy and action, and then
Lafayette.

The presence of these two men, personifying respectively action and
reaction, revolution and counter-revolution, drew forth from the meeting
an obstreperous manifestation, part acclamation, part hisses. The
exteriors of these two men offered a contrast in keeping with that of
their opinions.

The young Marquis of Lafayette, tall of stature, slim, urbane, presented
the accepted type of the grand seigneur. He wore with grace his uniform
of commander-in-chief of the National Guard. Booted and spurred, his
sword at his side, his hat under his arm, he entered that darksome hall
where on every face he could read the sentiments of hostility which he
called forth; and yet he advanced with the same aristocratic ease with
which he would have presented himself in the Oeil-de-Boeuf, or court
circle, at Versailles. His intrepid front bespoke the man insensible to
danger; his piercing yet ever indecisive and fugitive glance, revealed a
habit of conduct stamped with capability and cunning, yet always veering
with his ambitions, and as changeable and diverse as the events which
gave them birth; finally, his smile, which was almost invariably
affable, courteous and insinuating, seemed to be ever courting
popularity.

Danton, though also young and of athletic build, was careless of dress.
The ill-restrained mettle of his carriage, his flashing eye, his
countenance at once sensual and bold, idealistic and tender; his robust,
sanguine and exuberant make-up, all bore testimony to the most
contradictory qualities within him,--vices and virtues; energy and
weakness; appalling cruelty and inexpressible, deep-seated tenderness;
pettiness and heroism.

The presence of Danton in the hall of the Jacobins reawoke, re-excited
the people. "There is Danton! There is Danton!" were the words which ran
through the assembly with a thrill of curiosity, sympathy and
confidence.

Danton mounted the tribunal, and in his thundering voice cried out:

"Citizens, on the result of this session hangs perhaps the safety of the
country! The first functionary of the State has disappeared! Here, in
this meeting, are assembled the men charged with the regeneration of
France--some powerful in their genius, others in their influence! France
will be saved if all internal dissension is hushed. That has not yet
been done. Experience reveals to us the extent of our woes. I ought to
speak, I shall speak, as if I were engraving history for posterity!

"And first," pursued Danton, indicating Lafayette with a gesture of
contempt, "and first I interpellate Monsieur Lafayette, here present. I
ask him what he has come to do here--he, at the Jacobins? He the signer
of so many projected laws directed against liberty! He who demanded the
dissolution of the Jacobin Club, composed almost entirely, according to
him, of men without law, subsidized to perpetuate anarchy! He, who
triumphantly led the inhabitants of the suburb of St. Antoine to the
destruction of the dungeon of Vincennes, that last den of tyranny, and
who, the same evening, accorded protection to the assassins who were
armed with poniards to assist the King in his flight! Let us not deceive
ourselves! That flight is the result of a conspiracy in which the public
officials were confederates. And you, Lafayette, who answered with your
head for the person of Louis XVI, have you paid your debt?"

In spite of this vehement apostrophe, which drew the applause of the
people, Lafayette maintained his imperturbable coolness. He smiled, and
indicated with a nod of his head that he wished to reply to the speaker.

"Citizens," continued Danton, "in order to save France, the people must
take great satisfaction, and establish radical reforms. The people is
tired of being braved by its enemies. It is anxious to send them back to
oblivion. It is not a matter of altering the principle of the
irrevocability of the Representatives of the people, but of expelling
from the National Assembly and delivering to justice those of the
deputies who call down civil war upon France by the audacity of an
infamous rebellion. But if the voice of the defenders of the people is
smothered, if our guilty officers put the country in danger, I shall
appeal from them to posterity. It is for it to judge between them and
me!"--

And Danton left the tribunal.

Great was the consternation of the populace, thus a second time deceived
in its hopes; for the legitimate accusations hurled by the orator at
Lafayette, and the vague proposition to drive the traitors from the
Assembly, led to no positive measure, indicated no means of providing
for the safety of the nation.

Lafayette stepped upon the platform just vacated by Danton. He
comfortably established himself there. Then, bowing with a grand air to
the assembly, he laid down his hat, and said in a calm voice and with
accents of perfect courtesy:

"Gentlemen, one of messieurs my predecessors did me the honor to ask why
I had come to the Jacobins. I come to them because it is to them that
all citizens should come in these times of crises and alarms. More than
ever, gentlemen, must we now fight for liberty. I said among the first:
'A people that wishes to become free, holds its destiny in its own
hands.' I was never more sure of liberty than after enjoying the
spectacle presented to us by the capital during this day."

After a second obeisance to the audience, no less courteous than the
first, the Marquis of Lafayette descended from the tribunal and quickly
gained the door of the hall.




CHAPTER IV.

THE KING ARRESTED.


JUNE 26, 1791.--Last night Victoria and I were present at the return of
Louis XVI to Paris. The King was arrested at Varennes, on the night of
the 22nd of June. Citizen Drouet, an old dragoon and now
master-of-the-post at St. Menehould, recognized Louis XVI under his
disguise of valet-de-chambre while the coaches of the fugitive King were
changing horses in his hostlery. The Queen, armed with a false passport,
was traveling under the name of the Baroness of Korff and suite. Citizen
Drouet did not dare arrest the fugitives at St. Menehould, the carriages
being escorted by one of the detachments of dragoons and hussars which
the Marquis of Bouille, commander-in-chief at Metz, and accomplice in
the flight of the King, had stationed along the road from Paris to the
frontier. But after the departure of the royal coach Drouet took horse
with one of his postillions, and following a short cut, arrived at
Varennes ahead of the mysterious travelers. It was midnight. He at once
gave the alarm and announced the speedy arrival of Louis XVI. The
National Guard assembled under arms, and proceeded to arrest the King
immediately upon his entering the town. Louis and his family were
conveyed back to Paris by Barnave and Petion, the committee-men whom
the Assembly had despatched on that errand.

During the days that elapsed between the King's flight and his forced
return to Paris, diverse shades of opinion made themselves manifest in
the capital. Brissot, in his journal, _The French Patriot_, summed up in
clear and concise terms the consequences of the events which for five
days had been agitating the city.

"What is to be done in the present circumstances?" said he. "Six plans
are proposed: To abolish royalty and substitute for it a Republican
government. To let the question of the King and royalty go before the
nation for judgment. To judge the King by a national court. To demand
his abdication. To remove Louis Capet and name a Regent--and, finally,
to leave the King on the throne, and give him an elective cabinet. The
first proposition is comprehensive: An end of Kings; let us be
Republicans."

The sentiment for a Republic was growing greatly, as also was the public
indignation against Louis XVI, and against the constitutionalist
majority of the Assembly. Several causes worked toward these results,
chief among them being the manifesto of the Marquis of Bouille, the
monarchist commander, addressed to the people, and winding up with the
threat:

     I know my forces. Soon your chastisement will serve as a memorable
     example to posterity! That is how a man must speak to you in whom
     you at first inspired pity. Accuse no one of conspiracy against
     your infernal Constitution. The King did not give the orders that
     have been given: I alone have ordered everything. Against me, then,
     whet your daggers and prepare your poisons. You shall answer for
     the days of the King to all the Kings of the world. Touch a hair
     of his head, and there will not remain one stone upon another in
     Paris. I know the roads. I shall conduct the foreign armies.
     Farewell, messieurs; I end without comment. You know my sentiments.

     MARQUIS OF BOUILLE.

These insults, these menaces, addressed to the Revolution, to France in
the name of all the Kings of the world by a royalist confidant and
accomplice of Louis XVI, by a general who, "knowing the roads, would
lead the foreign armies upon Paris, of which he would not leave one
stone upon another," unveiled, with brutal frankness, the plan of the
federated sovereigns. Nevertheless, such was the blindness of the
National Assembly that instead of declaring the deposition of Louis XVI
and bringing him before their bar, they contented themselves with
decreeing: "That a guard be given to the King to be responsible for his
person, and that the accomplices of his flight be examined by the
committee-men of the Assembly, who will also hear the statements of
Louis XVI and the Queen."

We went, Victoria and I, to the Elysian Fields, about six in the evening
of the 25th of June, to be present at the entry of Louis into his good
city of Paris.

A vast concourse of people covered the Elysian Fields and Louis XV
Place. After great effort we succeeded in drawing near to the double
cordon formed by the National Guard to allow a free passage to the royal
cortege. A murmur beginning in the distance and drawing nearer and
nearer announced the arrival of the King. General Lafayette passed by at
a gallop, escorted by a brilliant staff of blue-bonnets, on his way to
meet the carriages.

The brave Santerre, so highly esteemed by the inhabitants of the St.
Antoine suburb, also passed by on horseback to join the royal escort. He
was accompanied by two patriots, Fournier the American, and the Marquis
of St. Huruque, one of those aristocrats who embraced the revolutionary
cause. Santerre advanced at the head of his battalion, recruited among
the districts of St. Antoine. Nearly every citizen in that corps, too
needy to purchase a uniform, was dressed in his workman's habiliments.
The greater part of them bore pike-staffs in lieu of guns. The aspect of
these men--their half-bared breasts, their honest, energetic and bluff
faces, their resolute attitude, their every-day working clothes, and
their proletarian woolen caps--offered a striking contrast to that of
the "Bearskins," as were called, from their head-gear, the grenadiers of
the National Guard from the districts in the center of Paris, nearly all
constitutional monarchists.

Soon, repeated nearer and nearer, were heard the words: "Here comes the
King! Here comes Capet! Here are Monsieur and Madam Veto!" All eyes were
turned toward the royal equipages. As they drove by, a storm began to
gather, the lightning flickered and the thunder growled; the heavens
grew dark and lent a doleful illumination to the spectacle of which we
were the witnesses. A battalion of the National Guard, preceded by
Lafayette's staff-officers, led the way; then came the two royal
coaches. Ah, this was no longer the time of monarchic splendors, paid
for out of the sweat of an enslaved people! This was no longer the time
of gilded coaches, surrounded by pages and lackeys, and fleetly drawn by
eight horses richly caparisoned, preceded by outriders in dashing
liveries, escorted by equerries, guards, and gentlemen loaded with gold
and silver broideries, and flashing like a dazzling whirlwind along the
avenues of the royal parks!

The first of the two carriages in which the royal family and its suite
were riding under escort, was an enormous yellow berlin, which had
served Louis in his flight. Covered with dust and mire, it was dragged
by six post-horses harnessed on with ropes, and mounted by postillions
whose hats bore long tricolored ribbons and cockades.

The carriage went by at a walk, giving all a good view of the royal
family. Louis XVI was dressed in a maroon suit with a straight
collar--his disguise as valet-de-chambre to the pretended Baroness of
Korff. He occupied a seat at the right, in the bottom of the berlin, at
the side of which General Lafayette strutted on horseback. The bloated
face of Louis XVI, imprinted with the spineless inertia of his
character, expressed neither fear, nor anger, nor surprise. With his
elbow he nudged the Queen, who was seated beside him, and pointed out to
her with his finger one of the placards, which bore in large letters the
words: "Silence, and remain covered, citizens. The King is to pass
before his judges."

In the front part of the carriage we saw the King's sister, Madam
Elizabeth, her face sad and sweet. She seemed greatly afraid, and held
her eyes cast down. Close beside her was Petion, one of the
commissioners of the Assembly, grave and severe. The other commissioner,
Barnave, one of the chiefs of the Girondin party, a fine-looking young
man, attached at times a furtive but passionate gaze upon Marie
Antoinette, with whom, according to report, he was already seriously
smitten. Between his knees he held the Dauphin, Marie Antoinette's son,
a pretty child with golden curly hair, who laughed and smiled with
boyish carefreeness.

The second coach contained the personages of the court who had
participated in the King's escape. Next came a little open carriage
trimmed with green twigs from which floated the tricolored flag. In this
vehicle, standing erect, in an attitude of triumph, rode Drouet the
post-keeper and his postillion William, both of whom had helped bring
about the arrest of the King at Varennes.

The procession was closed by the St. Antoine battalion, commanded by
Santerre. As it came in sight the people cried with one voice, "Long
live the law! Long live the Nation!" Then the storm broke over Paris,
and amidst such exclamations, mingled with the crashing of thunder,
Louis XVI entered as a prisoner the palace of his fathers.

Such was the blindness of the Assembly in its bourgeois egotism, in its
mistrust of the people, in its absurd hatred of republican government,
that it still thought to impose upon France the authority of this King,
disgraced, despised even by his own partisans, and convicted of perjury,
treason, and conspiracy with the foreigner.




CHAPTER V.

THE DAY OF THE FIELD OF MARS.


JULY 17, 1791 (Midnight).--I have just returned to our lodging, my
spirits still in the grip of horror and affright. I have been at the
massacre of the Field of Mars. Curses upon Lafayette!

The recital of this mournful event, which must be charged to the
bourgeoisie, will be of service to the sons of Joel.

From early morning, the weather was magnificent. Not a cloud flecked the
azure of the sky. A great mass of people, myself among them, directed
their steps toward the Field of Mars, men, women and children in holiday
apparel. Every face breathed joy, and on all countenances shone
satisfaction. At least as many women as citizens were in the throng.
They, also, felt a legitimate pride in being able to prove their
devotion to civic duty by affixing their names to a petition destined
for the National Assembly.

About half after eight in the morning, as I reached Great Rock, near one
of the gates of the esplanade of the Field of Mars, I heard shouts, and
almost immediately the crowd before me turned and fell away on either
side, as if a prey to some unspeakable horror. Then I saw approaching
the giant Lehiron, marching at the head of a band of his
brigands--Lehiron, whom I had thought killed by Franz of Gerolstein, but
who, recovered from his wound, reappeared before my eyes. On the end of
a pike the villain carried a freshly severed head; one of his disciples
carried a second head likewise transfixed on a pike-staff, and shouted:
"Death to the aristocrats! To the lamp-post with the enemies of the
people!" Several vixens, drunk and in tatters, had joined the assassins
and echoed their cries of death. In the group I recognized, through
their feminine masquerade, Abbot Morlet and his god-son, little Rodin.

The band of murderers with their frightful trophies passed before me
like a horrid vision.

At last, about two o'clock in the afternoon, a deputation of Jacobins
arrived. The spokesman informed the eager and attentive crowd that an
address proposed the evening before had been withdrawn by the club, as
it might be construed as a rebellion against the Assembly. The people
were for an instant rendered dumb by disappointment. A number of voices
cried out:

"Then draw us up another petition. We will sign it!"

The Jacobin spokesman and four chosen from among his fellow delegates,
Citizens Peyre, Vachart, Robert, and Demoy, drew up on the instant an
address, which Citizen Demoy read, as follows:

     "ON THE ALTAR OF THE COUNTRY,

     "FIELD OF MARS, JULY 17 OF THE YEAR III OF LIBERTY.

     "Representatives of the Nation:

     "You are approaching the end of your labors. A great crime has been
     committed. Louis XVI flees, unworthily abandons his post. The
     citizens arrest him at Varennes. He is brought back to Paris. The
     people of the capital immediately demand that the fate of the
     guilty one be left undecided until an expression of opinion be
     obtained from the eighty-three departments of France. A multitude
     of addresses demanded of you that you pass judgment on Louis XVI.
     You, gentlemen, have prejudged him innocent and inviolable!

     "Legislators, such was not the opinion of the people. Justice must
     be done.

     "Everything compels us to demand of you, in the name of all France,
     that you reconsider your decision, that you hold that the offense
     of Louis XVI is proven; that the King, by the very fact of his
     flight, has abdicated.

     "Receive, then, his abdication.

     "Legislators, convoke a new constituent power, which will proceed
     in a truly national manner to deal with this guilty King, and above
     all to the organization of a new executive power.

     "Signed:

     "PEYRE,

     "VACHART,

     "ROBERT,

     "DEMOY."

The reading of the petition, concise, measured in terms, but marked with
energy, was received with unanimous applause. Its summary tenor,
repeated from mouth to mouth down the whole length of the Field of Mars,
received the assent of everyone. Then began an admirable scene. The
petitioners, men, women and children, forming in long files, in perfect
order, to the left of the staging, stopped one by one at the foot of the
Altar of the Country, placing their signatures upon the thick book,
whose many pages were bound together with lacings, and then descended on
the other side of the stage; and all without confusion, without outcry,
as if each were deeply conscious of the importance of the civic act.

Toward three o'clock I saw three municipal officers, girt in their
sashes, mount the stage. They were Leroux, Hardy, and Renaud. The
Jacobin delegation having given them notice of the petition, one of the
three, after reading it to his colleagues, addressed the multitude as
follows:

"Citizens, your petition is perfectly legal. We are charmed at the sight
presented to us. Everything here is being carried on in admirable order.
Some have told us there was a riot on the Field of Mars; we are now
convinced that the report is baseless. Far from interfering with the
signing of your petition, we shall aid you with the public powers if
anyone attempts to trouble you in the exercise of your rights."

The words of the committee of the Commune of Paris were applauded by the
crowd. The committee left, and the people continued to pour towards the
Altar of the Country to sign the lists.

The day drew to its close. The sun disappeared behind the hill of
Meudon. The hour of eight sounded from the clock of the Military School.
A part of the vast throng which surrounded me, setting out to regain
their homes, turned their steps toward that entrance to the Field of
Mars which gives upon Great Rock. Each one rejoiced that he had assisted
at the great demonstration.

Suddenly, from the neighborhood of the Great Rock gate, towards which we
were proceeding, we heard the sound of a large corps of drums, beaten at
the double-quick; then, in the pauses of the march, the heavy rumbling
of several pieces of artillery; almost at the same instant, but further
off, in the direction of the gate near the Military School, sounded the
trumpet calls of cavalry; and finally, more distant still, the snarl of
other drums from the quarter of the bridge leading across the Seine from
the end of the field. The vast parade-ground, surrounded by walls whose
perpendicular sides overhung great moats, was thus being invaded by an
armed force advancing at once toward the three outlets through which the
people intended to return to Paris. The immense deploy of troops,
infantry, cavalry and artillery, converging in unison upon the Field of
Mars, filled with an inoffensive multitude at the point of leaving it,
caused great and general surprise, but at first aroused neither fear nor
suspicion. The groups around me, yielding to innocent curiosity and to
the love of sight-seeing native in the Parisian, quickened their steps
"to see the soldiers go by," all the while asking themselves what could
be the object of this massing of military forces. The advance guard of
the column which entered by the Great Rock gate, was composed of the
battalion of the National Guard called, from their district, the
Daughters of St. Thomas. Then followed General Lafayette, surrounded by
his brilliant staff, and finally Bailly, the Mayor of Paris, accompanied
by several municipal officers. One of these carried a staff around which
was furled a piece of red cloth, hardly visible, for I had not noticed
it except for the exclamation of an old man in front of me:

"Meseems they hoist the red flag! I believe that is not done except in
the presence of public danger, in case of insurrection, or when martial
law has been proclaimed from the City Hall!"

"In that case," anxiously queried the spectators, "can they have
proclaimed martial law in the interior of Paris?" "Is there, then,
trouble, or a tumult of the people, or an insurrection in the city? What
about?"

While these words were being anxiously exchanged around me, the
apparition of the almost invisible bit of red bunting, the expression of
sinister glee I had just remarked on the faces of several inebriated
National Guardsmen who, marching past the crowd, tapped their guns,
crying "We shall send a few pills into the Jacobins;"--all these
circumstances connected themselves in my mind and forced upon me all too
clear a premonition of what was about to occur. The batteries of
artillery had commenced to disgorge through the Great Rock gate when the
bourgeois guard which was in line halted, and, deploying before its
banner, advanced, with leveled guns and quickened pace, upon the
multitude, which recoiled before it. At the same instant the cavalry
entered at a rapid trot by the gate near the Military School, while the
other column poured in by the bridge over the Seine. By this
simultaneous manoeuvre the forty thousand persons or thereabouts who
still remained in the Field of Mars, surrounded by embankments and
walls, saw themselves hemmed in on every side by the troops who occupied
the gates.

Vain would be any attempt on my part to give an idea of the stupor, then
the fright, and soon the panic, which seized the helpless multitude.
Great God, what a picture! What heartrending cries! What shrieks of
children, of women, mingling with the imprecations of men whose energy
became paralyzed, either by the physical impossibility of doing anything
in the crush, or by their preoccupation to safeguard a wife, a mother,
a daughter, or children of tender age, exposed to smothering, or to
being trampled under foot!

Suddenly I saw appear, on top of one of the embankments, Lehiron and
about a score of his cut-throat band, accompanied by some tattered,
bare-headed urchins who cried:

"Down with the National Guard! Down with the blue-bonnets! Down with
Lafayette!"

While his followers rained a hail of rocks at the city guard, Lehiron
drew a pistol from his pocket, and, without even taking aim, discharged
his weapon in the direction of the General's staff, shouting:

"Death to Lafayette!"

At the same moment, without unfurling the red flag, without Mayor Bailly
having issued a single order, a company of the city guard opened fire,
but shot in the air in the direction of the bank occupied by Lehiron and
his pack. This first fusillade, although harmless, nevertheless threw
the populace into inexpressible terror. Almost immediately, we were
pierced by volleys from the whole platoon, this time deadly. I saw the
face of the fine old man who had stood in front of me blanch under the
blood which poured from his riddled forehead. A young woman who held her
four or five-year-old son above her head lest he be smothered in the
press, felt her child grow rigid and heavy; he had been shot through the
body. Piercing cries or suppressed moans uttered on all sides of me told
that other shots also had taken effect. The fusillade continued. A
frenzy of flight, of everyone for himself, fell upon the huddled mass;
the people elbowed and trod upon one another. In the midst of this
frightful pell-mell, I lost my balance and fell over the body of the old
man, which had until then been supported erect by the crowding of my
neighbors. The aged body saved my life; it prevented me from being
crushed under the feet of the throng. Nevertheless, I received several
deep wounds on the head. I felt the blood flow copiously from them. My
senses swam, and I completely lost consciousness.

       *       *       *       *       *

When I came to myself, the clock of the Military School was striking
ten. The moon, from the midst of a cloudless and star-strewn sky,
lighted up the Field of Mars. The coolness of the night revived me. My
first thought was for my sister--what anguish must have been hers! I
saw, here and there, the wandering lights of several lanterns, by aid of
which men and women had come to seek out among the dead and dying those
whom they had left behind them.

Soon, some distance from me, I perceived a woman, tall and slender, in a
white robe. This woman bore no lantern; she came and went hurriedly;
halting and bending over, she contemplated the victims, she seemed to
interrogate their features. My heart bounded; I divined that it was
Victoria.

"Sister!" I cried, weakly.

I was not deceived. Learning by the popular rumor of the massacre which
had taken place, Victoria had run to the Field of Mars to find me. Her
tender cares summoned back my strength. She stanched the blood from my
wounds, dressed them, and, supporting me on her arm, assisted me to the
gate opening on Great Rock. We passed by the scaffolding on which had
been erected the Altar of the Country. The steps were buried under
corpses.

Arrived home with Victoria, I wished, after an hour's rest, to inscribe
in my journal this very night the record of this fatal day of the 17th
of July, 1791.

I have added to my record the following fragment of an article from the
paper of Camille Desmoulins, explaining the causes of the massacre of
the Field of Mars. Desmoulins's account, save in one point noted by me,
is scrupulously exact. I copy it literally:

"Camille Desmoulins, sending to Lafayette his resignation as journalist:

    "'Tis wrong we were, the thing is far too clear,
    And our good guns have settled this affair.

"Lafayette, liberator of two worlds! Flower of janissary chieftains!
Phoenix of constable-majors! Don Quixote of the Capets and the two
chambers! Constellation of the White Horse! I improve the first moment
that I touch a land of liberty to send you the resignation as journalist
and as national censor which you have for so long been demanding of me.
I place it also at the feet of Monsieur Bailly and his red flag. I feel
that my voice is too feeble to raise itself above that of thirty
thousand cowards and also of your satellites, above the din of your four
hundred drums and your hundreds of cannon....

"You and your accomplices in the City Hall and the Assembly feared the
expression of the views of the people of Paris, which will soon become
those of all France. You feared to hear your sentence pronounced by the
nation in person, seated on its bed of justice, in the Field of Mars.
'What shall we do?' you asked yourselves.

"'Eh, call to our aid martial law!' Against peaceful and unarmed
petitioners, who were quietly practising their right of assemblage!

"Or, that is what the Constitutionals imagined, to the end of gratifying
us a second time with martial law; and, instead of hanging one man (as
the baker Francis), they massacred two."

At this point Camille Desmoulins recounts the arrest of two individuals
found during the morning hiding under the Altar of the Country, and
continues:

"The cowards, the back-sliding bandits, counterfeiting the appearance of
exaggerated patriots, threw themselves upon the two unfortunates, tore
them to pieces, cut off their heads, and went to promenade them about
Paris.

"Thus sought they to prepare the citizens, by the horror of the
spectacle, to support the declaration of martial law. Immediately the
news spread in the city, with the rapidity of lightning--'Two heads have
been struck off in the Field of Mars.' Then, 'Out upon the petitioners,
the Jacobins and the Cordeliers!' Thus were the municipal officers
bewitched."

Here Desmoulins forgets or passes over in silence the honorable conduct
of a minority of the council of the Commune of Paris. The three
councilmen, learning on their return from the Field of Mars of the
proclamation of martial law, were astounded, and affirmed and testified
on their honor that the most admirable order reigned on the concourse,
that they had looked into the address to the Representatives of the
people; that it was perfectly in place and legitimate; that they had
assured the petitioners that, far from troubling them in the exercise of
their duty, the municipal authority would protect them with all care. In
fine, the three officers, deeply moved and indignant, exclaimed with
tears in their eyes that it would disgrace them, ruin them, to march
against petitioners to whom they had pledged and guaranteed complete
security. But in spite of the generous words of the three officers,
Lafayette excited his pretorians; they cried, goes on Camille
Desmoulins:

"'There is the red flag already flung out. The most difficult thing is
done. Now, if all the clubs, all the fraternal societies would meet at
the Field of Mars to sign the petition for the abdication of Louis XVI,
what a bowl of nectar that Jacobin blood would be to our palates!'

"And so the pretorians pushed their measures. They assembled ten
thousand troops: infantry, cavalry, artillery. The night, the time set
for marching, having come, Lafayette's three aides-de-camp spread
themselves in the public places, declaring that their General had been
assassinated by a Jacobin. But properly to judge of the fury of these
idolaters, these blue-bonnets of the Nero of two worlds, one should have
seen them in one moment pour furiously from their pens, or, rather, from
their dens. They loaded with ball in plain view of the people; on all
sides the drums beat the assembly; the twenty-seven battalions most
heavily composed of aristocrats received the order to march upon the
Field of Mars. They inflamed themselves to the massacre. As they loaded
their muskets they were heard to say: _We shall send some pills into the
Jacobins_. The cavalry flourished their sabers. It was half after eight
in the evening when the red flag was unrolled as the signal for the
massacre of inoffensive petitioners. The battalions arrived at the Field
of Mars, not by one sole entrance, in order that the citizens might
disperse, but by all the three issues at once, that the petitioners
might be enclosed from all sides. And here is the final perfidy, that
which caps the climax of the horrors of the day. These volleys--all
delivered without orders--were fired upon petitioners, who seeing death
advancing from all sides, and unable to flee, received them as they
embraced the Altar of the Country, which in an instant was heaped with
the corpses of the slain."

Such was the melancholy day of the Field of Mars. And yet the will of
the petitioners--the forfeiture of Louis XVI's right to the crown and
consequently the establishment of the Republic--was so sane, so logical,
so inevitable by the march of events and the force of affairs, that the
following year saw Louis suspended from the throne upon accusation of
high treason, and saw the National Convention proclaim the Republic. But
alas! how many victims!




CHAPTER VI.

WAR AND COUNTER-WAR.


After the massacre of the Field of Mars, the reaction thought itself
all-powerful, and entered pitilessly upon its career of repression. The
presses of the patriot journals were destroyed, their writers forced to
flee or go into hiding. The clubs, under the weight of intimidation,
remained almost silent.

Re-established in full power, Louis XVI immediately renewed his
intrigues, within France with the enemies of the Revolution, the
nobility and priesthood, and without, with the Emigrant nobles, and
foreign sovereigns.

The Constituent Assembly, having finished its labors, submitted the
Constitution to the royal sanction, and declared itself dissolved on
September 29, 1791. Although covertly resolved to tear the Constitution
to shreds, the King solemnly swore to uphold it. The Constituent
Assembly gave place to the Legislative Assembly. According to its own
enactment, none of the old members could be re-elected. Robespierre and
the other minority leaders no longer held their seats, therefore, among
the Representatives of the people; but the principles which inspired the
minority in the Constituent, became, through the majority of the
Legislative Assembly, the expressed general opinion of France. The
spirit of the Revolution was resuscitated by the elections. The Right of
the new Assembly was not composed, as that of the Constituent, of grand
seigneurs, cardinals, bishops, bourgeois aristocrats, men of the court
or the sword, defenders of the old regime; the Right of the Legislative
Assembly was occupied by the Constitutional party, represented outside
the Assembly by the Club of the Feuillants. The heads of this party,
Lafayette, Mathieu, Dumas, Ramond, Vaublanc, Beugnot, and others, sought
the continuance in power of Louis XVI and the Constitution. The leaders
of the Left were, to a great extent, from the department of the Gironde,
whence the name of Girondins, applied to Vergniaud, Guadet, Gensonne,
Ducos and their companions. Their leanings were either purely
republican, or were on the way to become so. Finally Bazire, Chabot and
Merlin sat at the extreme Left; but this faction, as well as that of the
Girondins, was devoted to the Revolution, and determined to defend it by
all means. The Center of the Assembly, undecided and watery, voted as
the spirit moved them, sometimes with the Left, sometimes with the
Right. In short, the majority of the body, no longer able to doubt the
treason of Louis XVI or his secret understanding with the foreign
coalition, was undisguisedly hostile to royalty. It even decided, at its
first session, to suppress, in the reports of the representatives of the
sovereign people and its executive committee, those ridiculous
appellations of _Sire_ and _Majesty_, the superannuated relics of
monarchical fetichism.

Louis XVI, on his part, believing himself sure of the assistance of the
foreign sovereigns, and counting, within, on the activity of the clergy
and the complicity of the generals and officers of the National Guard,
obstinately defied the Assembly. The King chose his ministry from the
Feuillant Club, notoriously counter-revolutionary. In vain did the
Assembly render its decrees against the priests, who were fanning the
fires of civil war; against the aristocrats, who were flocking to join
the body of Emigrants gathered in arms on the frontier. Louis XVI
opposed his veto to the execution of these decrees. Soon there came to
light the odious plot of the foreign war, organized between the King,
the ministers, the court party, and the despots of Europe. The Emigrants
made open preparations on the frontiers for an armed invasion under the
protection of the German princes bordering on France, and were to serve
as advance guard to the troops of the coalition. These threatening
preparations aroused the Representatives. Isnard mounted the tribunal
and exclaimed:

"Representatives of the people, let us rise to the height of our office.
Let us speak to the King, to his ministers, to Europe, with the firmness
that befits us. Let us say to the King: You reign but by the people and
for the people. The people alone is sovereign! Let us say to the
ministers: Choose between public gratitude and the vengeance of the
laws. Let us say to Europe: France draws her sword; the scabbard she
will fling away. Then she will wage to the death the war of the peoples
against the Kings, and soon the people will embrace before the spectacle
of their dethroned tyrants; the earth will be consoled, the heavens
satisfied!"

Meanwhile Louis cloaked himself in a well-feigned submission to the
orders of the Assembly. He promised to hold off the German princes
firmly and with dignity. 'Twas the promise of a King! Under the pretext
of possible eventualities of war, he chose as Minister of War the Count
of Narbonne, a young courtier crammed with ambition and audacity. The
latter organized three army corps, placing the first under the command
of the Marquis of Lafayette, and giving the other two to the Marquis of
Rochambeau and Marshal Lukner, two enemies of the Revolution.

Robespierre, Danton, and Billaud-Varenne were farsighted enough to
detect the conspiracy hidden beneath these ostensible preparations for
war. In the memorable meeting of the Jacobins, of the 12th of December,
1791, several orators of the republican party gave utterance to their
sentiments.

"Far be it from me to raise my voice against the cruel necessity of an
inevitable war," declared Billaud-Varenne. "No! For when in 1789 people
were congratulating themselves, saying that never had a revolution cost
so little blood, I always answered: A people which breaks the yoke of
tyranny can never seal its liberty irrevocably save by tracing the
decree which consecrates it with the points of their bayonets! These
must be plunged at least into the breasts of our enemies! Only by
combating them can we be freed of them forever!"

"If it were a question of deciding whether, actually, we were to have
war, I would answer, Yes," declared Danton in turn. "Yes, the clarions
of war resound; yes, the exterminating angel of liberty will smite the
satellites of despotism. But when are we to have the war? Is it not
after having well judged our situation, after having weighed everything,
after having deeply scrutinized the intentions of the King who is going
to propose war to us? Let us be on our guard against the Executive."

Thus did Billaud-Varenne denounce at the Jacobins the plan of the
counter-revolution, of which war was the mask. Thus did Danton, while
sharing the same suspicion, nevertheless incline toward war, asking only
that before the declaration of hostilities, the Assembly should scan
closely the intentions of Louis XVI. Brissot took the floor and spoke
for war, but a revolutionary war.

Robespierre finally arose to the tribunal:

"It seems to me that those who desire to provoke war have only adopted
that opinion through insufficient scrutiny of the nature of the war we
are about to embark upon, and of the circumstances with which we find
ourselves surrounded. What sort of a war is it proposed that we declare?
Is it a war of one nation against other nations? Is it a war of one king
against other kings? Is it a war of revolution by a free people against
the tyrants who override other peoples? No! What they propose to us,
citizens, is the war of all the enemies of the French Revolution against
the Revolution itself! This I shall prove by examining what has occurred
up to this day, from the administration of the Duke of Broglie who in
1789 proposed to annihilate the National Assembly, up to that of the
last successors of this minister....

"Behold what tissues of prevarication and perfidy, of violence and of
ruse! Behold the subsidized sedition! Behold the conduct of the court
and of the ministry! And is it to that ministry, is it to those agents
of the executive power, that you would entrust the conduct of the war?
Is it thus you would abandon the safety of the country to those who
wish to destroy you?

"The thing which you have most cause to fear, is war. War is the
greatest scourge which can, in our present circumstances, menace
liberty! For it is in no wise a war kindled by the enmity of peoples. It
is a war concerted by the enemies of our Revolution. What are their
probable designs? What use would they make of these military forces,
this augmentation of power which they ask of you under the pretext of
war? They seek, in strengthening the powers of the crown, to force us to
a deal! If we refuse, these royalists will then attempt to fasten it
upon us by the force of the arms which you will have put into their
hands.

"What, there are rebels to punish? The Representatives of the people
aimed at them with a decree, and the King opposed his veto to the
decree! Instead of allowing the punishment, imposed by the Assembly upon
the Emigrants, to take its course, the King proposes a declaration of
war, a sham war, whose only aim is to place a formidable military force
at the disposal of the enemies of the Revolution, or to open to them our
frontiers, thanks to the treason of the aristocratic generals still at
the head of our armies! There you have the secret workings of this
cabinet intrigue! There is the heart of this complot in which we shall
be lost if we allow ourselves to be taken by the snare so craftily
 with patriotism and martial ardor, sentiments so strong in the
French spirit."

The sagacity of Robespierre thus tore the veil off the double project of
Louis and the Austrian Committee, that perennial hotbed of conspiracy.
The soul of this Committee was the Queen, and its numerous emissaries
maintained relations with the Emigrant nobles and the foreign Kings; but
Louis XVI and his court, by the sublimation of duplicity, carried
treason within treason. They deceived even their accomplices.

Louis XVI wanted war because he reckoned on a victory by the allied
Kings, and upon their early entry into Paris. Lafayette and his party
never mingled in this machination against the country; hence, in order
to obtain their support for the declaration of hostilities, Louis had to
feign to conspire with them for the triumph of the constitutional
kingdom and monarchic institutions.

The Girondins, scenting peril and treachery, sought to conjure away the
dangers of the situation by imposing on Louis XVI three ministers whom
they thought worthy of their confidence: General Dumouriez was charged
with Foreign Affairs; Servan with the Department of War; and Roland with
the ministry of the Interior. Dumouriez was a man of war, resourceful,
bold and fiery, cunning and subtle of policy, but already grown old in
underground intrigue and occult diplomacy; ambitious, cynical,
intemperate of habit, covetous to the point of exaction, unreasonable in
pride, without virtues, without principles, capable of serving valiantly
the Republic and the Revolution, or of shamefully betraying both,
according to the exigencies of his interest or ambition. Servan, an
officer of genius, was a soldier of integrity, industry and modesty. He
was capable and upright, and devoted to the Revolution. Roland was one
of the purest and most beautiful characters of the time--simple,
stoical, austere, disinterested, of scrupulous honesty, and with a
firmness of will equal to the rigidity of his republican convictions,
which were shared by his young and charming wife, the soul of the
Girondin party, where she reigned as much by the loftiness of her spirit
as by her qualities of heart and the attraction of her person.

On April 19, 1792, the Assembly declared war on Austria. Some days after
the opening of the campaign the army corps under Count Theobald of
Dillon, was, at the first engagement, stampeded before the armies of the
coalition. The royalist officers gave the cry "Each for himself!" and
provoked a panic among the troops. The army fled in full rout. The enemy
crossed our frontiers and the heart of France fell under the menace of
the foreign cohorts.

The Girondins recognized the trap into which their patriotism had led
them, and spurred by the realization took three active revolutionary
measures. They pronounced a sentence of exile upon the fractious
priests, the promoters of civil war, who refused to stand by the
Constitution; they had the Assembly decree the dissolution of the paid
guard of Louis XVI; and they ordered the establishment of a camp of
twenty thousand men around Paris, to form a reserve army and to cover
the threatened capital. But Louis entered upon an open war with the
Assembly, maintained his veto in the matter of the refractory priests,
and refused to sanction the organization of the camp at Paris. Roland
and Servan, the two patriot ministers, were unseated the 13th of June,
and Louis formed a new cabinet, choosing its members from among the
enemies of the people.

Still in the dark as to the designs of Louis XVI, and believing that the
moment for a coup-d'-etat had arrived, Lafayette wrote from his camp a
threatening letter to the Assembly, under date of June 16. The Assembly
summoned Lafayette before its bar. He refused to appear. His trial was
carried on without him, and he was acquitted by an immense majority. The
clubs were thrown into a ferment. Danton at the Cordeliers, Robespierre
at the Jacobins, organized for the 20th of June a peaceful demonstration
to celebrate the anniversary of the oath of the Tennis Court, and to
give Louis XVI a solemn warning. A huge multitude, swelled by women and
children, gathered and marched down from the suburbs. The men were in
arms; each district dragged its cannon with it. The delegates of the
demonstration appeared at the bar of the Assembly. The spokesman
delivered himself of his message:

"Legislators, the people comes this day to make you share its fears and
its disquietudes. This day recalls to us the memorable date of the
twentieth of June, 1789, at the Tennis Court, when the Representatives
of the nation met and vowed before heaven not to abandon our cause, to
die in its defense. The people is up and alive to what is occurring; it
is ready to take decisive measures to avenge its outraged majesty. These
rigorous measures are justified by Article II of the Declaration of the
Rights of Man, Resistance to Oppression."

While part of the manifestants stationed themselves in the vicinity of
the meeting hall of the Assembly, a large body of them planted a tree,
symbolic of Liberty, in the garden of the Tuileries. The invasion of the
palace gardens was accomplished with perfect order. Louis stood upon a
chair in the recess of a window, surrounded by a detachment of National
Guards.

One citizen, bearing a red cap on the end of a pole, passing in turn
before the King, stopped for an instant and cried "Long live the
Nation!" Then Louis XVI, leaning over and making a sign to the citizen
to approach his pole nearer, voluntarily took the red cap and placed it
on his head. A burst of fervid applause, from everyone who witnessed it,
greeted the King's act.

It was a day of suffocating heat; and Louis, seeing a National Guardsman
with a water-gourd, indicated by signs that he wished to drink. The
guard with alacrity offered his gourd to the King, who slowly quaffed
its contents.

But the demonstration of the 20th of June changed in nothing the
disposition of the court. Louis XVI continued his shady machinations,
and, on the 25th of July, the Duke of Brunswick, generalissimo of the
armies of the coalition, issued, in the name of the King of Prussia, the
Emperor of Austria, and the Germanic Confederation, a manifesto against
France.

The plans of the court were that the Duke of Brunswick, at the head of
the Prussians, should cross the Rhine at Coblenz, ascend the left bank
of the Moselle, attack that point, and march upon Paris by way of
Longwy, Verdun and Chalons. The Prince of Hohenlohe, commanding the
troops of the duchy of Hesse and a body of Emigrants, was to march on
Thionville and Metz. General Clairfayt, at the head of the troops of the
Emperor of Austria and another corps of Emigrants, was to cross the
Meuse and make his way to Paris by Rheims and Soissons. Other bodies of
the hostile army, placed on the northern frontier and along the Rhine,
were to attack the French troops and assist the convergent march of the
coalition upon the capital, which they were to seize.

The publication of the manifesto of the tyrants, so far from crushing
the energy of the Revolution, exalted it to the pitch of heroism. The
journal _The Revolutions of Paris_ renders in glowing terms its account
of the spirit in Paris and the departments:

"The National Assembly has at last pronounced the terrible formula, the
signal of peril, the appeal to the courage of the people: _The nation is
in danger!_ The danger is, in fact, immense. The Directorate of the
department of Paris is the most potent instrument the court has served
itself with to beat down liberty. The majority of the other Directorates
of departments, all the administrators, all the tribunals of justice,
all the constituted authorities, are also either openly or covertly the
accomplices of Louis XVI, of Marie Antoinette the Austrian, and of the
courts of Berlin and Vienna. Louis XVI affords striking protection to
all the fanatics, the artificers of civil war. This enemy, disguised
under the name of the Constitutional King of France, does more harm of
himself than all the other despots of Europe ever could. France is
fallen into a state of convulsion, which will precipitate her into
either slavery or anarchy. The country is in danger; the people is in
insurrection! Frenchmen, you have at last become free!

"France has but two dangerous enemies: Lafayette and Louis XVI; and if
the latter were stricken down, Lafayette would no longer exist.

"Then let Louis XVI be driven forever from the throne, and the nation is
saved! People, to arms!"

Indeed, an insurrection alone could save public affairs. On August 4
Danton said at the Cordeliers: "The people must be appealed to, they
must be shown that the Assembly can not save them. There is no safety
save in a general rebellion."

"There is but one question to solve," said Robespierre on the 9th of the
same month, at the Jacobins; "That question is the deposition of Louis
XVI."

From the beginning of the month of August, the ferment in Paris was on
the increase. Every patriot instinctively felt the approach of grave
public danger, and vied with his comrades in the effort to overcome it.

The Sections of Paris met nightly to deliberate on public matters. The
Section of the Blind Asylum, or "Quinze-Vingts," in the suburb of St.
Antoine which was the most influential of all, took the initiative in
the measures for insurrection, with this manifesto:

     MINUTES OF THE SECTION OF THE BLIND ASYLUM, AUGUST, 9, 1792.

     The Section received the commissioners of the following Sections:
     Fish-Wife, Good-News, Carpet-Shop, Montreuil, Gravillieurs,
     Beaubourg, Red-Cross, Culvert, Lombards, Ill-Counsel, Popincourt,
     the Arsenal, the Tuileries, etc., etc. All have adopted the
     decisions of the Section of the Blind Asylum, recognizing that they
     were armed solely for the safety of public affairs and the
     regeneration of France.

     An address was read from the federates of the eighty-two
     departments, asking the Sections of Paris to assemble in arms.

     On the motion of its members, the Section decided that each of the
     Sections of Paris shall name three committee-men, the same to meet
     at the City Hall of Paris, replace the present Municipal Council,
     and consider the means necessary for the public weal.

     The Sections shall receive no orders other than those coming from a
     majority of their committee-men, forming the _Commune of Paris_.

     The committee-men named to represent at the Commune the Section of
     the Blind Asylum are Huguenin, Rossignol, and Balin.

Each Section formulated the powers given by it to its committee-men in
the new council of the Commune of Paris. Thus, the formula of the Blind
Asylum Section read: "The Section gives to its committee-men unlimited
power to do everything to save the country." Prominent among the
committee-men elected by the Sections to the new council were
Robespierre, Billaud-Varenne, Fabre D'Eglantine, Chaumette, and
Fouquier-Tinville.

The first act of the members of this revolutionary Commune was to march
to the City Hall on the night of the 9th of August, and in the name of
the sovereign people, whose representatives they were, to depose the old
Municipal Council from its functions, with the following decree:

     The Assembly of the Committee-men of the Sections, assembled with
     full power to save the common weal, considering that the first
     measure of safety is to seize all the powers that have been
     delegated to the Commune of Paris, and to remove from the staff of
     the National Guard the evil influence that it has upon the public
     liberty, decree:

     1.º The staff is suspended from its functions.

     2.º The Municipal Council is suspended. Citizen Petion, Mayor, and
     Citizen Roederer, attorney for the Commune, shall continue their
     duties.

These measures taken in the name of the majority of the citizens of
Paris, according to the powers conferred upon it, the new Commune of
Paris organized and established itself in permanence in the City Hall,
ready to conduct itself in line with the Revolution; while the people
loaded their muskets and cannon and prepared to march on the palace of
the Tuileries.




CHAPTER VII.

TRIUMPHANT INSURRECTION.


Called to my place in the battalion of my Section, the Section of the
Pikes, I found myself on guard at the National Assembly on this night of
the 9th of August. About half after eleven, just as I finished my watch,
I heard the assembly beat, and the bells ringing. Soon there arrived in
haste, some alone, some in groups, a large number of the popular
Representatives. Awakened by the tocsin and the drum, they were
repairing to their meeting place, laboring under the presentiment of
some untoward event. Otherwise the greatest quiet reigned about the
quarter of the Tuileries. Being now off duty, I hastened to one of the
public galleries of the Assembly, which, despite the lateness of the
hour, were not long in filling with an eager, restless crowd, composed,
for the most part, of women, young girls, and old men. The male
constituency which usually attended the sessions was this time occupied
elsewhere; that is to say, they had scattered to the ends of Paris where
they were preparing the revolt. All the working men were under arms.

In the center of the semicircle formed by the great hall of the Riding
Academy, in which the Assembly was sitting, rose the rostrum, with the
arm-chair of the president. Behind the chair opened a sort of recess,
enclosed by a grating. It was the place assigned to the short-hand
writers, or _logotachygraphes_ as they were called, persons skilled in
the art of writing with the speed of speech, who were charged with
transcribing the discourses of the speakers.

It was the common word in the galleries that all the Sections of Paris
were assembling in arms in their respective quarters, and that their
committee-men had gone to the City Hall to exercise the powers of the
Commune of Paris. It was also said that the federates of Marseilles,
gathered at the Cordeliers, had sent a patrol into the neighborhood of
the Tuileries, and arrested, near the Carousel, a counter-patrol of
royalists, among whom were the journalist Suleau, Abbot Bourgon, and an
ex-bodyguard named Beau-Viguier. Further it was declared that two
thousand former nobles had been called together at the Tuileries, as
well as a large number of veteran officers or body-guardsmen, to defend
the palace. Some said that the Swiss regiments, re-enforced by those
from the barracks of Courbevoie, were at the palace, supported by a
formidable battery of artillery, and that Mandat, commander of the
National Guard, had announced that he would crush the insurrection. The
approaches to the palace were guarded by gendarmes afoot and on horse.
Everything pointed to a desperate resistance should a struggle be
engaged between the people and the defenders of the Tuileries.

About two o'clock in the morning the Representatives, to the number of
about two hundred, decided to convene the session. The tocsin,
accompanied by the distant din of the drums beating the assembly or the
forward march, was still to be heard. In the absence of the president
of the Assembly, Citizen Pastoret took the chair, and the secretaries
assumed their places at the table.

Hardly had the session been opened when the delegates of the Lombards
Section appeared. The leader of the deputation, wearing a red cap and
carrying his gun, strode forward and cried:

"Citizen Representatives, the court is betraying the people! The
Lombards Section has joined the insurrection, and at break of day will
do its duty in the attack on the Tuileries. We go to meet our brothers."

"The people should respect the law and the Constitution," was the answer
of Pastoret.

At these words of Citizen Pastoret, loud murmurs arose from the extreme
Left. Pastoret yielded the chair to Morlot, the president, who had come
in; and at the same time there appeared at the bar of the Assembly three
officers of the old Municipal Council.

"You have the floor," said the president to them.

Pale and quavering one of the officers spoke: "The alarm bell sounds in
Paris! The ferment is at its height! Everywhere the Sections are
gathering in arms. Several of our colleagues, sent to the City Hall to
learn how matters stood, have been arrested. The insurgents are
preparing to march at daybreak upon the Tuileries."

"An act of high justice!" cried one of the members of the Left. "Within
the Tuileries' walls resides the bitterest enemy of the public good! He
must be annihilated by the sovereign people!"

The words were greeted with enthusiastic applause from the galleries; in
the midst of which a hussar hurriedly approached the chair and delivered
a letter to the president. The latter read it, and touched his bell as
a signal for silence. When the cries of the gallery had partially
subsided, he said:

"Gentlemen, I am advised by the police officials that every minute
messengers come from the Sections asking for Monsieur Petion at the City
Hall, assuring them that the rumor has spread that he went to-night to
the palace, and that he runs great danger of death; it is feared the
royalists may assassinate him."

At these words the uneasiness and agitation of the galleries was
extreme. The patriotism, the courage of Petion, his boundless devotion
to the Revolution, had made him dear to the people.

At this moment Petion himself entered the hall and advanced to the bar.
Thus reassured on the score of the dangers run at the Tuileries by the
Mayor of Paris, the galleries broke into loud acclamations.

"Monsieur Petion," the president said, "the Assembly has been keenly
anxious for your safety. It would be pleased to receive your account of
the dangers to which it is said you were exposed."

Petion answered, calm and grave: "Occupied solely with public affairs, I
quickly forget what affects my own person. It is true that to-night, on
my arrival at the palace, I was quite illy greeted. Swords leaped from
their scabbards, and I heard threats uttered against me. These did not
disconcert me--"

The first rays of the sun were beginning to dim the lamps which lighted
the hall; nearly all the Representatives of the people were assembled in
their accustomed places. The Right seemed thrown into consternation by
Petion's calmness.

Of a sudden a deputy came tumbling into the hall, rushed to his seat on
the Right, and, his features distorted, his clothes in disorder, he
cried in a voice trembling with emotion:

"The Tuileries will be attacked! The Sections, in arms, hold all the
approaches to the palace! Whole companies of the National Guard, notably
the cannoniers, are fraternizing with the Sections. The cannon are
trained upon the palace. The troops who defend it are decided on a
desperate struggle. Blood will flow, the lives of the King and his
family are in danger!"

The Assembly maintained a solemn silence. One deputy on the Right arose,
and with a trembling voice said: "I ask that a committee be appointed
this instant to go and invite the King and his family to come and place
themselves in the heart of the Assembly, to be under our protection."

"There is no necessity for your motion," answered the president; "the
Constitution leaves the King the power of placing himself in the heart
of the Assembly whenever he finds it convenient."

A justice of the peace, in a condition of extreme agitation, presented
himself at the bar. "Monsieur President," he exclaimed, "a quarter of an
hour ago I was in the courtyard of the Tuileries. I witnessed grave
things, which may enlighten the Assembly on the situation at the palace,
at this moment when a terrible struggle is about to break out, which may
mark the foundering of the monarchy."

"Speak, sir," replied the president.

"This morning at six o'clock, the King descended into the courtyard of
the Tuileries to review the troops. The Queen accompanied him; behind
them went a group of gentlemen in civilian dress, armed some with
swords, some with hunting-knives, others with carbines, or
blunderbusses. This unaccustomed escort first of all produced a very bad
impression upon the National Guard; then, as firm and decisive as was
the Queen's countenance, that of the King was undecided, embarrassed, I
would even say sour. He seemed to be still half asleep. Some cries,
nevertheless, of 'Long live the King!' were heard from some of the
companies, but the battalions from Red-Cross and all the cannoniers
cried 'Long live the Nation!' I even heard some cries of 'Down with
Veto!' 'Down with the traitor!' The King turned pale, made a gesture of
wrath, and returned brusquely into the palace. The Queen, left in the
courtyard, approached the staffs of the battalions of Ill-Counsel and
Arcis which had just arrived, and said to them, indicating the group of
gentlemen who attended her, 'These gentlemen are our best friends. They
follow us at the moment of danger. They will show the National Guard how
one dies for his King--'"

The justice was interrupted, his voice was drowned in the great tumult
which arose outside, in the courtyard of the Riding Academy. Nearer and
nearer drew the clamors. Many of the deputies rose to their feet; some
climbed down precipitately from their benches, crying in affright, "The
people are invading the Assembly!" "Keep your places!" called out
several of their colleagues to those who had quitted their seats, "Let
us know how to die, if die we must, at our posts." The agitation waxed
its greatest in the hall and the galleries. In vain the president rang
his bell, begging his colleagues to return to their benches and be
seated. His exhortations falling unheeded, he rose and put on his hat,
as a sign that the session was closed. The cries without came closer and
closer. Several ushers burst in. One of them, leaping up the steps to
the chair, spoke a few words to the president. The latter clasped his
hands with a gesture of extreme surprise. Then he uncovered again, and
began again to ring his bell vigorously, while the other ushers, going
from group to group, or mounting on the benches, spread among the
Representatives the news which seemed to produce so extraordinary a
sensation. Little by little calm was established. The president was able
to make himself heard, and said in a voice of emotion:

"Gentlemen, the King and his family have left the palace. They throw
themselves upon the National Assembly!"

Another member of the old Municipal Council presented himself at the
bar, saying:

"Monsieur President, the King asks leave to come to you accompanied by
his guard, which will watch over him, and over the National Assembly."

At this proposition a part of the Center, the Left, the extreme Left and
the galleries, all gave vent to their indignation. On all sides people
cried "No! No! The Assembly is under the safekeeping of the people! No
bayonets here! Down with the pretorians! Long live the Nation! Down with
the King!"

Ringing his bell the president called out loudly: "I propose the
following resolution: The National Assembly, considering that it needs
no other guard than the love of the people, charges its committee-men to
watch over the tranquility within its precincts, and proceeds to the
order of business."

A thunder of applause overwhelmed the closing words of this motion,
which was adopted with an immense majority. The municipal officer took
his leave to report to the King the decision of the National Assembly,
when almost immediately another usher rushed in, crying:

"The King and Queen ask to be introduced to the care of the Assembly."

So, indeed, it was. The King was garbed in a suit of violet silk, which
disclosed his blue sash worn crosswise; he wore a hat of the National
Guard, for which he had exchanged his bonnet with the white plume. His
puffy features, empurpled with heat and emotion, and dripping
perspiration, expressed a mixture of fear and crafty irritation. His
obesity made his gait heavy and ungainly. Behind him advanced Marie
Antoinette, giving her arm to Count Dubouchage, Minister of Marine, and
leading the Dauphin by the hand. Trembling and terrified, the child
pressed close to his mother, who, pale and haughty, and more enraged
than frightened, trod with a firm step, casting about her looks of
disdain. She preceded the King's sister, Madam Elizabeth, who leaned on
the arm of Bigot of St. Croix, Minister of Foreign Affairs. The lady
sustained herself with difficulty, and hid her face, bathed with tears,
in her handkerchief. Then in order followed the Marchioness of Tourzel,
the governess of the King's children, on the arm of Major Hervilly, one
of the King's officers; and finally, behind her, the beautiful Princess
Lamballe, the intimate friend of the Queen, accompanied by another
seigneur of the court.

Profound was the silence that fell over the Assembly. Louis, who so far
had alone kept his hat on, now removed his National Guardsman's
head-gear and said in a snappish voice that revealed at once fear and
surly anger:

"I have come here to escape a great crime. I think I am safe among you,
gentlemen?"

"You may count, Sire, on the firmness of the National Assembly. Its
members have sworn to die in the defense of the rights of the people and
the authorities recognized by the Constitution."

Representative Bazire rose to speak: "I propose that Louis XVI and his
family be invited to occupy the logotachygraphes' room, which is within
the Assembly, but without the precincts of its deliberations."

The proposal was adopted. The royal family and its suite left the hall
in order to reach the reporters' booth, the entry to which was in one of
the corridors. Soon the King and his followers reappeared in the room
assigned to them, which was separated from the chamber of the Assembly
by an iron grating, Louis XVI being placed at the right, the Queen at
the left, the Dauphin between them; and behind these three the other
persons of the royal suite. No sooner had the King seated himself than
he received from the hands of Major Hervilly some bread, a plate holding
a fowl, a knife and a fork. Placing the plate on his knees, Louis
commenced to dissect the pullet and devour it with avidity, obedient to
the mandates of that formidable appetite peculiar to the house of
Bourbon.

Outside, in the deputies' chamber, Roederer, the legal attorney of the
Commune, had appeared at the bar, and, at the invitation of the
president, was speaking:

"I am come, gentlemen, to inform you of what is going on in Paris. I was
with the King this morning, up till the time when Carousel Place and the
surrounding streets were invaded by the Sections in arms and dragging
their cannon. Seeing a large number of the National Guard fraternizing
with the people, I counselled the King and the royal family to abandon
the palace and place themselves under the protection of the National
Assembly. The people know that the King is here. The attack on the
Tuileries being now objectless, it is to be hoped that it will not be
entered upon, and that there will be no shedding of blood to be
deplored."

Hardly had Roederer pronounced the words when the detonation of an
artillery discharge shook the windowpanes of the chamber. The fight at
the Tuileries was on! The first discharge was answered by a rapid fire
of musketry, broken every now and again by the thunder of a new
cannonade. Stupor seized the Assembly and the galleries. It was a fresh
royalist act of treason.

The almost incessant boom of artillery and rattle of musketry bore
evidence to the warmth of the engagement. It is impossible to picture
the anxiety, the heaving agitation of the chamber and the people in the
hall. Among the latter, exasperation reached the last pitch. They broke
into threats, into curses against Veto, against the Austrian woman.
"Down with the King!" "Down with the Queen!" rang the cry.

Of a sudden the cannonade burst into still wilder fury. The
reverberations of the artillery fire were so violent that several
windows in the hall were shivered to bits. But soon the volleys
slackened; they became less and less lively and frequent; then one
heard only gunshots, rare, desultory, far between; and then one
heard--nothing.

Victory, evidently, not a suspension of hostilities, had terminated the
battle. Clearly, also, the victory had been a decisive one. But who were
the conquerors, the inhabitants of the Sections, or the Swiss regiments?
Terrible alternative! Under the spell of this incertitude the tumult, at
its height some minutes before, fell of itself. A poignant load weighed
upon every heart, choked every voice, paralyzed every movement; a
mournful silence held sway over the house. If the insurrection were
victorious, it was done for Louis XVI and the monarchy! Marie Antoinette
by her attitude and facial expression revealed her belief--she was
confident the royal troops had won the day.

The uncertainty was not long in being dispelled. A deputation of members
of the new Commune of Paris presented itself at the bar of the Assembly.
It was attended by citizens bearing a banner with the device "LIBERTY,
EQUALITY, FRATERNITY."

The head of the deputation spoke:

"Citizens, we are the victors! After prodigies of heroism, the people
have taken the Tuileries! Long live the Nation!"

The majority of the Representatives rose in their seats, and all
repeated with enthusiasm:

"Long live the Nation!"

The joy, the patriotic exaltation of the galleries bordered on delirium.
The session previously so agitated was now resumed amid relative calm.
All doubt as to the triumph of the people being laid, the deputies went
back to their places; the president tapped his bell, and said:

"I beg the members of the Assembly, as well as the public in the
galleries, to refrain from further interruption. The graver the
circumstances, all the more should we preserve calmness and dignity in
our deliberations. The delegate of the Commune has the floor."

"Citizen legislators," resumed the latter, "in the name of the
victorious people, we have come to demand of you the deposition of Louis
Capet." All eyes were turned towards the booth where Louis XVI sat with
his face in his hands. "To-morrow we shall bring to the Assembly the
records of this memorable day of the tenth of August, 1792. This record
should be sent to the forty-four thousand municipalities of France, that
it may arouse their national pride!" (Applause.) "We announce to you
that Petion, Manuel and Danton are still our colleagues in the Commune.
We have named Citizen Santerre commander of the armed force of Paris."

Seeing the delegate was through, President Morlot announced to the
Assembly: "During the invasion of the Tuileries by the people, a box of
jewels was found in the Queen's apartment. A citizen, wounded in the
attack, has just thrown it on the table."

This lofty act, so free from all thought of pillage or petty personal
gain, stirred the admiration of the Assembly, and prepared the way for
others of similar stamp. "I propose," said Bazire, rising, "that the
Assembly decree that the Swiss citizens and all other foreigners
residing in Paris are placed in the safekeeping of the law and in the
hospitality of the French people!"

The motion was carried unanimously, amidst the echoing applause of the
galleries.

Several of the combatants from the Tuileries, covered with dust, now
appeared at the bar. One of these, in the uniform of the National Guard,
his forehead bound in a bloody bandage, held in one hand his gun, and
with the other dragged after him a Swiss soldier, pale and overcome with
terror. The unhappy fellow's red uniform was in ribbons; he seemed ready
to swoon. The wounded citizen, leaning on his weapon, drew close to the
bar and said with emotion:

"Legislators, we come to express to you our indignation! Long has a
perfidious court trifled with the French people. To-day it has drawn our
blood. We penetrated the palace only over the corpses of our massacred
brothers. We have taken prisoner several Swiss soldiers, wretched
instruments of tyranny! Some of them have thrown down their arms. As to
us, we shall use toward them only the arms of generosity; we shall treat
them as brothers."

At ten o'clock that evening, when the illumination of the lamps had long
replaced the light of day, the National Assembly, having been in
continuous session since the night of August 9, took a recess of an
hour.

At eleven o'clock, when the Assembly reconvened, the reporters' lodge
was still occupied by the royal family. Louis XVI was crushed. His
flaccid lips, his fixed and sunken eyes, announced his complete mental
prostration. Marie Antoinette, on the contrary, seemed to have preserved
all the energy of her character. Her eyes were red and dry; but her
glance, when she occasionally allowed it to travel about, bore still its
look of hateful disdain and defiance.

The Dauphin slept on the knees of Madam Elizabeth, who bent her pale
brow toward the child. Dames Tourzel and Lamballe were silent and dazed.

Almost as soon as the session was reopened, a citizen presented himself
at the bar:

"Legislators, the Swiss soldiers arrested during the day have been
placed, according to the orders of the Assembly, in the building of the
Feuillants. They have been, like us, the victims of royalist treason; we
must save them."

From the gallery Mailhe called out: "I have just come from addressing
the people. They are disposed to listen to the language of justice and
humanity. I ask that the Swiss be admitted within these precincts, and
that they be kept here till all danger to them has passed, and till they
can be taken to a place of safety."

The large space reserved behind the bar for visiting deputations was
suddenly filled with patriots, who brought with them Swiss soldiers,
pale and trembling, and several of them wounded. What touching and
admirable episodes took place in this pell-mell of gratitude and
generosity, which embraced the combatants on both sides! Vanquished and
vanquishers fraternized! The Assembly as one man rose spontaneously at
the spectacle, and gave utterance to its enthusiasm by cheers.

When the first transports of emotion were past and silence had again
settled down upon the Assembly, one of the patriots who brought in the
Swiss advanced towards the bar, saying:

"Citizen President, one of these brave soldiers, who speaks French, asks
the floor, in the name of his comrades, to explain their conduct."

A young Swiss sergeant stepped forward and addressed the vast audience
as follows:

"Had the King and the royal family remained at the palace, we would have
allowed ourselves to be killed to the last man in their defense. That
was our duty as soldiers. But having learned of the departure of the
King, we refused to fire on the people, in spite of the orders, in spite
of the threats, even, of our officers. They alone are responsible for
the blood that has flowed. It was one of them, and one of the gentlemen
of the palace who were the first to fire from the steps of the grand
staircase at the moment that we fraternized with the people from the
Sections. The latter cried out 'Treason!' fired back in return, and the
fight was on. Victory rested with the people."

A new announcement was now made by the president. "They have just
brought in," he said, "eleven cases of silver plate rescued from the
flames at the Tuileries by the brave citizens who hastened to check the
fire. They have also brought several bundles of papers discovered in an
iron cupboard, a secret cupboard fashioned in the wall of the King's
apartment." (Profound sensation.) "These papers, no doubt of the highest
importance, shall be turned over to the proper committees."

When the president announced the discovery of the papers in the Iron
Cupboard, Louis XVI seemed unmanned by the shock. His face grew ashen;
his first look was shot at the Queen; even she, in spite of her iron
will, shuddered and became paler than her royal spouse. What secrets
that cupboard contained!

And now was to come the climax of that moving drama, whose precipitate
progress, whose impassioned and unexpected catastrophe surpassed
anything the imagination could invent or dream of. Time seemed to march
with a dizzying haste during that session of two nights and a day--the
night of the 9th of August and the day and night of the 10th.

The second night was near its close. A committee in extraordinary had
gone to entreat of the Commune of Paris, on that day of August 10,
whether the palace of the Luxembourg could not be appropriated as a
residence for the King and his family. At the time it was adopted, this
measure was in full accord with the hesitant disposition of the majority
of the Assembly, who wished only to decree the suspension of the King's
powers. But the attitude of the people, victorious and fully armed,
happily made its weight felt within the Assembly. The choice of Danton
as Minister of Justice testified to the sudden change of mind on the
part of the majority of the popular Representatives. They admitted the
necessity for the deposition of the royal person. Louis XVI was held
prisoner, under accusation of high treason.

But what part of Paris could serve as his prison?




CHAPTER VIII.

REPRISALS.


Sublime was the picture thus presented by the 10th of August, 1792, a
picture in which the heroism of the combatants blended with their
disinterestedness, and with their generosity to their enemies.

Alas, why was it fated that, so shortly after, the wretched days of the
2nd and 3rd of September should present so sad a contrast! Inexorable
was the law of reprisal!

Pitiless became the anger of the people when it saw its trust violated,
its hopes blasted; when it saw its generosity towards its enemies only
confirm their high-handedness, and encourage them to new transgressions.
Such were the experiences that brought about the occurrences of the 2nd
and 3rd of September, known as the Prison Massacres--a pitiless popular
retribution.

Petion, Mayor of the Commune of Paris, speaking at the bar of the
Assembly, once said:

"The people demands justice on its enemies; legislators, it looks to
you!"

In those words of Petion's is contained almost entirely the secret of
the days of September. The expectations of the people were deceived. The
courts proved themselves unworthy of their trust by absolving proven
criminals. Then the people, as highly angered as it had before shown
itself magnanimous, took justice into its own hands.

The circumstances which produced the formidable explosion were many.
After the victory of the 10th of August--a victory the consequences of
which were the deposition of Louis XVI, his imprisonment in the Temple,
and the convocation of a National Convention to proclaim the Republic
and institute proceedings against the former King--Paris calmly awaited
the accomplishment of these great events. Everyone confidently expected
the conviction of the accomplices of Louis XVI by the national High
Court at Orleans. The High Court acquitted the prisoners, despite their
guilt, and among them the Count of Montmorin, the old Minister of
Foreign Affairs, who had aided the flight of Louis. The High Court also
acquitted the Prince of Poix, a high counter-revolutionist, and Bakman,
a colonel of the Swiss, who was one of the instigators of the resistance
by the soldiers, and hence, a part author of the carnage at the
Tuileries.

The prisons, meanwhile, were filled with suspects, declared royalists,
and refractory priests, taken red-handed in the incitation of civil
war--all guilty on the first count. It was also learned that in the
interior of the prisons themselves existed establishments for turning
out false notes, which were put in circulation through channels of
communication between the prisoners and their friends outside. The
collusion between the imprisoned nobles and priests on the one hand, and
the counterfeiters, their companions in captivity, on the other, was
indisputable.

Emboldened by the acquittal of the conspirators, the counter-revolution
reared its head again in Paris and in the provinces. Each day brought
from without news more and more alarming. Part of the west and south,
lied to by the nobility, goaded to fanaticism by the clergy, was on the
verge of rebellion. Rumors were rife that the Assembly had sent the
King's trial minutes to a Convention, not daring itself to pass upon the
fate of Louis XVI; that the allied army would be upon Paris before the
20th of September, the date set for the opening of the new Assembly.
These predictions were, in fact, on the point of fulfilment. On
September 1st, Paris learned that the Prussian army had crossed the
frontier; Longwy was taken; the enemy had invested Verdun; the fortified
place, left designedly by Louis XVI almost without defense, was unable
to resist; from this city the allied army could in three days arrive in
Paris!

Judge of the excitement among the people of Paris!

The royalists only awaited the favorable moment to unchain their
vengeance on the capital. All these causes combined could do no less
than let loose a whirlwind. And that is what happened on the terrible
days of September 2nd and 3rd. The following are extracts from my
journal, which I wrote almost hour by hour, as these sad events unrolled
themselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

September 2, about eleven in the morning, I heard the sound of a signal
gun, to which were quickly added the rapid clanging of the tocsin and
the roll of drums. The news of the taking of Longwy by the Prussians had
spread through Paris the previous night, and had thrown the people into
consternation.

I left my ironsmithy and hastily donned my uniform of the National
Guard, in order to assemble with my Section of the Pikes. I was about to
go to Victoria's room, where I supposed she was, as usual, busy sewing,
when I saw her come in from out-of-doors.

"I was about to go in and tell you that I was bound for my Section," I
said to her. "What is forward in Paris?"

"The great day of reprisals has dawned at last," replied my sister
shrilly; "O, age-long martyrs of the Kings, the nobles, and the clergy!
O, shades of our fathers, of our mothers! Daughters and sons of Joel,
rejoice. The hour of vengeance has sounded! Ah, for centuries your
sweat, your tears, your blood have flowed! Martyrs of the Kings, priests
and nobles, the tyrant issue of a conquering race, at last upon your
torturers has descended the day of expiation, the day of retribution!"

"Sister," I cried, shuddering for very fear, "what mean you?"

But Victoria, the victim of a sort of ecstatic hallucination, continued
without seeming to hear me: "Does not the blood of slaves, of serfs, of
vassals, despoiled, exploited, tortured, immolated by thousands, by
seigniory and nobility since the Frankish conquest, cry 'Vengeance!'?
Does not the blood of the Arians, massacred by thousands by Clovis's
hordes at the word of the priests of Rome, cry 'Vengeance!'? Does not
the blood of the Vaudois, of the Albigensians, massacred by thousands by
Simon of Montfort's bandits, at the voice of the priests of Rome, cry
'Vengeance!'? Does not the blood of the Reformers, massacred by
thousands by the Valois and the Guises, cry 'Vengeance!'? And the
Protestants hanged, broken on the wheel, drawn and quartered by the
soldiers of Louis XIV, the Grand Monarch? Just God! if all that blood
had flowed in a single day, the land of the Gauls would have become one
crimson sea! If they should heap together the bones of our fathers, our
mothers, the victims of royalty, nobility and clergy, the charnel-pile
would graze the heavens!"

Victoria's savage eloquence, the light in her glowing eyes, her darksome
beauty, which at the moment gave her the aspect of the goddess of
Vengeance, wove over me a sort of fascination. The frightful enumeration
of the victims of the Kings, the nobles, and the Romish Church, the
memory of the martyrs whom we wept in our own family for so many
centuries, the general exasperation, which in that moment I shared,
against the murderous plots of our eternal enemies, carried away my
reason, and while the spell lasted, I, too, believed in the justice of
reprisal, and answered:

"You speak true, sister, you speak true. Too long has the vengeance of
heaven spared these scoundrels. Let now the sword of the people fall
upon them!"

"Aye, brother, justice shall not be less terrible for having been
delayed! Retribution will recall to life none of the dead we mourn; but
our enemies, annihilated or struck with terror, will hesitate to create
new victims! In avenging the past, we safeguard the future. The instinct
of the people can be trusted--its history is ours! It does not know the
details of its age-long martyrdom, but it feels itself the
representative of martyrs; it is conscious of being the living legend of
the miseries and tortures of generations past. It is in their name that
it will judge and execute."

Before I could reply, one of my companions in arms, a workman like
myself, the son of our neighbor Jerome, and like myself belonging to the
Section of the Pikes, called to me, without: "John, hear you not the
drum? They have just posted placards in the street that the nation is in
danger. Longwy is taken! The Prussians are marching upon Paris. They are
sounding the assembly everywhere--come, come, let us to our place in the
fray."

Fearing I should be lacking in duty should I further delay joining my
Section, I bade my sister farewell and left our dwelling. My comrade and
I directed our steps towards Vendome Place, the Section's
assembly-ground.

It were useless to attempt to portray the thousand aspects presented by
the multitude that packed the street corners and the crossings; for it
was in these places that were posted by preference the placards issued
by the patriot press or the clubs, as well as the decrees, issued almost
hourly by the National Assembly, or by the Commune of Paris, elected by
the insurgent Sections on the night of the 9th of August.

How could one hope to describe the aspects, so diverse, presented by
those surging masses, or convey an idea of the tumultuous sentiments of
the population?--now dumbfounded and seemingly crushed by the approach
of grave public danger; now shrieking maledictions and cries of death
against the royalists and the foreign despots; and again, carried away
by a burst of patriotism, shouting: "To the frontiers!" All Paris
oscillated in turn between terror, hatred and blind vengeance.

A reading of the placards and decrees alone can explain the
downheartedness, the fury, and the recurring ferocious appetites of the
delirious crowd. The following placard is from the _Courier of the
Departments_, published by the Girondin Gorsas:

     PLAN OF THE ALLIES AGAINST PARIS.

     More than two hundred Royalist chiefs, scattered about in the
     different centers of France, have their rendezvous.--They hold the
     signatures of numerous persons who are ready to join the armies of
     the allied Kings when they shall have cleared the frontier.--The
     combined armies will march on the fortified towns as if to lay
     siege to them; but will take only such as will open their
     gates.--The Duke of Brunswick will combine with his army those
     corps of the French forces which are scattered along the frontier,
     while the King of Prussia will advance at the head of his troops,
     swelled by the counter-revolutionists of the interior.--They will
     march first upon Paris.--They will reduce the city by starvation.
     No consideration, not even the danger of the royal family, will
     change the following dispositions:--The inhabitants, of Paris will
     be led into the open country. They will be sorted out. THE
     REVOLUTIONISTS WILL BE PUT TO DEATH.--As to the others they will be
     disposed of later.--Perhaps they will follow the system of the
     Emperor of Austria, not to spare any but the women and children. In
     case of unequal forces, they will set the cities on fire; for,
     according to the expression of the allied Kings, DESERTS ARE
     PREFERABLE TO PLACES INHABITED BY A REVOLTED PEOPLE.

     To arms, citizens! The enemy is at our gates!

Another poster stuck on the walls of the city read:

                    TO ARMS, CITIZENS!!!

   Citizens:

     The enemy will soon be under the walls of Paris!

     Longwy is taken!

     Verdun can hold out but a few days. Its defenders appeal to the
     people.

     The citizens who defend the citadel have sworn to die sooner than
     surrender it. They make for you a rampart with their bodies. It is
     your duty to succor them.

   Citizens!

     This very day, immediately, let all friends of liberty gather under
     its flag!

     Let us assemble in the Field of Mars, and let an army of sixty
     thousand men be formed without delay.

   Citizens!

     Let us march on the enemy, either to fall under their blows or to
     exterminate them under ours!

     The Commune of Paris decrees:

     ARTICLE 1. The Sections shall give to the State the men ready to
     set out.

     ARTICLE 2. The Military Committee shall sit in permanence, to
     receive enrolments.

     ARTICLE 3. The alarm gun shall be fired, the tocsin shall ring,
     night and day.

     CITIZENS, THE NATION IS IN DANGER!

              TO ARMS!

"Save Paris! save France! Else, woe is us!" repeated the imploring
voices of women, whose cries and moans mingled with the clamor of the
alarm bell.

At that moment there advanced, through the crowd which made way for him,
a municipal officer bearing a banner, and followed by several drummers
beating the charge. They preceded a troop of volunteers of all ages and
conditions, singing the Marseillaise, that sacred hymn of the
Revolution. At the end of each stanza they waved their pikes, their
guns, their sabers, their caps, their hats, crying:

"To arms, brothers! To the Field of Mars! And to-night, off for the
frontier!"

The majority of the citizens, who, after reading the decree of the
Commune, also cried "To arms!" fell in line with the volunteers. Among
them I beheld a man in the prime of life, his face radiant with civic
ardor, embrace his wife and little daughters who accompanied him, and,
his eyes filled with tears, exclaim--"Adieu! I go to defend you!"

I was still thrilling under the impression produced by this patriotic
act, when I heard someone read, in a loud voice, this fragment of a
placard, posted, they said, by order of the ministry:

"--Citizens of Paris, you have traitors in your midst. Ah, but for them,
the strife would soon be over!"

"Who are the traitors?" the word went 'round. "Who are they, if not the
royalists, hidden in the two hundred dens mentioned by Gorsas--if not
the priests and the monks?"

"And our fathers, our husbands, our sons, our brothers, are enrolling in
mass to run to the frontiers!" cried a woman, in terror. "Who will
defend us against the fury of the enemies within?"

"The royalists will let slip upon Paris the counterfeiters and the
brigands shut up with them in the prisons!"

"Mercy of God! While we are at the front, these wretches will pillage
our shops, assault our daughters, slaughter our wives. No, no, it shall
never be!"

"Can we go away and leave behind us our women, our children, the old
men, exposed to the rage of our enemies? What shall we do?"

"The _Friend of the People_ tells us what to do!" cried a voice in the
crowd. "Long live Marat. To the lamp-post with the aristocrats! Here is
what it says:

"'_The Friend of the People_ to the Parisians:

"'Folly! Folly! It is useless to proceed with law against the
counter-revolutionaries!

"'People, march in arms to the Abbey!

"'Drag out the traitors, the Swiss officers, and their accomplices, the
priests, the Jesuits, the monks--let them feel the edge of the sword!

"'People, strike your enemies with terror; otherwise you are lost!'"

"We approve the advice!" shouted several voices in response. "Legal
justice absolves the guilty. Let us replace the judges, and strike the
culprits. To the Abbey!--to the Abbey!"

Frightened at the turn things were taking, and dreading the consequences
of the assent given to Marat's appeal, I attempted to fend off the
massacre of the prisoners. Raising my voice above the tumult, I
addressed myself to the speaker:

"Citizen, it is true there are great criminals in the Abbey; but all the
prisoners are not guilty in the same degree. Are there not some
imprisoned merely as suspects? Are you sure that among them there are
none innocent? And, with such doubt on your mind, would you kill all?
No, citizen, such a crime would defile the Revolution!"

My intervention seemed for a moment to have recalled the throng to less
barbarous sentiments. But just at that instant there arrived a panting
workman, who jumped on a curbstone, exclaiming:

"Citizens--I come from the Assembly--I bring you serious news!"

"Silence!--Let us listen!"

"When the committee-men of the commune read their decrees to the
Assembly, Vergniaud cried out: 'I thank Paris for its courage and
energy; now one may say the country is saved!' He called Longwy, which
had surrendered to the Prussians, a city of cowards. Hearing the refrain
of the Marseillaise he said 'There is enough singing of Liberty--we must
defend it. It is no longer Kings of bronze that must be torn down--it is
the despots of Europe! Down with the Kings!' And he, Vergniaud, closed
his address to the Assembly with these words: 'I demand that the
Assembly, at this moment more a military body than a legislative, send
at once, and every day hereafter, twelve delegates to the entrenched
camp in the Field of Mars, not with empty discourses to exhort the
citizens to work, but to ply the pick-ax with their own hands. The time
is past for orating. We must dig the graves of our enemies. Our enemies
are both in front of and behind us, citizens; in front of us the
Prussians, behind us the royalists, the priests, their lay communicants,
and the brigands in the prisons!'"

And the workman proceeded with his report of the occurrences in the
Assembly:

"When Vergniaud left the platform, Roland, the Minister of the Interior,
asked the floor to inform the Assembly of some very important matters.
'The Vendee,' he said, 'spurred on by the dissident clergy, has risen in
several places, and patriots have been massacred. One portion of the
south, under the instigation of the priests and the former nobles, is
the breeding-ground of a vast conspiracy, with the Count of Saillant at
its head. He has declared himself "the lieutenant-general of the army of
the Princes."'"

Before the crowd had recovered from the stupefaction into which it was
thrown by these words the speaker continued:

"After Roland, Lebrun, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, announced that
twenty thousand Russians were advancing on us through Poland and
Germany, at the same time that a Russian fleet, proceeding from the
Black Sea, was to pass through the Dardanelles and land at Marseilles.
At this Danton became sublime! 'Everything stirs, drives on, burns, to a
combat,' he exclaimed. 'Verdun is not yet in the hands of the enemy. The
garrison has sworn to slay those who mention surrender. Part of the
people is rushing to the frontiers; another part is digging
entrenchments; another army will defend the city at the point of their
pikes. Citizen Representatives,' continued Danton, 'we ask of you to
concur with us in directing this heroic movement of the people.
Whosoever refuses to serve in person or to give up his arms, let him be
punished with death. All who are not with us are against us.' At these
last words pronounced by Danton, the Assembly rose with enthusiasm--"
added the orator on the curb. "'That bell which now clangs is not a
signal of alarm!' Danton cried. 'No! It is the signal for the charge
against the enemies of the country. To whip them we must dare, and dare,
and dare again--and France is saved!'"

An electric thrill ran over the tossing multitude as these words of
Danton's were told it--heroic words accompanied by the tintinnabulations
of the tocsin, the prolonged echoes of the five-minute alarm gun, the
distant roll of the drums, and the strains of the Marseillaise, chanted
in chorus by the column of volunteers. The massive energy of Danton
seemed to seize upon every spirit; it roused to its highest pitch their
sacred love of country, and reawakened the ardor of vengeance. In that
supreme moment, the prison massacres were considered by the population,
bourgeois and artisans alike, as a measure of public safety, a Spartan
measure which many of the citizens deplored, but which they regarded as
a fatal necessity, as a question of life and death for their families,
for France, for the Revolution.

Bill-posters were now attaching to the walls the new decrees rendered by
the Commune of Paris, which had now declared itself a permanent body.
The first of these was conceived as follows:

            THE COMMUNE OF PARIS DECIDES AND DECREES:

     ARTICLE 1. All horses fit for service are required at once to be
     turned over to the citizens who depart for the front.

     ARTICLE 2. All citizens shall hold themselves in readiness to march
     at the first call.

     ARTICLE 3. Those, who by reason of age or infirmity are unable to
     join the march, shall deposit their arms with their Sections, to
     equip those more fortunate citizens ready to go to the front.

     ARTICLE 4. The ramparts shall be closed.

     Paris, September 2, 1792,

     COULOMBEAU.

The last paragraph, ordering the closing of the ramparts, caused a
shudder not unmingled with savage joy to shoot through the crowd.
Through all minds flashed the thought: "The Commune orders the ramparts
to be closed in order to prevent our enemies within from escaping. The
work of justice will be the easier!"

Another decree which was posted, read:

     THE COMMUNE OF PARIS

     Decrees:

     1.º Enlistment shall go on in the Sections, in the theaters, in the
     churches and in the public places.

     2.º Foreign citizens shall enrol at the City Hall.

     3.º The Department of Paris shall furnish at once sixty thousand
     men.

     4.º The armorers, iron-workers and blacksmiths shall report to the
     Military Committee how fast they can turn out guns, pikes, swords,
     etc.

     5.º All leaden coffins shall be melted up for bullets. The retired
     soldiers will take charge of this work.

     Paris, September 2, 1792,

     COULOMBEAU.

On this terrible day, everything converged to throw the population into
a somber vertigo. There was not an event which did not drive fatally
onward to the massacres in the prisons.

"Long live the Nation! Death to the traitors!" rose the cry.

The delegates of the Luxembourg Section declared to the Commune that
they had adopted and recorded in their minutes the resolution "That it
was urgent to purge the prisons before marching to the front." Three
committee-men were sent to notify the Commune of this decision. The
Sections of the Julian Hot-Baths, the Blind Asylum, and Ill-Counsel took
the same action. The crowd about me echoed the cry:

"To the prisons! To the prisons!"

"Exterminate the rogues!"

"Purge the prisons!"

"Down with the black caps!"

"Death to the aristocrats!"

I sank into a stupor of despair. There was room for doubt no longer;
public opinion was pronouncing itself for the mass extermination of the
prisoners. The Sections were despatching their delegates to the Commune
to notify it of the urgency of the move. The Commune, through Tallien's
organ, approved the massacre; finally, Danton also approved it, Danton,
the Minister of Justice, elected by the Assembly. How could I stem such
a tide? Still I tried, not without the knowledge that I thereby risked
my life; for in moments of popular impulse and enthusiasm, to pronounce
oneself in opposition to the general opinion is to court being taken for
a traitor. Nevertheless, I leaped upon a bench hard by, and cried in a
voice vibrating with all the anguish of my heart:

"Citizens, in the name of the country, in the name of the Revolution,
hear me!"

My paleness, my tears, my supplicating accents impressed the crowd;
silence was given me, and I continued:

"Citizens, suppose that we all, patriots here present, were incarcerated
by our triumphant enemies. Our enemies rush into our prison, surprise us
without defense, without means of escape, and massacre us all! Would
that not be a cowardly, a horrible deed? Would you commit a like
atrocity?"

Outcries, hisses and curses drowned my voice.

"He is a wheedler!"

"A traitor!"

"A royalist in disguise!"

"Death to the traitors!"

I believed my last hour was come. Thrown down from my bench, I was
surrounded, seized, mauled back and forth by the crowd in its fury. My
uniform was torn to shreds. A sword was already raised over my head when
some patriots, interposing between my adversaries and me, tore me from
the hands that grasped me, protected me with their own bodies, and
pushed me under the arch of a carriage-gate, which they slammed upon me.
I fell battered and almost fainting; and soon I heard the throng
disperse, crying:

"Long live the Nation!"

"To the prisons, to the prisons!"

"Death to the royalists!"

So, indeed, it occurred. The massacre was carried out.




CHAPTER IX.

"TO THE FRONT!"


The porter of the house in which I had thus compulsorily found asylum, a
house neighboring on my own, gave me, together with his wife, his
solicitous care. Both knew me by sight as a child of the quarter. I
recovered little by little from my commotion. The porter offered me a
jacket to replace the ruined tunic of my uniform. Never shall I forget
the words the worthy people uttered as I bade them good-bye, thanking
them for their attentions.

"What the devil, my dear neighbor! Between you and me, you were on the
wrong side, this time!" said the brave fellow, who from his door-sill
had taken in the whole scene. "Eh! Without a doubt, you were in the
wrong, although you did it out of your good heart! My God! I also have a
good heart, and, such as you see me, I couldn't cut the head off a
chicken. Nevertheless, I say to myself: Those who, at this moment, have
the courage to purge the prisons, are saving the country and our
Revolution, by preventing our enemies from letting loose a civil war
upon France, and joining themselves to the out-landers to combat us.
Alas, it is indeed hard to be driven to it, but 'Necessity knows no
law.' It is either kill or be killed. In such a case, each for his own
skin!"

"Goodness me, yes!" put in the portress, a debonair matron, taking up
her knitting again. "And then, whose fault is it? The nobles and the
priests haven't stopped for three years conspiring with Veto and the
Austrian woman. They loose the Prussians and Huns upon our poor country.
God! Listen, you, neighbor--we are getting tired, and it is high time
that, one way or another, this all be put an end to."

"My wife is right. And then, do you see, neighbor, when the Sections,
and even the Commune and Monsieur Danton, everyone, in fact, says it is
necessary to purge the prisons, one must believe that so many persons
would not agree on one and the same course, were it not at bottom just,
or at least necessary."

I have cited these good people's words because they are a faithful
expression of the general sentiment on the subject of the massacres.

On leaving the house where I had found a refuge, I set out, not for my
Section, to join my comrades of the Guard as I had at first intended;
but, acting on the subsequent call of the Commune to all the armorer,
blacksmith and iron-worker artisans, who were to take in hand the
manufacture in haste of the greatest possible number of arms, I turned
my steps toward the National Assembly, where the Military Committee sat
in permanent session. I hoped that the number of workmen in these trades
who reported would be over-sufficient for the turning out of the arms;
in that case I was resolved to leave the next day for the army. Two
motives impelled me to that resolution. First, my duty to my country;
second the profound chagrin into which the aberration of my sister
Victoria had thrown me. At that very moment, doubtless, she
was--frightful thought--assisting at the massacre in the prisons, calm
and terrible as the goddess of Retribution. Moreover, I had received,
two days earlier, a letter from Charlotte Desmarais. She was living
still at Lyons, with her mother; she assured me of her affection, of her
unshakable constancy, and added that, in view of the perils with which
the allied arms threatened the country, my duty as a citizen was marked
out for me; she would support with firmness the new trials that would
await her should I go to the front. Unhappily, I could not enrol. The
number of mechanics skilled in iron working would hardly suffice for
getting out the arms; by a decree of the Assembly, rendered on September
4, it was forbidden to them to leave Paris.

Behold the spectacle that I was to witness on my way to the Assembly--a
spectacle moving in its very simplicity:

In the middle of Vendome Place was raised a tent, supported at each
corner by a pike surmounted with a red bonnet. Under this tent,
municipal officers, girt with the tricolor scarf, were receiving the
enlistments of citizens. Two drums, piled one on the other, served as
table. On the upper drum lay an ink-well, a pen, and the register in
which were inscribed the names of the volunteers. Each of these received
a fraternal embrace from one of the councilmen, and departed amid the
cheers of "Long live the Nation!" uttered by the crowd which filled the
place. Day without equal in history! Strange day! in which love of
country, heroism, civic devotion, and the exaltation of the holiest
virtues of the family, were intermingled with the thirst for vengeance
and extermination. I heard uttered here and there about me, here with
savage satisfaction, there with the accent of indifference or the
resignation born of painful necessity: "They are going to execute the
conspirators and purge the prisons." "Death to the priests and nobles!"

Into the tent of the municipal officers I saw a distinguished-looking
old man enter. His five sons accompanied him. The youngest seemed about
eighteen; the eldest, aged perhaps forty, held by the hand his own son,
hardly out of his boyhood. These seven persons, completely armed and
equipped out of their own purse, carried on their backs their soldiers'
knapsacks. The old man acted as spokesman, and addressed one of the
officers:

"Citizen, I am named Matthew Bernard, master tanner, No. 71 St. Victor
Street, where I live with my five sons and my grandson. We come, they
and I, to enlist; we leave for the frontier."

The wife of the brave citizen, his daughter, a young girl of seventeen,
and his son's wife, awaited them outside. On the countenances of the
three women was legible neither fear nor regret; the tears that shone in
their eyes were tears of enthusiasm.

"Farewell, wife! Farewell, daughter and daughter-in-law! We depart
assured of your safety. The prisons are purged," said the old man in a
voice calm and strong. "We have none now to fight but the Prussians on
the frontier. Adieu till we meet again. Long live the Nation! Long live
the Republic! Death to the priests and the aristocrats!"

In the midst of the procession of recruits, I heard the snapping of a
whip, and these words, shouted out in deep and joyous tones:

"Make way, citizens, make way, please! Oh, hey! Alright, Double-grey!
Alright, Reddy!" And soon I saw drawing near, through the crowd which
fell back to give him passage, a man in the hey-day of his strength,
with an open and martial countenance, clad in a great-coat and an
oilskin hat. He rode a grey horse, and led by the bridle a bay, both
harnessed for the carriage. Across the crupper of one of the animals
were slung a saddle-bag of oats and a bale of grass tied with a cord;
the other horse carried a valise. The great-coat of the rider was
drawn-tight at the waist by the belt of a cavalry saber that hung beside
him. I remarked with surprise that the white leather of his sword-tassel
was red, as if wet with blood.

"Citizen officers," called the rider without descending from the horse
he rode, and which he reined in on the threshold of the tent, "Write as
a voluntary recruit James Duchemin, stage driver by occupation and
formerly an artilleryman; I have sold my coach to pay my expenses on the
way. I am off to the frontier with my horses Double-grey and Reddy, of
whom I make an offering to the country, asking only the favor not to be
separated from them and to be enrolled with them in a regiment of field
artillery. You'll see them do famously in the harness when they're
hitched up to a four-pounder. So, then, citizen officers, write us down,
my horses and me. I have just lent a hand to the patriots who are
working down there, at the Abbey," added the stage driver, carrying his
hand to the blood-reddened saber. "The business is done. The prisons are
purged;--now, to the front!"

The day was nearly over when I arrived at the Assembly to put myself at
the disposal of the Military Committee. While awaiting my turn for
enrolment, I wandered into the Assembly galleries. I was anxious to know
whether the massacre in the prisons was known to the popular
Representatives. I then learned that the Assembly, informed as to the
occurrences at the Abbey, at La Force, and at the Chatelet, had sent to
these places, with instructions to oppose the carnage, a commission
composed of Citizens Bazire, Dussaulx, Francis of Neufchateau, Isnard
and Lequino.

Soon several of the commissioners entered the chamber, accompanied by
Tallien, a member of the Commune, who took the floor and said:

"Citizens, the commissioners of the Assembly are powerless to turn aside
the vengeance of the people, a vengeance in some sort just, for, we must
say it, these blows have fallen upon the issuers of false notes, whom
the law condemns to death. What excited the vengeance of the people was
that they found in the prisons none but recognized criminals!"

I left the Assembly chamber and returned to take my place in the line
and pass before the Committee. The Committee was presided over, that
day, by Carnot the elder, an officer of genius, and one of the greatest
captains of the time. I had myself inscribed as an iron-worker, and
received the order to appear next morning at daybreak, at the
green-house of the Louvre, where they were setting up the forges and
work-benches for the fashioning of the munitions of war.

While awaiting Victoria, at our lodging, I busied myself with recording
in my journal the various events of the day. One in the morning sounded;
my sister had not returned. Up till now, I had felt no anxiety for her;
only those who would attempt to disarm the popular anger, only those, on
that day, ran any danger; and Victoria partook of the general sentiment
of Paris on the subject of a mass extermination. But suddenly there
flashed back to my mind Jesuit Morlet and his tool Lehiron. I knew the
hatred entertained by the reverend Father for my sister. These thoughts
threw me into deep anxiety. The Jesuit Morlet and Lehiron were capable
of any crime; and on this unlucky day, when blood flowed in torrents,
nothing would have been easier than for the wretches to make away with
Victoria. Faithful to his hope of seeing the Revolution besmirch itself
or lose itself in excesses, Abbot Morlet would not fail to be on hand to
urge on the carnage of the prisoners; he could easily, under a new
disguise, repair to the prisons with Lehiron and his cut-throats, and,
on encountering my sister, point her out to their weapons.

The gloomiest of apprehensions were raised in me by these reflections.
My alarm increased from minute to minute. There was, alas, no way to
still it. My anguish had almost reached the breaking point when I heard
hurried steps on the stair-landing. I ran to the door. It flew open.
Victoria uttered a cry of joy, threw herself into my arms, pressed me
convulsively to her breast, and broke into tears. Then, between her
sobs, she murmured in a voice choked with joy:

"Brother, my poor brother, I find you again! God be praised!"

As her emotion subsided, Victoria acquainted me in the following words
with the source of her alarm:

"Just now, on my way here, I met, ten steps from the house, our
neighbor Dubreuil. On seeing me he stopped, looked at me an instant with
an expression of surprise and grief, and said, 'Are you coming to see
John?' 'Surely,' answered I. 'Alas, poor John harangued the crowd this
morning at this very place; he spoke against the massacre in the
prisons; they took him for a traitor, and the crowd, in its temper--'
and our neighbor buried his face in his hands and did not finish. I
understood everything. Yielding to the goodness of your heart, desiring
to oppose popular justice in its course, you had paid for the attempt
with your life!--such was my first thought. For an instant I stood
motionless with stupor, my soul in a whirl. I felt I should go mad. Then
I ran to our door. 'Brother, brother!' I cried. 'Whence your alarm,
mademoiselle?' the porter asked me; 'Monsieur John is upstairs since ten
o'clock.' My heart bounded with joy;--but I was not completely reassured
till I saw you."

I recounted to my sister the cause of our neighbor's mistake in thinking
I had lost my life in the attempt to intervene in favor of the
prisoners. And I followed by confiding to Victoria the fears which her
own prolonged absence had caused me.

"True," Victoria answered, "the Jesuit did appear once at the Abbey
Prison with Lehiron and some of his brigands. But they soon saw that
that was not the place for them, for at the Abbey there was no
pillaging, there was no assassination. We judged and condemned the
guilty; we freed the innocent."

"Alas, and in the name of what law did you condemn the ones, and acquit
the others?"

"In the name of Eternal Justice, which smites the wicked and spares the
good."

I heard Victoria in a sort of daze. "And even if," exclaimed I, "a
semblance of justice did preside over the carnage, by what right did
these men constitute themselves the accusers, judges and executioners of
the prisoners?"

"Brother, by what right did the jurors who assisted at the sessions of
the revolutionary tribunal instituted on August the 17th of this year,
declare the accused innocent or guilty?"

"They exercised a right conferred on them by the law."

"Then the law confers in certain cases, and on citizens elected by the
people, the right to judge or to absolve?"

"In certain cases, yes; and the present case is not of their number."

"John, those are the subtleties of a lawyer. Listen to what passed
before my eyes: The people elected by acclamation and installed in the
prison a revolutionary tribunal of eleven jurors. The prisoners were
brought before them. Then--I saw everything, I heard everything, and I
swear before God, aye, on my soul and conscience, that all those who
were sentenced deserved the death. My mind is clear, my thoughts calm.
Hear what I have to tell you, then you shall pronounce between those who
glorify the events of September and those who condemn them:

"Three carriages bearing priests accused of having fomented civil war,
were driving towards the Abbey. As the vehicles approached the prison,
one of the priests, who was braving the crowd with the violence of his
discourse, was cursed by it. In a passion he raised his cane and struck
one of those who insulted him over the head. The crowd, exasperated,
followed the vehicles into the Abbey and massacred all the priests in
them."

Victoria gasped for breath and continued:

"It was at this moment that I entered the prison. Almost at the same
time as I, Manuel, the attorney-at-law for the Commune, arrived. The
people called on the guards to deliver the prisoners to them. Manuel
asked to be heard. He began by reading a decision of the Commune, which
declared:

"'In the name of the people, citizens, you are enjoined to pass judgment
on all the prisoners in the Abbey Prison without distinction; with the
exception of Abbot Lenfant, whom you shall bestow in a safe place.

"'At the City Hall, September 2, 1792.

"'Signed, Panis, Sergent, administrators.'

"Having read the decree, Manuel continued:

"'Citizens, your resentment is just. Wage, if you will, war without let
upon the enemies of the public weal! Fight them to the death; they must
perish. But you love justice, and you would shudder at the thought of
imbruing your hands with innocent blood. Cease, then, from throwing
yourselves like tigers upon men, your brothers.'"

Victoria, after accentuating this fact, went on:

"A court elected by those present and presided over by Maillard,
convened in the registrar's office; one enters the place by a grating
communicating with the interior of the prison, and leaves it by a door
opening on the prison courtyard. It was in the latter place that the
justiciaries awaited the condemned, to execute them. Maillard laid
before him the prison register; this gave the charge against each
inmate, and the cause of his arrest. A warder, as each prisoner's name
was called, went to fetch him. He was led before the tribunal, which
proceeded in this wise:

"For instance, they brought in a Knight of St. Louis, an ex-captain of
the King's Huntsmen. The accused, formerly the seigneur of several
parishes, enjoyed still a large fortune. His name was Journiac of St.
Meard. Here he comes before the tribunal. He gives his name and surname.
'Are you a royalist?' asks Maillard. And as, at that question, St. Meard
seemed troubled, Maillard adds: 'Answer truthfully and without fear. We
are here to judge not opinions but their consequences.' The Chevalier of
St. Meard, a firm and loyal man, replies: 'I am a royalist, I mourn the
old regime. I believe that France is essentially monarchist. I have
never concealed my regrets. I have a naturally satirical spirit, and I
have published in several miscellanies, adhering to my opinion, several
mocking verses against the Revolution. Those are the principal facts
charged against me. As to the rest, I have here papers which will,
happily, make clear to you my innocence.' And St. Meard drew from a
portfolio several sheets. They were carefully examined. Some witnesses,
brought there by the merest chance, were heard for and against the
accused. His defense, worked out in much detail, occupied over half an
hour, and ended with these words: 'I mourn the old regime; but I have
never conspired against the new. I did not flee the country; I regard as
a crime the appeal to foreign arms. I hope I have proved to you,
citizens, my innocence, and I believe that you will set me at liberty,
to which I am much inclined both by principle and by nature.' The jurors
conferred in a low voice, and in a few seconds Maillard rose, removed
his hat, and said aloud, 'Prisoner at the bar, you are free.' Then,
addressing three patriots armed with pikes and bloody swords, Maillard
added, 'Watch over the safety of this citizen; conduct him to his
home.'--"

"Ah," I broke in, experiencing a mingled sensation of compassion and
horror, "the heart of man is an abyss--an abyss--one's reason is lost in
trying to fathom it!"

"That is how things were conducted at the Abbey," proceeded Victoria.
"After examination and free defense I saw set at liberty Bertrand La
Molleville, brother of the minister; Maton La Varenne, a lawyer; Abbot
Solomon Duveyrier; and the Count of Afry, a colonel in the Swiss
regiments, after he had proven an alibi from Paris during the events of
the 10th of August."

And Victoria completed the account of the things she witnessed while the
prisoners were being judged:

"I told you, brother, how they acquitted the innocent; now I shall show
you how they performed sentence on the guilty. Let me take the case of
Montmorin, the double traitor absolved by the Orleans High Court. That
scandalous acquittal was one of the causes of to-day's events. The
people, tired and irritated at seeing the criminals pass scatheless
under the sword of the law, has done justice to itself, by striking
them! Montmorin, brought before the court, showed himself haughty and
arrogant; a contemptuous smile contracted his lips. 'You are Citizen
Montmorin? The crimes of which you are accused are notorious. What have
you to say in your defense?' Maillard asked the former minister. 'I
refuse to reply; I do not recognize your right to sit upon me,' retorted
Montmorin. In vain Maillard urged him to speak; the prisoner maintained
an obstinate silence. 'Take the accused to La Force,' ordered Maillard,
after with a look consulting the jurors, all of whom gave, by an
affirmative nod of the head, their approval of the sentence of the Count
of Montmorin."

"But Maillard had just ordered the prisoner to be taken to La Force?"

"A conventional phrase, to spare the condemned up to the last moment the
agonies of death. 'Take the accused to La Force,' or 'Release the
accused,' were the formulas for the supreme penalty. They opened before
them the door that gave on the courtyard; the door closed on them, and
the justiciaries performed their office."

"Strange contradiction--pity and ferocity!"

"Misled by the words pronounced by Maillard, Montmorin quoth in a
supercilious voice, 'I do not go on foot; let them call a coach.' 'It
awaits you at the door,' responded Maillard. Montmorin was pushed into
the courtyard, where they ended him. Bakman, the Swiss regimental
colonel, also acquitted by the High Court of Orleans, underwent the same
fate as Montmorin; also Protot and Valvins, both counterfeiters; Abbot
Bardy, a monster who had cut his own brother to pieces, and--but we can
content ourselves with these examples."

Victoria sank into somber silence; I pressed her hand compassionately,
and passed to my own room to seek in repose forgetfulness from this
wretched day.




CHAPTER X.

ROYALTY ABOLISHED.


Tallien, in his account of the times, traces the events leading up to
these September days; he marks among the causes of the public
indignation the scandalous acquittals of the Orleans High Court, and the
approach of the foreign armies, after the capture of Longwy and Verdun.
Then he proceeds:

"At the same time, a criminal exposed in the public place had the
temerity to cry on the scaffold, 'Long live the King! Long live the
Queen! Long live Lafayette! Long live the Prussians! To the devil with
the Nation!' These utterances provoked the anger of the people, and the
wretch would have perished on the instant had not the attorney of the
Commune shielded him with his own body, and had him taken back to prison
to be turned over to the judges. In the course of his examination he
declared that for several days money had been scattered profusely in the
prisons, and that, at the first opportunity, the brigands there held in
durance were to be armed in the service of the counter-revolutionists!

"Moreover, no one is ignorant that it was in the prisons that the false
notes put in circulation were forged; and, in fact, during the
expedition of the 2nd of September, there were found in the prisons
plates, paper, and all the necessary apparatus for issuing the notes.
These articles are in existence now, and are deposited in the archives
of the courts....

"Soon thousands of citizens were assembled under the banners of liberty,
ready to march. But before their departure, a simple and natural
reflection occurred to them:

"'At the very moment that we march against the enemy,' they said, 'when
we go to shed our blood in defense of the country, we do not wish to
leave our fathers, our wives, our children, our old folks, exposed to
the onslaughts of the reprobates shut up in the prisons. Before setting
out against the foreign enemies, we must first wipe out those in our
midst.'

"Such was the language of these citizens, when two refractory priests
whom they were taking to the Abbey Prison, hearing some seditious cries,
offered insults to the Revolution. The rage of the people was at white
heat....

"The Swiss, the assassins of the people on the 10th of August,
imprisoned to the number of some three hundred, were set free and
incorporated in the national battalions....

"Such were the circumstances which preceded and provoked the events of
September, events unquestionably terrible, and which, in time of peace
would demand legal vengeance, but which, in a period of agitation, it is
better to draw the veil over, leaving to the historian the task of
appreciating this period of the Revolution, which, however, had many
more uses than one thinks."

To wind up the portrayal of this redoubtable evolution, I take this
extract from a speech of Robespierre's:

"They have spoken to you often of the events of September 2. That is the
subject at which I am impatient to arrive. I shall treat it in an
absolutely disinterested manner....

"The general council of the Commune, far from exciting the events of
September, did its levellest to prevent them. In order to form a just
idea of these occurrences, one must seek for truth not alone in
calumnious orations in which they are distorted, but in the history of
the Revolution. If you have the idea that the mental impulse given by
the insurrection of August 10 had not entirely subsided by the beginning
of September, you are mistaken. There is not a single likeness between
the two periods....

"The greatest conspirators of August 10 were withdrawn from the wrath of
the victorious people, who had consented to place them in the hands of a
new tribunal. Nevertheless, after judging three or four minor criminals,
the tribunal rested. Montmorin was acquitted, the Prince of Poix and
other conspirators of like importance were fraudulently set free. Vast
impositions of this character were coming to light, new proofs of the
conspiracy of the court were developing daily. Nearly all the patriots
wounded at the Tuileries died in the arms of their brother Parisians.
Indignation was smouldering in all hearts. A new cause burst it into
flame. Many citizens had believed that the 10th of August would break
the thread of the royalist conspiracies, they considered the war closed.
Suddenly the news of the taking of Longwy hurtled through Paris; Verdun
had been given up, Brunswick with his army was headed for Paris. No
fortified place interposed between us and our enemies. Our army,
divided, almost ruined by the treasons of Lafayette, was lacking in
everything. Arms had to be found, camp equipments, provisions, men. The
Executive Council dissimulated neither its fears nor embarrassment.
Danton appeared before the Assembly, graphically pictured to it its
perils and resources, and besought it to take vigorous measures. He went
to the City Hall, rang the alarm bell, fired the guns, and declared the
country in danger. In an instant forty thousand men, armed and equipped,
were on the march to Chalons. In the midst of this universal enthusiasm
the approach of the out-land armies reawakened in every breast
sentiments of indignation and vengeance against the traitors who had
beckoned in the enemy. Before leaving their wives and children, the
citizens, the vanquishers of the Tuileries, desired the punishment of
the conspirators, which had been promised them. They ran to the prisons.
Could the magistrates halt the people! for it was a movement of the
people; not, as some have ridiculously supposed, a fragmentary sedition
of a few rascals paid to assassinate their fellows. The Commune, they
say, should have proclaimed martial law. Martial law against the people,
with the enemy drawing nigh! Martial law after the 10th of August!
Martial law in favor of the accomplices of a tyranny dethroned by the
people! What could the magistrates do against the determined will of an
indignant population, which opposed to the magistrates' talk the memory
of its own heroism on August 10, its present devotion in rushing to the
front, and the long-drawn-out immunity from punishment enjoyed by the
traitors?...

"They protest that innocent persons perished in these executions; they
have been pleased to exaggerate the number of these. Even one, no
doubt, is too many, citizens! Mourn that cruel mistake, as we have for
long mourned it! Mourn even the guilty ones reserved for the law's
retribution, who fell under the sword of popular justice!"

The volunteers, who in those September days enrolled in multitudes, were
sent first to the intermediary camps, where they received the rudiments
of military training. Thence they were sent to the army. Their courage
saved France and inaugurated the victories of the Republic.

Thanks, O, God! To-day I have seen the triumph which crowns fifteen
centuries of struggle maintained by our oppressed fathers against their
oppressors; by slaves, serfs, and vassals against Kings, nobles and
clergy; by the descendants of the conquered Gauls against the
descendants of the Frankish conquerors.

Gaul was a slave--I see her sovereign! Her casqued and mitred tyrants
are cut off.

The new National Convention assembled at the palace of the Tuileries,
and went into session on Friday, September 21, 1792, at quarter past
twelve.

Petion presided; the secretaries were Condorcet, Rabaud St. Etienne,
Vergniaud, Camus, and Lassource.

Couthon took the floor, and exhorted his colleagues: "Citizens, our
mission is sublime! The people has reposed its confidence in us--let us
approve ourselves worthy of it!"

"There is one act which you can not put off till to-morrow, without
betraying the will of the nation," declared Collot D'Herbois. "That is
the abolition of royalty."

"Certes," assented Abbot Gregory, "no one intends to preserve the race
of Kings in France. We know that all dynasties are but broods of
vampires; we must reassure the friends of liberty; we must destroy this
talisman, whose magic power is still capable of stupefying so many. I
ask, then, that by a solemn law, you consecrate the abolition of
royalty."

The whole Assembly rose with a spontaneous movement, and with cheers
acclaimed the motion of Gregory, who continued:

"Kings are to the moral order what monsters are to the physical. Courts
are the smithy of crimes and the fastness of tyrants. The history of
Kings is the martyrdom of nations. We are all penetrated with this
truth--why further discuss it? I ask that my motion be put to a vote,
after it shall have been drafted with a preamble comportable to the
solemnity of the decision."

"The preamble of your motion, citizen, is the history of the crimes of
Louis XVI," said Ducot.

The president rose and read:

"THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY DECREES:

"ROYALTY IS ABOLISHED IN FRANCE."

Shouts of joy, cries of "Long live the Nation! Long live the Republic!"
rang from every throat, members of the Convention and spectators in the
galleries alike. The tumultuous rejoicing lasted for several minutes.

The session adjourned.

The members of the Convention passed out to cries of:

"Long live the Nation!"

"Long live the Republic!"

"Down with Kings and nobles!"




CHAPTER XI.

BOURGEOIS TURNED SANS-CULOTTE.


It was the evening of December 10, 1792. Monsieur Desmarais sat talking
with his wife in the parlor of their dwelling. The attorney, elected to
the Convention in September, no longer was content to affect patriotism
in his acts and words; his very appearance now breathed a sans-culottism
of the deepest dye. Thus he, once so precise about his person, shaved
but once a week; his hair, now powderless, was clipped close like a
Roundhead's; he wore a carmagnole jacket, hob-nailed shoes, wide
pantaloons, a distinctive sign of the sans-culottes, and a red-checkered
handkerchief rolled around his neck, after the style of Marat. In one of
the corners of the parlor, now without mirrors or curtains and almost
stripped of furniture, reposed a large square deal box, whose cover bore
the words in large penciled characters: "Breakable. Handle with care."
The chest seemed to be built with more care and solidity than is usual
with packing-cases. Its cover, instead of being merely nailed, was
fastened with hinges; a strong lock held it shut. Madam Desmarais,
arrived from Lyons a brief half hour before, had not yet removed her
traveling garments. Her face breathed anxiety. Her husband's features
were pale and glowering; he seemed worked up, agitated. His wife
continued the conversation:

"You understand, my friend, that, frightened at the rumors which were
rife in Lyons on the subject of the triumph of a royalist
conspiracy--that Paris was given up to fire and blood, the Convention
dissolved, its members exposed to the greatest dangers--"

"It is incomprehensible to me what object anyone could have in
propagating such sinister rumors," replied Desmarais. "We are on the
tracks of a royalist plot, built, for a pretext, upon the trial of this
unfortunate King; but the plot can not but miscarry. Paris seems seized
with vertigo since August 10!"

"However that may be, my friend, frightened by these rumors, I set out
for Paris. Besides, it costs me too much to live far from you in these
terrible times. The reasons for our separation were the hope of allaying
the passion of our daughter for that young Lebrenn, and your lively
desire to shield me from the spectacle of the insurrections, the popular
passions which were about to sweep over Paris. But our principal aim has
not been attained. Charlotte persists in her determination to remain
unmarried or to wed that ironsmith. She writes to him and receives his
letters. So, then, whether she be at Paris or at Lyons, she will be
neither nearer nor further from the scene of her love-affair. And
finally, by the very fact that you are exposed to dangers of all sorts,
my place is beside you, my friend. I have, then, resolved to leave you
no longer. I also am much alarmed on my brother's score. Here it is more
than a month that I haven't heard from him. Can you tell me what has
become of him?"

"I know that he was denounced as a suspect; he probably has remained in
Paris, where he is in hiding, and conspiring in favor of the monarchy.
I do not in the least doubt it."

"What do you tell me! My brother denounced! My God! In these times such
an accusation is a thing of terror--it may lead to the scaffold!"

"No doubt. But why doesn't he consent to resign himself, as I have, to
howl with the wolves, and roar with the tigers?"

"Poor Hubert," replied Madam Desmarais in tears. "In the midst of the
mortal dangers which he runs, he thinks of my birthday; he sends me a
token of his brotherly affection." And the attorney's wife, casting her
eyes towards the box in the corner, added, "Dear, good brother! How
sensible I am of this new proof of his affection!"

"If he truly loved you, he would not risk causing you the greatest
chagrin, and compromising me into the bargain!"

"My friend, I can not listen to reproaches against my brother, when he
is exposed to such grave perils--"

"And whose fault is it, if not his own, due to his own violent and
obstinate character? He abhors, says he, the excesses of the Revolution!
Alas, I also execrate them--yet I feign to applaud them. That will at
least do to insure our repose and steer clear of the guillotine. Thus,
to-morrow, the members of the Convention will hale before the bar the
unfortunate Louis XVI, he will be examined in due form, they will give
him his trial, and he will be condemned to death. And well, I shall vote
for death."

"O, my God!" murmured Madam Desmarais in cold fear. "My husband a
regicide!"

"But how can I escape the fatal necessity?"

"Let the fatality fall, then!" answered Madam Desmarais mournfully, her
voice broken with sobs.

"Let us go on," said advocate Desmarais after a long silence, during
which his agitation slowly got the better of itself, "let us go on. Our
daughter is then still infatuated with this Lebrenn?"

"She loves Lebrenn as much as, if not more than, before. He informed her
in one of his last letters that he had been promoted to certain duties
in the Commune of Paris, and she glories in his advancement."

"In truth, the workingman has been elected a municipal officer. They
even proposed to him, such is his influence in the quarter and in the
Jacobin Club, to run as candidate for the Convention, but he declined
the offer. For the rest, his position with the Jacobins has put him in
touch with several leading spirits of the Revolution--Tallien,
Robespierre, Legendre, Billaud-Varenne, Danton, and other rabid
democrats."

"Have you renewed your relations with the young man since the day you
refused him our daughter's hand?"

"No; we have met several times at the Jacobins, but I have avoided
speaking with him. He has imitated my reserve. For the rest, I must do
him this justice--he has always expressed himself in favorable terms
concerning me, true to his promise, that, however little reliance he
placed in my uprightness and the sincerity of my convictions, he would
hold his opinion secret until my acts themselves denounced me. Well, my
acts and speeches have been, and will be, in conformity with the
necessities of my position. But, too much of this Lebrenn;--I have told
you that your unlooked-for return surprised me, but that it chimed in
with my recent projects. I have in view for our daughter a marriage to
which I attach great importance, for I would become, by the alliance,
the father-in-law of a man destined to count among the most influential
personages of the Revolution. This future son-in-law is very young, and
remarkably good looking; he belongs to the upper bourgeois, even
bordering on the nobility. He is, in fine, the intimate friend, the
pupil, the devoted supporter, the right arm of Robespierre. This young
man, who has already made his mark in the Assembly in two speeches of
immense influence,--is Monsieur St. Just."

"Alas, my friend, in Lyons I heard tell of this young man. His name
excites the same execration as that of Robespierre and Marat among the
royalists, and even among the moderate republicans of the complexion of
the Girondins. Have you considered that?"

"It is precisely because of the aversion which he inspires in the
royalists, the Girondins, and the moderates, that I have fixed my eyes
upon St. Just. One of our common friends, Billaud-Varenne, is to make,
this very day, overtures to my young colleague on the subject of this
marriage, which will be so much to my advantage."

"My friend, all that you say causes me a surprise and bewilderment that
puts my mind in a whirl. You own to experiencing great regret at
entering on the path of the Revolution; and, by a strange contradiction,
you speak of marrying your daughter to one of the men whom honest folks
hold most in horror."

"No contradiction there, at all. Facts are facts. I am unhappy enough to
have for brother-in-law a mad-cap counter-revolutionist. Hubert is a
denounced man, and at this very hour, no doubt, is intriguing against
the Revolution. All this may compromise me most perilously. Marat has
his eye on me. Now, if Marat penetrates my innermost thoughts, I am in
great danger. The influence of St. Just, once my son-in-law, would save
my head."

Gertrude the serving-maid interrupted her master by entering the room
with an air at once of mystery and affright, and saying to him in a
startled voice:

"Monsieur, madam's brother is here."

"Hubert here!" cried Desmarais with a start. "I don't want to see him!
Tell him I'm out!"

"Alas, sir, your brother-in-law said to me that he was pursued by the
police, and that they were hard on his tracks."

"Great God!" murmured Madam Desmarais faintly. "My brother!"

"Let him get out of here!" cried the attorney, pale with terror. "Let
him get out this instant!"

"You repulse my brother, when he is in danger of his life, perhaps!"
exclaimed Madam Desmarais indignantly. And running to Gertrude she
demanded, "Where is my brother?"

"In the dining room, taking off his cloak--" But interrupting herself
she exclaimed, "Here is Monsieur Hubert, now!"

In fact, it was none other than Hubert himself who appeared in the
parlor door. He was laboring under strong emotion; he received his
sister in his arms and embraced her effusively.

Advocate Desmarais, a prey to the keenest anxiety, was as yet uncertain
as to how his troublesome brother-in-law was to be received. In a
whisper he interrogated Gertrude:

"Do you think the porter recognized Monsieur Hubert?"

"With his slouch hat pulled over his eyes, blue glasses on, and his chin
hidden in the collar of his great-coat, Monsieur Hubert was
unrecognizable."

The attorney pondered a few seconds, and continued his conversation with
Gertrude: "You have a key to the little garden gate? Go open it, and
leave it ajar. In ten minutes run to the janitor with a great air of
alarm and tell him that the person who just asked for me was a robber,
that you just surprised him with his hand in the drawer of the
dining-room buffet; that he took flight as soon as discovered, that he
ran down stairs in a hurry, and that he probably made good his escape by
scaling the garden wall. You understand all I've told you? Execute my
orders precisely, and not a word on my brother-in-law's presence."

"It shall all be done as you wish."

"Not a word of all this to Jeanette or Germain. Let no one into the
parlor for any reason whatsoever, and do not come in yourself until I
ring for you." Then Desmarais added, as one who had a brilliant idea,
"For greater safety, I'll bolt the door, Go!"

Gertrude went out, and Desmarais cautiously bolted the door of the
parlor.

"To see you again brother, perhaps at the moment of losing you forever!"
sobbed Madam Desmarais addressing Hubert; "the thought is misery to me."

"Reassure yourself, sister. I know how to baffle the pursuits of which I
am the object. I have thrown off the scent the spies who dogged my
steps. And certes, they will never come to seek me in the house of a
member of the Convention. I ask asylum of your husband till midnight
only. At that hour I shall quit his house."

"Ah, I swear, that do I, that you will have quit it in ten minutes!"
retorted the attorney, going over slowly to his wife's side, at the same
moment that Hubert, perceiving the wooden packing-case, said to his
sister:

"Ah, there is my box!"

"Poor brother," began Madam Desmarais, interrupting the financier. "In
the midst of your anxieties, you still remembered my birthday. How can I
tell you how touched I am at this proof of your affection!"

"I deserve no thanks, my dear sister. The case is not intended for you;
it contains some precious objects which I wish to save from the
domiciliary visits they make upon suspects."

"Compromising papers, no doubt!" gasped Desmarais, aside. "Such an
object to drop upon me!"

"I thought these things would be safer here than anywhere else, that is
why I sent them in the case," continued Hubert; "but for reasons useless
to tell you, your servant and the porter must transport it at once to a
house at an address I shall give you."

"I shall go at once to tell our men," said Madam Desmarais, moving
toward the door. But the lawyer stopped her with his hand, and said
coldly:

"Madam, you shall not go out!"

"Pardon, my dear brother-in-law, my not yet having pressed your hand,
you whose hospitality I shall share for a few hours," spoke up Hubert,
stepping to meet the lawyer; "but it was so long since I saw my sister,
that my first movement was to run to her, and--"

"Citizen Hubert," broke in the attorney, pale and trembling between rage
and fear, "the house of a Mountainist of the Convention shall not serve
as the refuge of traitors."

"Good God!" Madam Desmarais murmured, clasping her hands in fright.

"What, brother-in-law, I ask you for shelter for a few hours, you, my
relative, you, erstwhile my friend, and you dare drive me from your
door?"

"Citizen Hubert, the enemies of the Republic are my enemies; I shall
treat them as political enemies when they fall into my hands. Out you
go!"

"Such greetings from you!" stammered Hubert, dazed.

"Brother," cried Madam Desmarais, "do not believe what my husband says!
He is incapable of committing such an act of infamy. It was only a few
moments ago that he was cursing the excesses of the Revolution."

"Wretch!" shrieked Desmarais, seizing his wife by the wrist. "Will you
hold your peace!" Then, turning to his brother-in-law, "Citizen Hubert,
if you do not leave this building on the instant, I shall send for the
patrol of the Section, and have you arrested."

"Ah!" cried Hubert with indignation. "I come to ask a relative for a few
hours' refuge, and the coward, for fear of being compromised, wishes to
send me to the scaffold!"

As Hubert pronounced these last words, Gertrude rapped at the door and
called in a quaking voice:

"Open, open! The commissioner of the Section, in his scarf of office, is
here with the mounted police. He is coming upstairs."

Hubert drew from his coat pockets a brace of double-barreled pistols,
cocked them, and said in a low voice:

"I shall sell my life dear; but, by the thousand gods! my first bullet
will be for you, my coward and traitor brother-in-law!"

Advocate Desmarais leaped to the door and drew back the bolt. His wife,
struck with a sudden inspiration, and displaying, in the terror which
seized her, an unwonted strength, dragged her brother into her
bed-chamber, which opened on the parlor, slammed the door after her, and
shot the bolt into its socket.




CHAPTER XII.

HOWLING WITH THE WOLVES.


While Hubert was thus perforce following his sister to safety, Desmarais
did not notice his brother-in-law's disappearance; for the lawyer, at
the moment, was leaving the parlor to meet the commissioner. Contrary to
his expectations, he did not find the officer in the ante-room, and was
compelled to go as far as the stair-landing, where he encountered him
and accompanied him back to the parlor.

The commissioner was a man of cold and rigid physiognomy; in his suite
were some gendarmes of the Republic, and several police agents. Bowing
to the commissioner, the advocate said:

"Citizen, if I had a son a traitor to the nation, I would myself give
him up to the public powers. I would follow the example of Brutus the
Roman." Then stopping short and casting about him looks of stupefaction,
he added: "But where has my brother-in-law gone to?"

"That is for me to ask you, Citizen Representative of the people,"
rejoined the commissioner. "This disappearance is strange!"

"I commence to see! My wife has let out her brother by her bed-chamber;
the rear staircase descends to the court, and from the court the rascal
will gain the garden!"

The advocate flung himself against the bedroom door, and beating upon it
with both fists, cried breathlessly, "God be praised, the traitor will
not escape us!"

"Go tell our people to redouble their watchfulness," the commissioner
ordered two of his men, who went out quickly. Just then the sleeping
room door fell beneath the blows of the lawyer. The chamber was empty.

Suddenly one of the two agents burst in out of breath, crying, "Treason!
Our man has escaped! Just now two women, one of whom was enveloped in a
long furred pelisse, wearing a hat with a heavy veil, appeared at the
carriage gate, where two gendarmes were posted. One of the women said:
'I am Madam Desmarais; I am going out with my daughter.'"

"A lie! for my daughter is here and could not have left her room!"

"Pursue the fugitives," said the commissioner to some of the men around
him; then, turning back toward Desmarais, he continued, in a tone of
suspicion: "Citizen Representative, this escape seems to me cleverly
planned; but there is still something else to your charge," indicating
the deal chest. "In the name of the law, I summon you to tell me the
contents of that case."

Remembering that Hubert had told his sister he had used the pretext of a
birthday present to her to remove some precious articles from
domiciliary visitation, the attorney was staggered by the question. But
driven by the logic of his hypocrisy further and further along the path
in which he thought lay his safety, the miserable man recovered himself
with an effort, and said firmly to the commissioner: "Citizen, before
replying to your question about the chest, I ask the arrest of my wife,
as an accomplice in the escape of a conspirator."

"I have no warrant for the arrest of Citizeness Desmarais. I shall refer
the matter to the attorney for the Commune."

"As to the chest, the object of your interrogation, I answer that it
belongs not to me. It was sent here by my brother-in-law several days
ago. It should contain, according to what has been told us, a birthday
present for my wife; but I hasten to add that I have every ground for
believing that Citizen Hubert, taking advantage of my confidence, has
sought to conceal from investigation certain compromising papers, by
sending them to me in that box. I learned of this circumstance only by
certain words let fall by my brother-in-law just now, when I threatened
to cause his arrest. I have nothing else to add."

"Lift the cover off the box," ordered the commissioner.

Several gendarmes thrust their bayonets between the cover of the chest
and the lock, which yielded to their pressure. The case flew open.
Advocate Desmarais threw an unquiet look into its interior, which was
filled to the brim with daggers, pistols, and boxes of cartridges. Among
these were several packages of proclamations issued by the royalist
insurrectionary committee.

Despite his profound dissimulation and the extraordinary command he
exercised over himself, Desmarais could not conceal the fright into
which he was thrown by the exposure of the contents of the chest. But
curbing his anxiety by a powerful effort, he feigned indifference, and
tossed back into the box a copy of the proclamation, which he had
hastily read.

The commissioner seated himself by a table, drew out an inkhorn, and
began to write.

All at once Madam Desmarais appeared at the door of the parlor, pale,
fainting, hardly able to keep her feet. Nevertheless in her face could
be read the joy she felt over her brother's escape, and as she entered
she said, raising her eyes to heaven:

"Blessed be Thou, my God! He is saved!"

At the sight of his wife Desmarais leaped with rage, ran to her, seized
her roughly by the arm and cried in a voice that betrayed the extent of
his terror:

"Citizeness Desmarais, you are guilty of a crime against the nation. I
call for your imprisonment."

Madam Desmarais looked at her husband in amazement, unable, at first, to
grasp the import of his words. Just at this moment Charlotte, informed
by Gertrude of what was taking place, entered the room. She was in time
to hear the last words of the advocate; she ran to Madam Desmarais,
clasped her in her arms, and exclaimed:

"Great heaven! Imprison mother! Is it you, father, who thus threaten
her!"

"Leave the room," retorted the lawyer, accompanying the words with an
imperious gesture. "Leave the room, my girl. Your presence is not
needed."

"I, leave the room, when you threaten mother? Never! Where she remains,
I remain."

"My child, be reassured," replied Madam Desmarais in an undertone,
giving her daughter a look of intelligence which included the
commissioner. "Your father is not speaking seriously. Everything will
come out to our satisfaction."

These words, which might have been heard by the commissioner, still
further exasperated the lawyer, who, under the double goad of his
hypocrisy and trepidation, cried: "Citizeness Desmarais, in making
yourself the confederate in the escape of a criminal, you have exposed
yourself to carrying your head to the scaffold!"

At these words Charlotte uttered a piercing cry, and fell upon the neck
of her mother, whom she still held in a tight embrace. But the latter,
firmly persuaded that her husband was playing a role to conjure away the
dangers which surrounded him, again said to her daughter, in order to
calm her anguish:

"But, poor child, know that your father is forced to talk this way in
the presence of a commissioner of police."

Overwhelmed by so many emotions, Madam Desmarais forgot this time to
lower her voice sufficiently as she spoke to her daughter. Her words
fell with distinctness on the ears of her husband, standing near the
commissioner of the Section, who was still occupied in writing his
report. False and cowardly men, when in the grip of fear, are capable of
any act of brutality to protect their own lives. So it now was with
Desmarais; for, leaden pale with fright, he said to himself:

"I am lost! The commissioner heard my wife's words." Then, addressing
the magistrate: "Citizen, I have called upon you for the arrest of
Citizeness Desmarais, my wife."

"And I have already told you, citizen," rejoined the commissioner, "that
I have no warrant for her arrest."

"My dear girl," whispered Madam Desmarais to her daughter, "your father
insists on my arrest, knowing that he will not obtain it; be at ease."

"Since, then, you refuse to arrest my wife, citizen commissioner, I call
upon you to leave here two of your men to keep watch on Citizeness
Desmarais until her case is settled."

"I consent to leave two agents at your disposal for the surveillance of
Citizeness Desmarais, since you insist upon it," agreed the magistrate.
Then, rising and passing the pen to the advocate, he continued: "Please
sign the record of this seizure of arms, ammunition, and proclamations
which has just taken place in your dwelling."

"I wish to read the record carefully before I sign it, citizen
commissioner; we may not agree on the wording of the document."

"I shall wait while you read it," the magistrate replied. And while the
attorney made himself acquainted with the contents of the record, the
commissioner approached Madam Desmarais, and said with a good-natured
and meaning smile: "You are not frightened, citizeness, at the rigor of
your husband?"

"Sir," replied Madam Desmarais hesitantly, not knowing whether to
distrust the officer or not, "my husband's conduct does in truth seem to
me a little strange."

"Eh! by heaven! that's very simple. Alas, in these unhappy times, honest
men are often obliged to wear certain masks."

"It was thanks to your generous intervention that my brother owes his
safety."

"Have a care, madam, that my men do not hear you; they are not all
_sure_. But I have a last word of advice to give you: Try to warn
monsieur, your brother, to leave Paris as soon as possible, and by the
St. Victor barrier."

"Ah, monsieur, what goodness!"

"I know that Monsieur Desmarais affects of necessity opinions far
removed from his heart. Have no fear, then, madam; I caught his meaning
when he asked for your arrest. So I am going to give you two jailers,
the best men in the world. Adieu, madam, keep the secret for me, and
count on my devotion;" and the magistrate added, half aloud: "One must
howl with the wolves."

As the commissioner moved away, Madam Desmarais said to her daughter
joyfully, "What an excellent man! Thanks to him my brother will perhaps
be able to leave Paris to-night without danger. What gratitude we all
owe him!"

"By the St. Victor barrier, mother; doubtless, that barrier is less
closely watched than the others. But how can we convey to uncle this
precious information? There is the difficulty."

"He gave me the number of a place, the home of one of his friends, where
I might address a letter. I shall go write it at once, and Gertrude
shall carry it."

These various undertone conversations, and especially the conversation
of his wife with the commissioner, put Desmarais on the griddle. But,
obliged to pay all his attention to the police record, he could do no
more than throw, from time to time, a hurried glance upon the speakers.
He finally concluded the reading of the report, and having no fault to
find with its contents, he signed it, saying once more, as he handed it
back to the commissioner:

"I would remind you, citizen, that I request the arrest of Citizeness
Desmarais, and in the meanwhile, I insist that two of your agents remain
here at my disposition."

"I have just issued orders to that effect. I leave you two men who will
know how to perform their duty in every respect. Adieu, citizen; I shall
not forget your request, nor the _good example_ you present to the
patriots in asking the arrest of Citizeness Desmarais. This very day
Citizen Marat shall be enlightened by me on your patriotism."

With these words, which bore a double significance, the commissioner
bowed low to Madam Desmarais and her daughter, marched out with his men,
who carried with them the chest of arms, and said to two of the agents
who accompanied him:

"You are to remain outside the parlor at the orders of Citizen
Desmarais;" and added in a lower tone: "Keep watch around the house;
follow the young woman who will go out."




CHAPTER XIII.

THE HOWL RINGS FALSE.


At the same instant Madam Desmarais was saying to herself:

"Let me hasten to write to my brother that he may even to-night quit
Paris, by the St. Victor barrier." And, rushing to her husband as the
double doors of the parlor swung to, she exclaimed joyfully:

"Ah, my friend, what a fine fellow that commissioner is! He does like
you--he _roars with the tigers and howls with the wolves_!"

"What!" exploded the lawyer, taken aback. "Do you mean to say--?"

"I mean this worthy man understood that in demanding my arrest, poor
friend, you were only playing a role. Not so, Charlotte?"

"Oh, yes! For he said to mother, 'In these times of revolution, honest
men are obliged to wear a mask.'"

"And I made answer," continued Madam Desmarais, "that, in fact, you were
obliged to _howl with the wolves_, as you have so often repeated to me
to-day."

"Wretched woman!" screamed the lawyer, as he sprang at his wife, his
fist raised in a paroxysm of rage.

"Father, recollect yourself, for pity!"

A moment later Desmarais's fury gave way to prostration. His features
were overspread with an ashen pallor, he reeled, and had barely time to
throw himself into an arm-chair, mumbling as if his senses had forsaken
him--"I am lost!--The guillotine!"

Madam Desmarais and her daughter flew to the advocate's side, raised his
inert head, and made him breathe their salts. Hardly had he come to
himself when Gertrude entered and announced:

"Monsieur Billaud-Varenne asks to speak with monsieur, on a very urgent
matter."

The announcement of the visit of his colleague seemed to reanimate the
lawyer. A glow of hope shone in his almost deathly countenance. He rose
abruptly, saying:

"Billaud must have seen St. Just. If he accepts my proposition, I am
saved!" Then, in a curt, hard voice he addressed his wife: "Retire to
your apartment, madam; I have to talk business, grave political
business, with Citizen Billaud-Varenne."

Followed by her daughter, Madam Desmarais went out, and her husband
ordered Gertrude to show Citizen Billaud-Varenne into the parlor. As the
maid left, the two police agents placed on watch were seated near the
parlor door.

"Come now, let's compose ourselves," muttered the advocate, mopping the
perspiration which beaded his brow. "Billaud-Varenne is another sort of
monster, and perhaps more dangerous than Marat. What answer will he
bring me? If St. Just consents to be my son-in-law, I have nothing more
to fear! If not--ah! What a hell!"

Billaud-Varenne entered. The Representative of the people was not a
monster, as the advocate had christened him; but a man of inflexible
convictions and rigid probity, besides being the possessor of some
fortune. He did not touch, any more than Lepelletier St. Fargeau,
Herault of Sechelles, and other wealthy citizens, the compensation
allowed to a Representative. Gifted with natural eloquence, always
sanguine, there was no patriot more devoted to the Revolution than
Billaud-Varenne. He wore a short-haired black wig, and a maroon suit
with steel buttons; like Robespierre, St. Just, Camille Desmoulins and
other Jacobins, he carried dignity even into the care of his person and
his clothes.

"Eh, well, colleague," quoth Billaud-Varenne on entering, "what am I to
surmise by this visit of the Section commissioner, whom I just met
leaving your rooms?"

"Confess that it is a spicy incident to find, in the house one of us
Mountainists a deposit of royalist poniards!"

"That is very easily explained: You receive a case from the depot, you
don't know what is in it--nothing simpler."

"Do you think, my dear colleague, that it seemed so simple to the
commissioner?"

"He could know nothing to the contrary. But, between ourselves, you
exhibited extreme rigor towards your wife."

"You know that also--?"

"I know that you applied for her arrest, and that you demanded two
watchmen, whom I found out there, in the ante-room. The precaution seems
to me excessive."

"You disapprove of this measure, you, Billaud-Varenne, you, man of
iron?"

"I disapprove of your whole procedure. My dear colleague, there are
painful duties to which one resigns himself; but there are useless
harshnesses which one does not call down upon his dear ones. That is my
way of looking at it." Without noticing, or without seeming to notice,
the uneasiness which his last words produced in Desmarais,
Billaud-Varenne proceeded:

"But, let us speak of the object of my visit. I am just from the
Jacobins, where I saw St. Just. He was highly sensible of the honor of
the advances I made him on your part, on the subject of his marrying
your daughter; but he refused to contract any union whatsoever."

"He refuses!" gasped Desmarais, pale with consternation. "Is not the
refusal perhaps revokable?"

"St. Just never turns back on a determination once taken."

"But, at least, I may know the cause of his declination? Answer my
question, my dear colleague."

"St. Just would have been happy to enter your family, he told me, if
Mademoiselle Desmarais had looked favorably upon his court; but he
thinks that under the grave circumstances in which we now find
ourselves, a man of politics should remain free from all bonds, even
those of the family, in order to consecrate himself wholly to public
affairs. He wishes to hold himself ready for all sacrifices, even that
of his life."

"Perhaps St. Just deems my daughter has not been brought up in
principles of civic duty sufficiently pure. Had he regarded me as a
better patriot, his answer would have no doubt been different?"

"Of a truth, my dear colleague, you are a singular fellow. In the
Constituent Assembly, you voted with the extreme Left; at the Jacobins,
I have heard you propose and support the most revolutionary motions; you
vote with us of the Mountain; and yet you seem to fear lest we suspect
the sincerity of your convictions!"

"And why, then, should I fear that anyone doubted my sincerity?"

"My faith, you must answer that question yourself!"

"Oh, then the answer is easy, my dear Billaud: The Revolution is, and
should be, a jealous, distrustful, exacting mistress to those devoted to
her; and I continually fear not having done enough, and being accused of
lukewarmness." Then, anxious to escape from a subject that embarrassed
him, and to hide the cruel disappointment occasioned by St. Just's
refusal, Desmarais added, "What is new to-night at the Jacobins?"

"A speech of hardly a quarter of an hour in length, but which created an
incalculable impression upon its hearers."

"On what subject?"

"Louis XVI's penalty."

"And the speaker was--?"

"A young man whom I am proud to number among my friends, for his modesty
equals his patriotism and merit. He is a simple iron-worker. We wished
to nominate him for the Convention; he refused our offer, but consented
to accept municipal office."

"John Lebrenn!"

"Precisely. He was the orator in question."

"He is my pupil, my dear pupil!" returned Desmarais. "It is I who put
him through his revolutionary education."

"This young man, ardent, generous, yet tender and delicate as he is by
nature, has but one rule of conduct--eternal justice and morality. He is
a lofty soul. Marat and Robespierre both congratulated him upon his
speech, which concluded with these words:

"'Louis XVI was born kind, humane, and graced with parts, and behold
what corrupting, subversive, detestable influences lurk in the very
essence of kingship. It has turned this man, so happily made up, into a
traitor, a perjurer, a murderer, a parricide who has unchained against
his mother country the arms of foreigners and emigrants. Ah, citizens,
in judging, in condemning this guilty one of high rank, it is less the
man than the King and still less the King than royalty itself that you
smite. The ax that will strike off the head of Louis XVI will decapitate
the monarchy, that dynasty of a foreign race imposed on Gaul for so many
centuries by violence and conquest.'"

"That's superb!" exclaimed the lawyer. "That's fine! Lo, the fruit of my
lessons!"

"Your pupil closed by ably contrasting with the days of September the
judicial condemnation of Louis Capet: 'Before August 10 the crimes of
Louis XVI were notorious; they merited death,' quoth Lebrenn. 'Suppose
the people in its fury had taken summary justice on the guilty one.
Suppose he had been stricken down during the insurrection. Compare that
death, almost furtive, half veiled by the murk of battle, with the
august spectacle which the Convention is now about to offer to the
world, before God and man! A people calm in its sovereignty, judging and
condemning, in the name of the law, the criminal who was its King. To
the dagger of Brutus we shall oppose the sword of Justice! The tyrant
shall be smitten in the name of all, in the public place. He shall pass
from the throne to the scaffold. May in like manner the heads of all
tyrants fall!'"

"That is immense!" again exclaimed Desmarais. "I am proud of my pupil."

"And what enhances your pupil's worth, my dear colleague, is that his
modesty is equal to his patriotism. Robespierre, mounting the tribunal
after Lebrenn, commended his discourse with the words: 'This young man
has just spoken to us in the language of the philosopher, the historian,
the statesman. He is a simple workman, who toils ten hours a day at his
rough trade of iron-worker to supply his wants.' These words of
Robespierre's signalized the ovation received by Lebrenn at the
Jacobins. And now I take my leave of you, my dear Desmarais, reiterating
my regret at having failed in the mission you entrusted me with to St.
Just. Moreover, he will probably tell you himself to-morrow at the
Convention how sensible he was of your tenders, and for what reasons he
feels constrained to decline them."

"I should have been happy to have for son-in-law a man as eminent in
talent as for patriotism. I have firmly made up my mind not to give my
daughter to anyone but a republican of our stripe, dear colleague."

"But now I think of it," interjected Billaud-Varenne, stopping and
coming back a few steps, "you desire for son-in-law a republican eminent
alike for his love of country and his talent? Is that your desire?"

"It is my most ardent wish!"

"Well, then, my dear Desmarais, you have that son-in-law under your
hand--your pupil, Citizen John Lebrenn! The young man has lived close
beside you, you must be acquainted with his manners and his private
character. Mademoiselle Desmarais, reared by you in austere principles,
ought, allowing for her personal inclinations, which should always be
respected, to welcome such an aspirant to her hand. John Lebrenn is
young, and of attractive appearance. So that, if such a marriage were
pleasing to your daughter, would it not be an act calculated to draw
toward you everyone's affection, for having begun the merging of the
classes? Everybody would applaud the marriage of the daughter of the
rich bourgeois, of the advocate of renown, with the simple artisan. What
think you of the idea, my dear colleague?"

"You shall soon know," replied advocate Desmarais after a moment's
reflection, during which he vainly racked his brains for an avenue of
escape from the meshes of his own duplicity, now closed in upon him.
Then he ran to the table, seated himself, seized paper and pen, and
dashed off a few lines, while he said silently to himself:

"The danger admits of no hesitation. The sacrifice is consummated. After
Billaud-Varenne's utterances on the 'merging of the classes,' I can no
longer hang back. He is interested in Lebrenn; he will inform the boy of
the proposal he just made to me; he will learn that John and my daughter
have loved each other for four years and more. It will then be clear to
Billaud-Varenne that my only reason for opposition to the union is my
repugnance to giving my daughter to a workingman. I shudder for the
consequences! Such a revelation, coming on the heels of Hubert's escape
and the discovery of the depot of royalist arms and proclamations in my
house, is capable of leading me straight to the guillotine!"

While indulging in these reflections, Desmarais indicted the following
letter to John Lebrenn:

     My dear John:

     I await you at once, at my home. My daughter is yours, on one only
     condition, which I expect from your loyalty in which I have
     absolute confidence.

     That condition is:

     _Never to mention to anyone, and particularly not to
     Billaud-Varenne, that you loved my daughter four years ago._

     I await you.

     Fraternal greetings,

     DESMARAIS.

The letter written, Desmarais rang. Gertrude appeared and the lawyer
said to her:

"Carry this letter immediately to Citizen John Lebrenn, and wait for an
answer."

"Yes, monsieur," answered the maid, and went on her errand.

"My dear colleague, excuse me for an instant, and I shall see whether my
wife and daughter can receive us."

Thus left alone, Billaud-Varenne gave himself up to reflection. "There
is a rat here somewhere," he mused. "Why does Desmarais wish to present
me to his wife and daughter? Truly there are strange shifts in this
man's conduct. He continually forces upon me a vague mistrust, and yet
his vote, his speech, and his deed have always been in accord with the
most advanced revolutionary principles. Whence comes this constant fear,
which everything awakens in him, of being taken for a traitor? Just now
he seemed shocked and startled at the idea which came to me to propose
Lebrenn as his son-in-law. Does the bourgeois _sans-culotte_ want to be
a bourgeois _gentleman_? Does the rich lawyer fear he will debase
himself in giving his daughter to a workman? And finally, what an absurd
affectation of stoicism for him to call for the arrest of his wife
because she yielded to the respectable sentiment of sisterly tenderness!
Has he not constituted himself her jailer? Do these exaggerations mask
treason or only extreme cowardice? Is Desmarais a traitor or
lily-livered? or traitor and coward combined? After all, what matters
it? He is an instrument, he is popular, eloquent, subtle, well-listened
to in the Assembly. But, in times of reaction, traitors and cowards who
by their exaggerations on one side have attained a certain popularity,
become no less exaggerated the other way, and, in the desire to save
their heads or 'give pledges,' send in preference their old friends to
the scaffold. Desmarais may someday, if my distrust be well grounded,
blossom forth into one of these furious reactionists. Lest that be the
case, the proof of treason once at hand the evil must be cut out at the
root." Punctuating his last words with a gesture of terrible
significance, Billaud-Varenne added: "At any rate, let us await facts
before forming a final judgment. Marat's penetration never fails, and he
has his eye on our dear colleague."

Billaud-Varenne's soliloquy was cut short by the return of Desmarais,
flanked by his wife and daughter. The latter seemed sweetly moved by the
confidence her father had just made her, touching his determination in
the matter of her marriage with John Lebrenn. Madam Desmarais, on the
contrary, was under the influence of mournful thoughts, by reason of the
events in which she found her brother involved, the fate of whom caused
her no slight anxiety; she was at much pains to restrain her tears.

The member of the Assembly, bowing with kind and respectful courtesy to
the wife of his colleague, spoke first:

"I regret, madam, that it is at a moment so sad to you that I have the
honor of being presented; but I hope, indeed I am certain, that my dear
colleague will not prolong much more your captivity, but will deliver
you from your guardians."

"Citizen Billaud-Varenne, it shall be as you desire. I shall send away
the agents charged with keeping guard over Citizeness Desmarais. Jailers
in our hall go ill with a day of betrothal."

"What say you, citizen," ejaculated Billaud-Varenne. "A day of
betrothal?"

"The letter I wrote just this instant, was destined to my pupil Lebrenn.
I announced to him, very simply, that I offered him the hand of my
daughter."

"Your procedure is indeed worthy of praise."

"And now, my daughter," continued Desmarais solemnly, "answer me
truthfully. Before your departure from Paris for Lyons, you often saw
here our young neighbor Lebrenn. What is your opinion of the young
citizen?"

"I think that there is no soul more lofty, no character more generous,
no heart better than his. He is a young man of worth."

"You consent to wed him?"

"I consent with all the greater willingness, father, because, unknown to
you and mother, I have for a long time loved Monsieur John Lebrenn, the
valiant iron-worker. I even believe that my affection is returned."

"The young girl is charming in her grace and candor," thought
Billaud-Varenne. "What a strange falling out! These two young people
love each other in secret! In very truth, it is a romance, an idyll!"

"What, my daughter, you love our young friend, and he loves you!" cried
the lawyer, putting on an air of great surprise. "And you hid your love
from me? How comes it that you and our friend John made a mystery of the
love you felt for each other?"

The return of Gertrude interrupted the colloquy.

"Well! What answer did our young neighbor make to my letter?"

"Citizen John Lebrenn is absent. The porter told me that on leaving the
club of the Jacobins, he came to change his clothes, putting on his
uniform of municipal officer, in order to go to the Temple Prison, where
he is to mount guard to-night over Louis Capet. I brought the letter
back. Here it is."

"Ah, I regret this mischance, dear colleague," said the lawyer;
"especially now that I am aware of the love of these two children for
each other. I would have been overjoyed to have you witness the
happiness for which you are in part responsible."

"I share your regrets, dear colleague," replied Billaud-Varenne; then,
smiling, after a moment's thought: "It remains with you to grant me a
compensation for which I shall be very grateful. Entrust to me this
letter, which I will have delivered, this very evening at the Temple, to
our young friend."

"Ah, sir, how good you are," said Charlotte quickly, blushing with
emotion. "Thank you for your gracious offer."

"Here is the letter, dear colleague. As much as my daughter, I thank you
for your cordial interest," added the lawyer, handing over the missive;
while he said to himself: "Billaud-Varenne is incapable of opening a
letter confided to him and addressed to John Lebrenn. He will not see
him to-night; I need, then, fear no indiscretion on the boy's part, and
it is for me now to inform John, as soon as possible, of my projects and
the conditions I impose upon him for his marriage."

"Adieu, madam, adieu, mademoiselle," Billaud-Varenne was saying to the
two women, as he bowed to each; "I shall carry with me at least the
certainty that this evening, begun under such sad auspices, will end in
domestic joy."

Madam Desmarais, overwhelmed with apprehensions of her brother's fate,
could only reply sadly as she returned the bow, "I thank you, monsieur,
for your good wishes."

"Till to-morrow, dear colleague," said the lawyer, going with
Billaud-Varenne as far as the door of the parlor; and then he added in
an undertone, "If, as I have no doubt, John Lebrenn marries my daughter,
would it not be timely to mention the marriage in the journal of our
friend Marat?"

"I promise you, colleague, to speak of it to Marat; he will consider the
matter," responded Billaud-Varenne with a touch of irony; and he
muttered to himself: "Affectation again. This bidding for popularity
once more arouses my suspicions."

"Citizens," said the lawyer to the two agents of the Section
commissioner posted outside the door, "you may withdraw. Fraternal
greetings." And addressing Billaud-Varenne, he repeated: "Till
to-morrow, dear colleague."

"Till to-morrow!" returned the latter. "I shall go at once to the
Temple, and within the hour, John Lebrenn shall have your letter." After
which the member of the National Convention once more added, to himself:

"Positively, I think Marat must keep his eye on Desmarais; he seems to
me a hypocrite who will well bear watching."


END OF VOLUME I.




THE SWORD OF HONOR THE FULL SERIES OF

The Mysteries of the People

:: OR::

History of a Proletarian Family Across the Ages

By EUGENE SUE

_Consisting of the Following Works_:


THE GOLD SICKLE; or, _Hena the Virgin of the Isle of Sen_.
THE BRASS BELL; or, _The Chariot of Death_.
THE IRON COLLAR; or, _Faustina and Syomara_.
THE SILVER CROSS; or, _The Carpenter of Nazareth_.
THE CASQUE'S LARK; or, _Victoria, the Mother of the Camps_.
THE PONIARD'S HILT; or, _Karadeuoq and Ronan_.
THE BRANDING NEEDLE; or, _The Monastery of Charolles_.
THE ABBATIAL CROSIER; or, _Bonaik and Septimine_.
THE CARLOVINGIAN COINS; or, _The Daughters of Charlemagne_.
THE IRON ARROW-HEAD; or, _The Buckler Maiden_.
THE INFANT'S SKULL; or, _The End of the World_.
THE PILGRIM'S SHELL; or, _Fergan the Quarryman_.
THE IRON PINCERS; or, _Mylio and Karvel_.
THE IRON TREVET; or, _Jocelyn the Champion_.
THE EXECUTIONER'S KNIFE; or, _Joan of Arc_.
THE POCKET BIBLE; or, _Christian the Printer_.
THE BLACKSMITH'S HAMMER; or, _The Peasant Code_.
THE SWORD OF HONOR; or, _The Foundation of the French Republic_.
THE GALLEY SLAVE'S RING; or, _The Family Lebrenn_.


Published Uniform With This Volume By

THE NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.

28 CITY HALL PLACE NEW YORK CITY




THE
SWORD OF HONOR

: : OR : :

THE FOUNDATION OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC


A Tale of The French Revolution

By EUGENE SUE

In Two Volumes

VOL. II

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL FRENCH
By SOLON DE LEON
NEW YORK LABOR NEWS COMPANY, 1910
Copyright, 1911, by the
NEW YORK LABOR NEWS CO.




INDEX TO VOLUME 2

PART II--THE BOURGEOIS REVOLUTION. (Continued)


CHAPTER

XIV. JESUIT CAMPAIGNING                                                1

XV. THE KING ON TRIAL                                                 23

XVI. LEBRENN AND NEROWEG                                              33

XVII. PLANS FOR THE FUTURE                                            45

XVIII. THE KING SENTENCED                                             61

XIX. EXECUTION                                                        66

XX. MARRIAGE OF JOHN LEBRENN                                          69

XXI. A LOVE FROM THE GRAVE                                            76

XXII. MASTER AND FOREMAN                                              84

XXIII. TO THE WORKMAN THE TOOL                                        95

XXIV. LOST AGAIN                                                     101

XXV. ROYALIST BARBARITIES                                            111

XXVI. A REVOLUTIONARY OUTPOST                                        122

XXVII. THE HEROINE IN ARMS                                           137

XXVIII. SERVING AND MIS-SERVING                                      150

XXIX. BATTLE OF THE LINES OF WEISSENBURG                             159

XXX. DEATH OF VICTORIA                                               175

XXXI. ONRUSH OF THE REVOLUTION                                       178

XXXII. AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM!                                       188

XXXIII. ARREST OF ROBESPIERRE                                        196

XXXIV. THE NINTH THERMIDOR.                                          205

XXXV. DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE.                                          213


PART III--NAPOLEON.

CHAPTER

I. THE WHITE TERROR                                                  221

II. COLONEL OLIVER                                                   227

III. CROSS PURPOSES                                                  240

IV. LAYING THE TRAIN                                                 245

V. THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE                                           252

VI. IN THE ORANGERY AT ST. CLOUD                                     258

VII. GLORY; AND ELBA                                                 268

VIII. RETURN OF NAPOLEON                                             277

IX. WATERLOO                                                         288

X. DEPOSITION                                                        295


EPILOGUE.

I. "TO THE BARRICADES!"--1830                                        303

II. ORLEANS ON THE THRONE                                            317

CONCLUSION                                                           328




PART II.

THE BOURGEOIS REVOLUTION

(Continued.)




CHAPTER XIV.

JESUIT CAMPAIGNING.


While these events were taking place at the abode of advocate Desmarais,
a royalist cabal was in full swing in St. Roche Street, on the fourth
floor of an old house built at the rear of a courtyard. An ex-beadle of
the parish, devoted to Abbot Morlet, and generously feed from the
strong-box of the clerical and aristocratic party, received the
conspirators in his lodge, consisting of two mansard buildings huddled
together. A secret issue, contrived in the bottom of a pantry,
communicated from the rear-most of these two buildings with the garret
of the neighboring house, which was also kept by royalists. In a corner
of the garret opened a trap which gave access to a _cachette_, as they
were called in those times, a hiding-place large enough to hold four
beds, and sufficiently supplied with air and light through a section of
drain-pipe running up along the chimney which formed one of the sides of
the perfectly contrived refuge. In case of a sudden descent upon the
home of the ex-beadle, the latter, warned by the porter, who was in his
confidence, would give the alarm to the refugees sheltered with him;
these then decamped by the secret issue and gained the cachette, where
they were doubly secure; for even if the trap in the pantry were
discovered, one would suppose the fugitives to have escaped by the
staircase of the neighboring house. There were in Paris a number of
these places, designed for refractory priests, ex-nobles, and suspects,
who conspired against the Republic.

So on this night in question, the royalist cabal was met at the home of
the ex-beadle. The Count of Plouernel was there, and his younger
brother, the Bishop in partibus of Gallipoli; also the Marquis of St.
Esteve, that insufferable laugher, who four years before had attended
the supper given by the Count to Marchioness Aldini; and Abbot Morlet.
The members of the cabal were seated in camp chairs about a clay stove;
all were dressed like bourgeois, and wore their hair without powder. The
Marquis alone was frizzled like hoar-frost; he had on an elegant coat of
purple cloth with gold buttons, and purple trousers to match; his
stockings of white silk were half hidden by the legs of his
jockey-boots. Good humor and joviality were written all over his
countenance, as expansive as if that very moment he were not staking his
head. The Bishop of Gallipoli, the junior of the Count of Plouernel by
several years, was dressed as a layman; both he and the Marquis, for a
long time emigrated, had recently succeeded in crossing the frontier and
regaining Paris, where they lay in concealment, like a great many other
aristocrats returned from abroad. The face of Jesuit Morlet was still,
as always, calm and sardonic; he wore a carmagnole jacket and red
bonnet.

Eleven o'clock sounded from the Church of St. Roche.

"Eleven o'clock," quoth the Count of Plouernel. "We were to have been
all met at ten; and here we are only four at the rendezvous. There are
twenty members on the committee. Such negligence is unpardonable! The
absentees are incurring grave responsibility."

"Their negligence is all the more reprehensible seeing that we must act
to-morrow; it is to-morrow that the King is to be taken to that den of
knaves, known as the Convention," added his brother the Bishop.

"Our friends must be kept away by some serious obstacle," continued
Plouernel. "Gentlemen can not be suspected of cowardice."

The Marquis let loose a peal of laughter. "Gentlemen! And that
money-changer, that Monsieur Hubert! That blue head! At first I would
not be one of the party, when I learned I had to sit with that
bourgeois. But after all, he bears the name of the great St. Hubert,
patron of hunters! Hi! hi! And so, out of regard for his patron, I
admitted the clown!"

"For God's sake, Marquis," broke in Plouernel, "put a bridle on your
hilarity. Let us talk sense. This Monsieur Hubert is a determined clown,
and very influential among the old grenadiers of the battalion of the
Daughters of St. Thomas."

"Hi! hi! hi!" shrieked the Marquis, "a battalion of girls given the
title of St. Thomas, who had to touch in order to believe! Hi! hi! hi!
Bless me, Count, I could teach that battalion an evolution which would
amuse us. Load and empty! Hi! hi!"

"No one else is coming; we are wasting precious time. Let us take
counsel," put in Jesuit Morlet, sourly. "The porter is to whistle in
case of alarm. At that signal, my god-son, on the watch on the second
floor, will come up to warn the beadle, and we shall have time to flee,
or to gain the cachette through the pantry. Let us take account of the
state of affairs--"

"This double-bottomed pantry reminds me," struck in the uproarious
Marquis, "of a certain gallant adventure of which I was once the hero.
I'll tell it to you--"

"Devil take the bore! Give us a rest with your stories," quoth the
Count.

"Marquis, why did you return to France? Answer categorically," said the
Bishop to him.

"Idiot! To save my King! To snatch him out of the hands of the
Philistines!"

"And is it thus that you pretend to save him, by interrupting our
deliberations with your buffoonery? With jests out of season?"

"But you are not deliberating on a thing! You're sitting there like
three sea-storks! Hi! hi! hi! You're not going ahead with the business
any more than I am."

"The giddy fellow is correct," said Morlet, for once taking the
Marquis's side. "We shall never finish if we do not introduce some order
into this. I shall take the chair, and open the meeting."

"You--take the chair--my reverend sir? And by what right?" was the reply
of the Bishop of Gallipoli.

"By the right which a man of sense has over fools like the Marquis; by
the right which my age gives me. For I am here much older than any of
you."

"So be it; preside," said Plouernel.

"If it is only a question of the precedence of age, I yield," said his
brother.

"Oh, and I also! Hi! hi!" cried the Marquis, holding his sides.

"By heaven, Marquis, we shall have to toss you out of the window!"
impatiently shouted the Count.

"Shut your heads, one and all of you," commanded Abbot Morlet. "I shall
put the case to you in two words. To-morrow Louis XVI will be conducted
from the prison of the Temple to the bar of the Convention. The occasion
seems favorable for rescuing the King during the passage. Here is the
means proposed. Five or six hundred resolute men, armed under their
cloaks with pistols and poniards, will meet at different places
previously agreed on, and locate themselves in isolated groups along the
route to be taken by the King; they will mingle with the crowd, affect
the language of the sans-culottes, and propagate the rumor, designedly
launched several days ago, that the majority of the Convention is
resolved to spare the life of Capet, and that the people must take
justice into its own hands. Our agents will strive thus to inflame the
people; during the passage of the King they will cry, 'Death to the
tyrant!' At those words, the signal agreed upon, they shall resolutely
attack the escort with pistols and daggers. It is our hope that, favored
by the tumult, we may be able boldly to seize Louis XVI, and carry him
off to some safe retreat prepared in advance. Our men will then march to
the Convention and exterminate its members; this being successfully
accomplished, proclamations already in print will be placarded over
Paris calling all honest men to arms against the Republic. A part of the
old elite companies of the National Guard, all the royalists and
constitutionalists of Paris, the Emigrants who have been arriving for a
fortnight--all will respond to the call to arms, and conduct the King to
the Tuileries. Numerous emissaries will be sent at once into the west
and south, and to Lyons, all of which places are ready to rise at the
voice of the nobles and priests in hiding there. Civil war will flare up
at once in several parts of the kingdom. The foreign armies, demoralized
by their defeat at Valmy, are now beating an offensive retreat to the
frontier; it is hoped that, through the civil war and the consequent
chaos, the allies will regain the advantage they had at the opening of
the campaign, advance on Paris by forced marches, and inflict terrible
chastisement upon it. This culmination, prepared with a long hand--the
only way to save the King--was about to occur just before the September
massacres. The massacres had their good and their bad side."

"You dare to say there was a good side to that carnage? Your language is
odious!" interrupted the Bishop.

"The massacres of September had a good side and a bad side," calmly
reiterated the Abbot. "Here is the bad: The most active chiefs in the
conspiracy, detained as suspects in the prisons, whence they were
carrying on their plots, were killed; the royalists of Paris and the
provinces, struck with terror, lay low and ceased their activity. It
took three months to knit together all the threads of the conspiracy
which had been snapped by the death of its leaders. The September
massacres had also the bad aspect for us that they were combined with an
outburst of patriotism. The volunteers, flocking in mass to the front,
changed entirely by their bedevilled fury the previous tactics of the
war. The Prussian infantry, the best in Europe, was overcome by the
mad-caps--there is danger lest it may long remain in the panic into
which it was thrown by the bayonet charge of the volunteers at the
battle of Valmy."

"Blue death! my reverend sir, you would best hold your tongue in matters
of war, of which you know nothing!" the Count of Plouernel impatiently
declared. "I served in the Emigrant corps which stormed the position of
Croix-aux-Bois at the battle of Argonne; I was at the side of the Duke
of Brunswick in the affray at Valmy; and I say that if the Prussian
infantry was beaten down by these bare-feet, who precipitated themselves
upon us like savages, it is now recovered from the panic, and asks
nothing better than to avenge its disgrace. Yes, and let a war come, a
real war, a great war, and the allies will make a butchery of these
undisciplined hordes. The Prussians will feed fat their vengeance!"

"And I in turn tell you, that in this matter you are completely off your
base," was the Abbot's unmoved rejoinder.

"By heaven, my reverend sir!" flared back the Count, "measure your
terms!"

And the giggling Marquis cried, "Plague on it, Abbot, all you need is a
switch to give us a flogging! Hi! hi! hi!"

"And in your case in particular, Marquis, it would fall where it was
deserved. But to continue, I come now to the good, the excellent side of
the September massacres."

Again the mere mention of such a possibility was more than the Bishop
could contain himself under. "It is impossible," he broke in, "to sit
still and hear it said in cold blood that that abominable carnage
produced any good results."

"Monseigneur," was Morlet's reply, "it does not at all become you to
discredit events in which you did not participate. Disguised as a
charcoal burner, and with my god-son as a chimney-sweep, I saw these
massacres at close range. Do you remember, Count, what I told you over
the supper-table, four years ago, the evening the Bastille was taken:
The ferocious beast must get the taste of blood to put it in the humor
of slaying? Well, so it was. And, to make the blood flow, I rolled back
my sleeves to the elbow, and set to work! So I say again, the massacres
of September held this much good for us, that they aroused general
horror throughout Europe and exasperated the foreign powers, even
including England, which was until then almost neutral, but is now
become the soul of the coalition. Even in Paris, this execrable hot-bed
of revolution, where, it must be admitted, the massacres were, in a
moment of vertigo, accepted by all classes of the people as a measure of
public safety, they now inspire unspeakable horror! The revolutionists
themselves are divided into two camps--the patriots of the 10th of
August, and the Septembrists--a precious germ of internal discord among
the wretches. All in all, there is good, much good for us, in the days
of September. The terror evoked by them will come to the assistance of
the present plot. Everything is prepared; the posts are assigned, the
depots of arms established, the proclamations printed. Lehiron, a knave
for any trick, if you grease his palm well, is in charge of the band of
make-believe sans-culottes which is to assail the King's escort. I can
answer for his intelligence and courage; he awaits his final orders next
door. Finally, this very evening, and in spite of the careful guard kept
about him, Louis XVI is to receive from his waiting-man Clery word of
the project, merely that the prince may not be frightened at the tumult,
and that he may follow with confidence those who give him the pass-word,
'God and the King! Pilnitz and Brunswick.' That, then, is how matters
stand. A plot has been framed, it is on the eve of being carried out.
Now, I put this question: Is the time ripe for action?"

Mute with astonishment, the Count, the Marquis and the Bishop stared
blankly at one another. The Count was the first to break the silence:

"How is that! You give out the details, the agencies, the object of the
plot, the execution of which is fixed for to-morrow, and still you seem
to be in doubt as to whether action should be taken?"

"I ask deliberation on these two plain propositions: First, would it not
be more opportune to await the day set for the execution of Louis
XVI--his condemnation is not a matter of doubt--and only then attempt
our stroke, in the hope that the horror of regicide will add to the
number of our partisans? And secondly,--it is I, on my own initiative,
on my own responsibility, who propose this grave question--would it not
be more expedient, in the manifest interest of the Church and the
monarchy--simply to allow Louis to be guillotined?"

The Jesuit's proposal, as strange as it was unexpected, threw his
hearers into such amazement that they were struck dumb anew, and sat
with their mouths hanging open. Three taps at the door, given like a
preconcerted signal, were heard in the stillness.

"It is my god-son," whispered the Jesuit; and in a louder tone, he
added: "Come in!"

Little Rodin was togged out in a red jacket and bonnet the same as the
prelate. He saluted the company.

"What news, my child? What have you to tell us?" inquired his
preceptor.

"Gentle god-father, there is a man down below, with the porter,
disguised as a woman. He gave the pass-word, but the porter, not
recognizing him, replied that he knew not what he was after with his
jargon. Scenting a possible spy, the porter sent his wife up to me on
the second floor, to warn me of what had happened."

"Doubtless it is one of our men, obliged to take refuge in disguise,"
began the Count.

"It is more serious than that," the Bishop dissented. "How are you to
make sure he is one of us?"

"A man tricked out as a woman!" exclaimed the Marquis. "Is this carnival
time?"

"You know all our people by sight?" asked Morlet of his god-son.

"Yes, dear god-father. When I've seen a person once, I do not forget
him. The Lord God," and he crossed himself, "has blessed His little
servant with the gift of memory, which he has so much use for."

"Go down to the porter's lodge," returned his dear god-father. "Examine
the personage in question. If you recognize him, tell the porter to let
him come up. If not, come back and let me know."

"Yes, good god-father, your orders shall be followed to the dot!"
responded little Rodin, sliding out of the door, while the Bishop asked,
dubiously:

"But may not that child make a mistake? Meseems the errand is poorly
entrusted."

"My god-son is a prodigy of cleverness and penetration," returned the
Abbot.

The interrupted topic of discussion was immediately resumed by the
Count.

"I refuse to sit under a chairman," said he, "a priest, a subject of the
King, who has the sacrilegious audacity of bringing up for consideration
the abominable question, Is it, yes or no, expedient to allow Louis XVI
to be guillotined?"

"Such abomination would seem incredible," chimed in the Bishop, "did one
not know that the Society of Jesus often preaches regicide."

"The Society of Jesus has preached, has counseled regicide whenever it
became important to suppress Kings _ad majorem Dei gloriam_--to the
greater glory of God! The church is above monarchs," retorted the
representative of the Society.

"A capital pleasantry!" put in the Marquis. "Here we are met to advise
on measures to save the King, and the priest proposes to us to let them
clip his head! The idea is brilliant!"

At this moment little Rodin returned, and reported to the Jesuit:

"Good god-father, in the person rigged out as a woman I have recognized
Monsieur Hubert."

"Let him come in," ordered the recipient of the information.

Still in Madam Desmarais's hat and fur cloak Hubert entered the room. At
the sight, the Marquis greeted him with a roar of laughter. Pale with
rage, Hubert threw at his feet his feminine head-gear, dashed off the
cloak which hid his vest and grey trousers, rushed at the Marquis, and,
shaking his fist under the latter's nose, cried:

"You shall give me a reason for your insolence, you pigeon-house
tenant!"

But the Count of Plouernel and his brother the Bishop interposed between
the two, and succeeded in calming the financier's irritation, explaining
to him that the Marquis was a hare-brain, and should not be taken
seriously. Apparently bent upon proving his reputation, the Marquis
cried out:

"Pardon, dear sir, hi! hi! or, rather, dear madam! Ah, ah, ah! if you
knew what a winsome face you had! Pardon me, I am all upset over it--it
is too much for me. Ah, ah, ah! Oh, the idea! I shall die of bottled-up
laughter if you don't let me give vent to it!"

Suiting action to word, the Marquis went off into another roar of
hysterics. Hubert's violent nature was about once more to get the better
of him, but once more was it appeased by the solicitations of the Count
and his brother. At last he cooled down sufficiently to make known to
the company the secret of his transfiguration, and how he owed his life
to his sister's devotion. During these confidences, the laughter of the
Marquis gradually died out.

"Then, that part of St. Honore Street where you have just missed arrest,
dear Monsieur Hubert," said the Count, "will to-night be watched by the
police, and I may, on leaving here, fall into their hands. For the
refuge where I have hidden myself since my return to Paris is situated
close to the St. Honore Gate. The wife of a former whipper-in in the
King's Huntsmen is giving me asylum. From the window of my garret I can
see the house of this Desmarais, your brother-in-law; whom I now regret
not having allowed to die under the cudgels when I had him flogged by
my lackeys."

"You live near the St. Honore Gate, you say, Count? What is the number
of the house, if you please?" asked the Abbot with a start.

"Number 19; the entrance is distinguished by a small gate-way."

"You could not have chosen your refuge worse! I am glad to be able to
warn you of your danger. At No. 17 of that same street live two members
of the Lebrenn family, John the iron-worker, and that beautiful woman
whom you knew under the name of Marchioness Aldini. Be on your guard,
for if these people came to know where you were hidden, they would not
let slip the opportunity to wreak on you the hate with which they have
pursued your family for so many centuries."

"Now that that fool of a Marquis has become almost reasonable, let us
resume the course of our deliberation," replied the Count, thanking
Morlet for his information; and addressing Hubert: "When you came in,
the priest was having the presumption to propose for our consideration
the question whether it would not be wiser to postpone the projected
stroke until after the King was sentenced, instead of to-morrow, as we
purpose."

"Any such delay would be all the sadder seeing that this very evening a
case of arms, containing also several copies of our proclamation, was
seized in my brother-in-law's house. The Committee of General Safety
thus has by this time the most flagrant proof of a conspiracy. So then,
I say, we must make haste. Yesterday and day before I saw several
officers and grenadiers of my old battalion, who are very influential
in their quarter. They await but the signal to run to arms. The
bourgeoisie has a horror of the Republic."

"Confess, Monsieur Hubert, that it would be better for the bourgeoisie
to resign itself to what it calls 'the privileges of the throne, the
immunities of the nobility and clergy,' than to submit to the tyranny of
the populace," rejoined Plouernel.

"Monsieur Count, a few years ago you administered through the cudgels of
your lackeys a good dressing down to a man whom I have the unhappiness
to possess for brother-in-law. I, in his place, would have paid you
back, not by proxy, through hirelings, but in person. Now, great
seigneur that you are, what would you have done in that case?"

"Eh! My God, my poor Monsieur Hubert! If I did not, in the first moment
of anger, run you through the body with my sword, I would have been
under the obligation of asking for a lettre de cachet and sending you to
the Bastille."

"Because a man of your birth could not consent to fight a bourgeois?"

"Certainly; for the tribunal composed of our seigneurs the Marshals of
France, to which the nobility refers its affairs of honor, would have
formally prohibited the duel; and we are bound by oath to respect the
decisions of Messieurs the Marshals. For the common herd we have nothing
but contempt."

"It seems to me we are wandering singularly astray from the question at
stake," interposed the Bishop. "Let us come back to it."

"Not at all, Monsieur Bishop," retorted Hubert. "We must first of all
know what we are conspiring for. If we are conspiring to overthrow the
Republic, we must know by what regime we shall replace it. Shall it be
by an absolute monarchy, as before, or by the constitutional monarchy of
1791? Well, gentlemen of the nobility, gentlemen of the clergy, what we
want, we bourgeois, we of the common herd, whom you despise, is the
constitutional monarchy. Take that for said."

"So that the bourgeoisie may reign in fact, under the semblance of a
kingdom? We reject that sort of a government," sneered Plouernel.

"Naturally."

"Whence it follows that you wish to substitute the bourgeois oligarchy,
the privilege of the franc, for our aristocracy?"

"Without a doubt. For we hold in equal aversion both the old regime,
that is, the rule of unbridled privilege, and the Republic."

"Let us come back to the subject," snapped Jesuit Morlet. "The
bourgeoisie, the nobility, the clergy--all abominate the Republic. So
much is settled. Let us, then, first attend to the overthrow of the
Republic; later we may decide on its successor. Let us decide
immediately whether we shall or shall not delay the execution of our
plot of to-morrow--the first question; and the second, which, to tell
the truth, ought to take precedence over the other--whether it would not
be better after all, in the combined interests of the Church, the
monarchy, the nobility and the bourgeoisie, simply to let them, without
any more ado, send Louis to the guillotine!"

The Jesuit's words were again received with imprecations by the Bishop
and Monsieur Plouernel, while the Marquis, finding the idea funnier and
funnier, burst into irrepressible laughter. Hubert, greatly surprised,
but curious to fathom the Abbot's purposes, insisted on knowing the
reasons on which he based his opinion. Accordingly, when silence was
restored, the Jesuit commenced:

"I maintain, and I shall prove, that the sentencing and execution of
Louis XVI offer to us precious advantages. This sovereign--I leave it to
you, Count, and to you, Monsieur Hubert--is completely lost, both as an
absolute King, because he lacks energy, and as a constitutional King,
because he has twenty times striven to abolish the Constitution which he
pledged himself to support. So much is self-evident and incontestible.
Accordingly, the death of Louis XVI will deliver us from the unpleasant
outcome of an absolute King without vigor, if absolute royalty is to
prevail; and will spare us a constitutional King without fidelity to his
oath, if constitutional royalty wins out. That settles the first and
extremely interesting point. Second point, the execution of the King
will deal a mortal blow to the Republic. Louis XVI will become a martyr,
and the wrath of the foreign sovereigns will be aroused to the last
notch against a rising Republic which for first gage of battle throws at
their feet the head of a King, and summons their peoples to revolt. The
extermination of the Republic will thus become a question of life and
death for the monarchs of Europe; they will summon up a million
soldiers, and invest vast treasuries, coupled with the credit of
England. Can the outcome of such a struggle be doubted? France, without
a disciplined army; France, ruined, reduced to a paper currency, torn
by factions, by the civil war which we priests will let loose in the
west and south--France will be unable to resist all Europe. But, in
order to exasperate the foreign rulers, to excite their hatred, their
fury, they must be made to behold the head of Louis XVI rolling at their
feet!"

"Reverend sir, you frighten me with your doctrines!" was all the Count
of Plouernel could say. With a paternal air the Jesuit continued:

"Big baby! I am through. One of two things: Either to-morrow's plot
works well, or it works ill. In the first case, Louis XVI is delivered;
the Convention is exterminated. A thousand resolute men can carry out
the stroke. But afterwards? You will have to fight the suburbs, the
Sections, the troops around Paris, which will run to the succor of the
capital."

"We shall fight them!" was Hubert's exclamation.

"We shall cut them to pieces! Neither mercy nor pity for the rebels!"
cried Plouernel.

"We shall have the bandits from the prisons set fire to the suburbs at
all four corners! A general conflagration!" suggested the Bishop.

"And these worthy tenants of the suburbs," giggled the Marquis, "seeing
their kennels ablaze, will think of nothing else but to fire in the air,
to check the flames. Hi! hi! hi! The idea is a jolly one!"

Morlet the Jesuit again brought the conversation back into its channel.
"Monsieur Hubert," he said to the banker, "at what number do you
estimate the energetic bourgeois who will take part in the fight?"

"Five or six thousand, old members of the National Guard. I can answer
for that number."

"I am willing to concede you ten thousand. There are ten thousand men.
And you, Count, how many do you think there are of the returned
Emigrants, the old officers and soldiers of the constitutional guard of
Louis XVI, and finally of the ex-servitors of the King and the
Princes--coachmen, lackeys, whippers-in, stable-boys and other menials,
who form your minute-militia?"

"I figure on four thousand--or less," replied the Count.

"Let us say five thousand. Add them to Monsieur Hubert's ten thousand
National Guards, and we have a total of fifteen thousand men. Now,
although Paris has vomited to the frontiers since September fifty
thousand volunteers, how estimate you the number remaining of these
sans-culottes and Jacobins of the suburbs, the Sections and the
federations, and finally the regiments of infantry, cavalry and
artillery which are republican?"

"There are fifteen thousand men, about, troops of all arms, not in
Paris, but within the constitutional limits, that is, within twelve
leagues of the capital," Hubert answered.

"These troops could reach Paris in one day's march. There you have
fifteen thousand men in trained and equipped corps, cavalry, infantry,
and artillery, devoted to the Republic and the Convention; troops equal
in number to your fifteen thousand insurgents. We can number the Jacobin
population of the suburbs and the Sections, and the hordes of the
federations, at thirty thousand--scamps, armed with pikes or guns, and
provided with cannon as well! Now, suppose the King liberated, and the
members of the Convention exterminated. You then find yourselves face
to face with a regular and irregular army of forty-five thousand
determined villains, while you number only fifteen thousand men, without
artillery, and extremely ill provided with supplies."

"A brave man doesn't count his enemies--he attacks them!" exclaimed
Hubert.

"We shall have for auxiliaries the foreign armies," interjected
Plouernel, "and the civil war in the west and south."

"Let us not be carried away by fancies. We are considering a levy of
defenders which must be made to-morrow, in Paris; we are considering a
fight which will be over in one day, in the capital," returned Abbot
Morlet, coldly.

"If we are beaten in Paris, we shall retreat to the revolted provinces!
We shall be new food to the civil war!" cried the Bishop.

"The mitre weighs too much for your head, monseigneur," retorted the
Jesuit. "Retreat to the provinces, say you? But if the insurrection is
defeated, how are you going to slip through the hands of the victors in
the fray? All or nearly all of you will be massacred or guillotined."

"Eh!" cried the Count, in a rage, "our friends the foreigners will
avenge us! They will burn Paris to the ground!"

"And the King? He will have been, I suppose, delivered by a bold sortie.
But the insurrection worsted, he will be retaken and will not escape
death."

"Well, we shall avenge him by a civil and a foreign war," was the lame
solution of the problem proposed by the Count.

"Let us proceed," continued the Abbot. "Since, taking your own figures,
it is a hundred to one that, even if you succeed in snatching Louis from
his jailers for an instant, he will not fail to be retaken and have his
head shorn off, what will your insurrection have availed you? Let the
good populace, then, tranquilly trim the neck of this excellent prince.
His death will be the signal for civil war, for the foreign invasion,
and for the stamping out of the Republic. Do not uselessly endanger your
lives and those of your friends; they can, like you, render great
service at the proper moment. Accordingly, I sum up: the interests of
all--bourgeoisie, nobles and clergy--will best be served by letting
Louis XVI be guillotined with the briefest possible delay. I have
spoken."

The inflexible logic of the prelate made a keen impression on his
auditors. He spoke sooth in regard to the certain defeat of the royalist
insurrection, and in relation to the redoubled fury into which the death
of Louis would throw the rulers of the surrounding monarchies. Nothing,
indeed, could be more formidable than their concerted efforts and
activity against the Republic--impoverished, torn by factions and almost
without trained troops as the latter would be. But the Jesuit suspected
not, was unable, despite his profound cunning, to conceive, what
prodigies love of country and the republican faith were soon to give
birth to.

"By the Eternal! my reverend sir," at last cried the Count, "why, then,
have you approved of our projects, why have you put at our service
Lehiron and his band of frightful villains after his own pattern, to
help undertake the affair?"

"Firstly, because I might have been mistaken in my conjectures--_Errare
humanum est_--to err is human. A man of sense is not obstinate in his
error. Secondly, and this is supreme to me, I have received from the
General of my Order, at Rome, these instructions: '_It is important to
our holy mother the Church that Louis XVI be crowned with the palm of
martyrdom_.' So that, having tested the danger and uselessness of an
uprising, I declare point-blank my determination not to take the least
part in it; I declare that I shall withhold from it whatever means of
action I can in any way control; in short, I shall oppose it in all
possible manner, licit and illicit. On the which account," concluded the
Jesuit, rising and bowing, "I shall now withdraw, so please you, my
humble reverence from your honorable company. I have nothing more to do
here."

The Abbot moved impassively toward the door, only replying to the looks
of wonder on every face with the words, "I have said."

But Hubert blocked his passage, and cried: "Miserable cassock,
hypocrite, cock-roach! Would you be also capable of denouncing us?"

"I am capable of everything to the end of preventing an act reprobated
by the General of my Order. The General of the Jesuits has spoken; all
must obey him--even Kings, even the Pope. Silence and obedience are the
words!"

So saying, and profiting by the stupor into which his audacity and
self-possession threw the other conspirators, the Jesuit left the room.

"We are off, god-son," he said to little Rodin when he had descended to
the second floor. "Come, my child; other cares call me elsewhere."

"Me also," responded the boy, blessing himself and rising. "I am ready
to follow you, good god-father. Command. To hear you is to obey."




CHAPTER XV.

THE KING ON TRIAL.


As already recounted, John Lebrenn, in his capacity as municipal
officer, was charged on the night of December 10, 1793, with the task of
watching over Louis XVI, detained, with his family, at the Temple.
Occupying a room before the chamber of the ex-King, Lebrenn felt for the
prisoner a sort of compassion, as he reflected that this man, not
without his good inclinations, and endowed with certain undeniable
domestic virtues, had been pushed by his position as King to wrongful
acts which were about to bring down a terrible punishment upon his head.

Louis submitted to his confinement with mingled carelessness and
resignation, rarely displaying either annoyance or anger at the rigorous
surveillance of which he was the object; he hoped that the penalty
pronounced against him by the Convention would not exceed imprisonment
until after the peace, and then banishment. For his wife, his sister,
and his son and daughter, he showed great solicitude; one proof of the
inherent sin of royalty, which could transform a good husband, a good
brother, and a good father--a man without malice in his private
life--into an execrable tyrant, capable of every transgression.

The curtains which screened the glass door separating the ante-chamber
from that occupied by the fallen King accidentally falling apart in the
middle, they revealed to John Lebrenn Louis XVI pacing up and down the
room, although his usual bed-time had long sounded. The King seemed to
be in a state of agitation which accorded ill with his apathetic nature.
On the morrow he was to appear at the bar of the Convention; and during
the day he had learned from Clery, his man-in-waiting, who, due to his
secret connection with the royalists, was informed of their moves, that
a plan was afoot to snatch him from his escort on the way from the
Temple to the Convention. Quite likely to turn his mind from these
thoughts, he opened the door leading into the room guarded by John
Lebrenn, in order to speak with him. The countenance of his watchman
seemed to inspire some confidence in the prisoner; perhaps he remarked
on the young man's features an expression of compassion, easy to
confound with the respectful interest of a subject for a prisoner King.
He stepped into the room of his guard. Not out of respect for the King,
but out of commiseration for the captive man, the soldier rose from the
camp cot on which he had been sitting. Louis addressed him affably, as
follows:

"My friend, I am not disposed to sleep, to-night. If you will, let us
talk together, that my sleeplessness may be rendered less irksome."

"Willingly, Sire," replied Lebrenn.

This was the first time since his captivity that Louis XVI heard one of
his captors address him by that title 'Sire.' They called him habitually
'citizen,' or 'monsieur,' or 'Louis Capet.' Seeking to read the inner
thoughts of the man before him, Louis resumed, after a moment's
silence:

"My friend, I do not think I am mistaken in believing that you pity my
lot? I have been calumniated, but the light will break some day, perhaps
soon: thank God, I still have friends. I know not what it is that tells
me you are one of those faithful and devoted subjects of whom I speak."

"Sire, I am too loyal to leave you a single instant in error. I do not
accept the designation of 'subject,' Sire! I am a citizen of the French
Republic."

"Enough, monsieur; I was mistaken," bitterly replied Louis.
"Nevertheless, I thank you for your frankness."

"My words were dictated by my dignity, first of all; next, by my pity
for the misfortunes, not of the King, but of the man."

"Sir," cried Louis XVI haughtily, "I require no one's pity; the
commiseration of heaven and my conscience are enough. Let us stop
there."

"Sire, I did not seek the honor of this conversation; and, should it
continue, it is well that you be under no illusion as to my sentiments
towards royalty. The Revolution and the Republic have no more devoted
soldier than myself. Now, Sire, I am at your service."

Louis XVI was not utterly lacking in sense; his first resentment past,
he admitted to himself that the conduct of this municipal officer was
all the more praiseworthy, inasmuch as while declaring himself a
revolutionist and a republican, he nevertheless treated a captive King
with respect.

"I was rude just now, I am sorry for it," he said at length. "Hoping for
a moment to discover in you a faithful subject, I found myself face to
face with an enemy. The disappointment was great. Still, let us talk a
little on this subject of your hatred for royalty. What harm have this
royalty, this nobility, this clergy, against which you rail, done to you
and your like?"

"I could, Sire, reply to you in a few words, by facts and not by
railings. But I wish not to wound your preconceived ideas, and above all
to avoid giving you cause to make a sad comparison. This, Sire, is the
third time, in the course of fourteen centuries, that a descendant of my
family encounters one of the heirs of the monarchy of Clovis; and that
under circumstances--"

"Doubtless the circumstances were intensely interesting. What were they?
You pique my curiosity."

"Sire, the circumstances are sinister. It would be painful to me to give
you cause to draw the sad comparison between your present position and
that of the princes, your predecessors."

"Tell me that part of your legends, Monsieur Lebrenn. My curiosity is
highly excited, and my confidence in a brighter future will not be
dimmed by your recital."

"To obey you, Sire, I shall. It was in the year 738 that one of my
ancestors, named Amael, a soldier of fortune and companion to Charles
Martel, found himself in Anjou, at the Convent of St. Saturnine. My
ancestor was commissioned by Charles Martel to keep prisoner in the
convent a poor boy of nine, the only son of Thierry IV, the do-nothing
King, named Childeric. The child soon died, thus extinguishing, in the
last scion of the Merovingians, the stock of Clovis who had covered Gaul
with ruins.[11] Two centuries and a half later, in 987, at the palace
of Compiegne, another of my ancestors, the son of a forester of the
royal domain, found himself alone in the chamber of Louis the Do-nothing
with that prince; he saw him of a sudden faint, become deadly pale, and
writhe in agony. He apostrophized the dying King thus: 'Louis, last year
Hugh the Capet, Count of Paris, had your father Lothaire poisoned by the
Queen his wife, a concubine of the Bishop of Laon. Louis, you are about
to die of poison which your wife, Queen Blanche, has just given you. She
has promised Hugh the Capet, her accomplice, to wed him during the
coming year.' And so it was; the last of the Carlovingians dead, Hugh
the Capet espoused his widow and had himself enthroned King of
France.[12] There, Sire, that is how royal dynasties are founded and
ended."

"These are strange chances, Monsieur Lebrenn," replied Louis XVI. "One
of your ancestors charged to watch the last prince of the dynasty of
Clovis; another ancestor sees perish the last scion of the monarchy of
Charlemagne; and this night you are to watch over me, whom you probably
consider as the last King of the dynasty of Hugh Capet. You will soon
perceive your error."

"Sire," returned John Lebrenn, "you insisted on knowing the occurrences
of which I just spoke, in connection with a question you put to me--"

"Aye, Monsieur Lebrenn; and in spite of the strangeness of the
circumstances with which you have just made me acquainted, I repeat my
question. What harm have royalty, nobility and clergy ever done to you
and yours, that you should hate them so?"

"To begin with, Sire, we know upon what crimes hang the rise and fall
of dynasties; consequently we are unable to love and respect a royalty
imposed upon us by conquest. All monarchies have had a similar origin.
The Count of Boulainvilliers, in this very century, established and
demonstrated that the land of the Gauls belonged of fact and of right to
the King and the nobility, by the grace of God and the right of their
good swords: the Gauls were a vanquished race."

For several seconds Louis did not speak. Then he began brusquely,
"Triumph in your hate, monsieur; you are here as the jailer of the
descendant of those Kings whom you and your fellows have abhorred for
ages."

"The circumstance which has placed me near you, Sire, is of too high an
order of morality to evoke in me a sentiment so miserable as that of
sated hatred."

"What, then, is the feeling which you do entertain, monsieur?"

"A religious emotion, Sire; such as is bred in every honest heart by one
of these mysterious decrees of eternal justice which, sooner or later,
manifests itself in its divine grandeur and seizes the guilty ones, in
whatever rank they may be stationed."

"So, monsieur, you make me a party to the evil my forefathers may have
perpetrated upon their subjects?"

"Monarchs are rightfully regarded as parties to the crimes of their
ancestors, the same as they pretend to be masters of the people by
virtue of divine right and the conquests of those ancestors. All
inheritance carries with it its responsibilities as well as its
benefits. You surely would not dispute that, Sire?"

"To-morrow rebellious subjects will arrogate to themselves the right to
summon their King before them to trial," murmured Louis, without
noticing Lebrenn's question. "The will of heaven be done in all things;
it will punish the wicked, and protect the just."

As Louis pronounced these words, the porter of the Temple entered the
room, saying, as he handed John the letter from advocate Desmarais,
"Citizen officer, here is a letter just brought for you by Citizen
Billaud-Varenne, who enjoined me to take it to you at once."

"Good night, Monsieur Lebrenn," said the King; and turning to the
porter: "Send me my waiting-man Clery, to help me make my toilet. I wish
to retire."

Louis XVI returned to his room, while John Lebrenn, greatly surprised to
recognize Desmarais's hand-writing on the envelope which Billaud-Varenne
had sent him, quickly tore it open, his heart, in spite of himself,
beating loud against his ribs.

The missive read, Lebrenn for a moment thought he was dreaming. He
hesitated to pin any faith to such unlooked-for good fortune, the
realization of his dearest hopes. In vain did he seek to penetrate the
motive for the singular condition placed by the lawyer upon his
marriage. Examined in turn from the viewpoint of duty, of honor and of
delicacy, the condition seemed to him on the whole acceptable; he simply
bound himself for the future to a discretion from which he had not, in
the past, varied a hair's breadth.

Why attempt to paint the ineffable felicity of John Lebrenn? The night
passed for him in a flood of joy.

In the morning he was one of the municipal officers charged to conduct
Louis XVI to the bar of the Convention. Towards nine o'clock Chambon,
Mayor of Paris, accompanied by a court clerk came to deliver to the King
the order to appear before the Convention.

A two-horse coach awaited Louis at the door of the great tower, within
the precincts of the Temple. Generals Santerre and Witenkoff were
stationed on horseback beside the windows. Louis climbed into the
vehicle, and seated himself on the rear seat, beside the Mayor of Paris;
John Lebrenn and one of his colleagues in the Municipal Council occupied
the front. As soon as the carriage issued from the courtyard of the
Temple, the King realized, by the mass of military force with which his
route to the National Convention was hemmed in, that the Committee of
General Safety had been informed of the royalist intrigue, and had taken
steps to make impossible any sudden assault calculated to carry off the
prisoner.

While Louis was on his way to the Convention, that sovereign assembly,
already two hours in session, was calmly and with dignity transacting
public affairs. The trial of the ex-Executive was, no doubt, of prime
importance, but to have changed its order of business, or to interrupt
it without cause before the appearance of the accused, would have given
the Convention almost the appearance of intimidation before the act
which it was about to consummate in the teeth of the allied Kings of
Europe. The countenances of the various factions presented singular
contrasts. The galleries were filled with patriots, who, in common with
the Mountain and the Jacobins, saw no safety for the Republic and the
Revolution save in the condemnation of Louis XVI to the penalty of
death.

The dark and rainy sky of that December day sent its lightning flashes
across the windows of the vast hall. The members of the Right and the
Swamp seemed weighed down by painful preoccupation; the Mountainists
alone were unmoved. One of the latter was speaking to certain articles
of a decree introducing some exceptions into the law on Emigrants, when
a low rumor running through the chamber heralded Louis's approach. The
Mountainist called for order and continued his discussion. The question
was put to a vote and carried. Only then did the president, rising in
his place, say to the Assembly:

"I wish to inform the Assembly that Louis Capet is at the door. Citizen
Representatives, you are about to exercise the right of justice; the
Republic expects of you firm and deliberate action; Europe's eyes are
turned upon you; history will record your actions; posterity will judge
you. The dignity of your session should correspond to the majesty of the
French people; the latter is about, through your instrumentality, to
give a lesson to Kings and a fruitful example for the emancipation of
nations. Citizens in the galleries, forget not that justice presides
only over calm deliberations."

Then, addressing the ushers:

"Bring in the accused."

Generals Santerre and Witenkoff advanced to the bar, leading the deposed
King between them by the arms; they were followed by Mayor Chambon, and
by John Lebrenn and his colleague. Several chairs were arranged near the
bar. Louis XVI removed his overcoat, placed it across the back of his
seat, took off his hat, and sat down, with his hat on his knees. His
large, bulging eyes wandered here and there over the benches of the
members with childish curiosity. Then his face took on its usual
expression of apathy; his eyelids drooped, his loose lip fell down over
his fat and retreating triple chin; he settled himself as best he could
in his chair and seemed lost to his surroundings.

The bustle caused in the chamber and galleries by Louis XVI's entry,
died out little by little, and Defermont, president of the Convention,
took up the examination of the accused on the facts charged against him.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have just attended the examination of Louis Capet. His answers,
hypocritical, evasive, or spun out of the whole cloth; his denials in
flat contradiction to verified facts; his obliviousness to all decency,
to all dignity, if not as a King, at least as a man, aroused in all
present, as they did in me, only pity for this prince who had neither
the courage to confess nor the nobility to repent his crimes, but who
resorted for his defense to the weapons of the vilest criminal, denial
and falsification.




CHAPTER XVI.

LEBRENN AND NEROWEG.


Night had fallen. Half an hour after his return from the Temple, John
Lebrenn was awaiting in silence the result of his sister's consideration
of the letter written him by advocate Desmarais the previous evening,
and also one from Charlotte received during the day.

Seated at her work table, which was lighted by a small lamp, Victoria
hung thoughtfully over the two letters.

"Sister," at last said John, "are you more keen-sighted than I in
solving the reason for the condition set by Desmarais upon my marriage?"

"Nay, I also am at a loss for an explanation," replied Victoria; "but I
suspect some cowardice in the mystery. You often see Billaud-Varenne, he
never told you, so far as I know, that he was in close connection with
Charlotte's father. And yet I read in Desmarais's letter that he begs
you to keep from Billaud-Varenne the secret of your love for his
daughter. Doubtless you could easily clear up the matter by seeing
Billaud-Varenne and asking him about his relations with Desmarais."

"Would that not be failing in the discretion which Charlotte's father
imposes upon me an a condition for my marriage?"

"Not at all. He asks you to keep from his colleague the secret of your
love for his daughter. Nothing more. On that subject, my dear brother,
you can still be as reserved in your talk with Billaud-Varenne as you
have been in the past."

"That is so. I shall go and see him this very evening; I am certain to
find him at home. At any rate, does not the condition, placed by
Charlotte's father upon our marriage, seem to you, as it does to her and
me, acceptable on the score of honor?"

"Surely, brother. And moreover, have you not always guarded with
delicacy this secret which Desmarais now asks you to keep? How will it
embarrass you to engage yourself upon your honor to continue holding it
a secret? In no wise. As to the motive for the condition, what matters
it? Go at once to Monsieur Desmarais's; Charlotte, poor child, is
counting the hours, the minutes till you come."

"Ah, Victoria," cried John, his breast heaving and his eyes filled with
tears, "I can hardly believe my good fortune! To marry Charlotte! To
live with her and my beloved sister!"

"Me! To live with you and your wife? It is impossible! Think of the
past."

"Victoria, I might once have hesitated to reveal to Charlotte the
mystery of your life; it is no longer so, dearest sister. The conduct of
my betrothed has proved to me the firmness of her character; I am as
sure of her as of myself. She shall know all that has contributed to
your sad life, and her dearest wish will be like mine, I am certain--to
have you pass the rest of your days with us."

"I admit that your sweetheart's spirit is sufficiently lofty to rise
above prejudice. But will it be the same with her family?"

"I answer to that, dearest sister, that there is nothing else for you to
do but what I have just indicated. Have you not lived with our parents
and with me since the day the Bastille was taken, when you came home to
us? Have I not many a time spoken of you to Billaud-Varenne? If he is on
intimate terms with Citizen Desmarais, is it not likely that he has
spoken to him? In fine, for a last reason, the gravest of all, is it not
known in the neighborhood that we live together? Charlotte's father, our
neighbor, must be aware of the circumstance. Shall I resign myself to a
falsehood, and say that you are not my sister? What would Charlotte and
her father think then? What would that young and beautiful woman who
shared my lodgings then be in their eyes?"

Victoria remained silent. She found, and, in fact, there was, no answer
to John's arguments. The latter, triumphing in his brotherly love, rose,
tenderly embraced his sister, and said:

"You see you are convinced of the necessity of my confidence to
Charlotte. Now tell me, darling sister, which do you prefer, to live
alone or with us?"

The young woman did not answer. Instead, her pale visage was bathed in
tears, always so rare in her. After a moment, she pressed her brother to
her heart, and murmured in a voice broken with sobs:

"Ah, do not fear that the sight of your good fortune will make my
chagrin more bitter. On the contrary, perhaps I shall forget it in
seeing you happy."

John tenderly embraced his sister, and set out for Billaud-Varenne's,
whom he wished to see before his interview with advocate Desmarais.

Upon being left alone, Victoria pondered long the recent conversation
with her brother. Then, lending an ear mechanically to the whistling of
the winter's wind without, she bent over the little stove that warmed
their humble quarters, and resumed her sewing. Suddenly the young woman
uttered a cry of surprise, and jumped to her feet. One of the panes of
the dormer window which looked out upon the roof fell with a crash, and
as the fragments of glass jangled to the floor, a hand passing through
the opening left by the broken pane forcibly shoved the lower sash of
the window up in the casing. A great gust of wind filled the room, blew
out the lamp, and out of the darkness a muffled, suppliant voice called
to Victoria:

"Have pity on me. I am an Emigrant; they are searching for me. I have a
hundred louis on me; they are yours if you save me!"

At the same time that the words were pronounced, Victoria heard on the
floor the foot-fall of the fugitive, who had introduced himself by the
window.

At the sound of the first words Victoria believed she recognized the
voice that came from out the shadows. The young woman was frozen with
astonishment.

"O, Providence! O, Justice the Avenger," she exclaimed. "It is _he_!"
Then, transported with fierce joy, she ran in the darkness to the door,
which she double locked, put the key in her pocket, and made sure that
she had by her the double-barreled pistol she always kept ready and
loaded since she became aware of the intentions of the Jesuit Morlet
and Lehiron. These precautions taken, Victoria groped about on the
bureau for a match, and held it to the stove-grate, while the fugitive,
surprised at the silence maintained by the occupant of the garret,
repeated again, believing it an irresistible argument to the mistress of
so poor a dwelling:

"I am an Emigrant. You have a hundred louis to win by saving me. You
have no interest in turning me over to my pursuers."

Victoria replied in a low voice, as she approached the lighted match to
a candle on the bureau, "Draw the curtain before the window, lest the
wind blow out my light."

The Emigrant hastened to execute the order. Victoria lighted the candle.
Its light flooded the garret; and when the Count of Plouernel--for it
was that self-same gentleman--turned around once more, he stood
petrified at the sight of the woman he beheld before him. In spite of
the poverty of her costume, he recognized--Marchioness Aldini! Her black
eyes flashed; hatred contributed to her face so fearsome an expression
that Plouernel shuddered as he gasped to himself:

"I am lost! Abbot Morlet told me that the Lebrenns dwelt near my refuge.
Let me flee!"

He dashed to the door, expecting to open it and reach the stairway, but
found it locked. In vain he tried to beat it down.

"Count," coldly said Victoria, in mocking accents, "know that this house
is occupied by good patriots. The noise you yourself are making will
give the alarm, and you will be arrested on the instant."

"Infamous creature!" shouted Plouernel, wild with rage, but ceasing to
shake the door. Then, rapidly approaching Victoria he unsheathed a
poniard which he carried concealed in his clothes; "You wish to deliver
me to the scaffold. But I shall avenge my death before it occurs! Your
life is in my hands."

"Be that as it may," replied the young woman, as she leveled her pistol
at the Count's breast. The latter recoiled in terror. Still keeping
Plouernel covered, Victoria went up to one of the partitions, struck it
with her hand, and called out aloud:

"Neighbor Jerome, are you there?"

"Aye, citizeness," responded Jerome from the other side of the wall, "we
are here, my son and I, at your service. We have just come in, and are
getting supper."

"My watch is stopped. Do you know what time it is, neighbor?"

"Ten has just sounded from the ex-parish of the Assumption. It is late,
neighbor. We wish you a good night."

Plouernel was fairly cornered. He could not think of escaping by the
window and the roof--one movement by Victoria would send him rolling to
the street below. To break down the door was no less perilous; the two
speakers in the garret, and soon all the inhabitants of the house, would
run to the young woman's call. And, finally, to attempt to kill her was
an expedient as fraught with danger as the other two. He would have to
brave two shots at close range and by a sure hand.

Victoria sat down in such a manner as to place her worktable between
herself and the Count, and keeping the pistol still in her hand, said:

"Count of Plouernel, you are the head of one of those families which
have the honor of tracing their origin back to the early times of
conquest. The further you go back in the centuries the more crimes you
take to your account, and the more terrible should be the punishment
reserved to you. The representatives of these families will pay, like
you, Neroweg, Count of Plouernel, the debt of blood."

Victoria was uttering these words in a voice of fierce exaltation when
her brother John, who had another key to the door, suddenly entered. His
sister's last words to Plouernel fell upon his ear. The Count, at the
unexpected apparition of the young artisan, fell back defiantly, and
involuntarily clapped his hand again to his dagger.

"John, lock the door," cried Victoria quickly. "This man's name is
Neroweg, Count of Plouernel!"

The Count put on a bold front, and said, in an attempt to brazen it out
with the young workman, who, he knew, shared the sentiments of his
sister with regard to the sons of Neroweg: "Go on, citizen, do your
business as purveyor of the scaffold."

Unmoved by the insult, John cast a cold look in the Emigrant's direction
and said to his sister:

"How comes the fellow here?"

"He was evidently fleeing from the men sent to arrest him. He climbed to
the roof of the next house, and forced his way in by breaking the
window."

"So," said John to the Count, "you are an Emigrant, and denounced? They
want you for judgment?"

"The marauder has the impudence to question me!" answered the Count with
a burst of sardonic laughter. "A switch for the rascal!"

"Count of Plouernel," returned John Lebrenn imperturbably, "I am of a
different opinion from my sister on the nature of the punishment to be
meted out to you. The Revolution, in abolishing royalty, nobility and
clergy, has already chastised the crimes of the enemies of the people:
The evil your race has done to ours is expiated. Count of Plouernel, the
conquered have taken their revenge upon the conquerors, the nation has
re-entered upon her sovereignty. The Republic is proclaimed; justice is
done!"

"Blood of God!" exclaimed Plouernel, "the beggar has the insolence to
grant me grace in the name of the people!"

"Count of Plouernel, your judges and not I will grant you grace, if you
merit it," answered John, controlling himself under the goading flings
of the Emigrant. "If it were for me to say, you would remain in France
unmolested, like so many other ex-nobles. I would leave you in peace, I
swear it before God! in spite of all the wrong your family has heaped
upon mine. I would have pardoned you, Count of Plouernel, and I shall
tell you why I would have shown myself thus clement: A century or more
ago, one of my forefathers, Nominoe, said to Bertha of Plouernel, who
loved him with a love as passionate as his own, 'I experience I know not
what emotions at once sad and tender, in loving in you a descendant of
that race which, from infancy, I have been taught to execrate. You are
in my eyes, Bertha, an angel of pardon and concord. In you, I absolve
your ancestors; instead of making you party to their iniquities, I
transfer to them your virtues. You ransom the evil ones of your race, as
Christ, they say, ransomed the world by his divine grace.'

"It is in memory of these words of my ancestor Nominoe," proceeded
Lebrenn, "that I would have pardoned you, Count of Plouernel, in making
you share, not in the crimes of your stock, but in the virtues of that
young girl and in the qualities of another of your blood, a Protestant
and republican in his time, Colonel Plouernel, the friend of the great
Coligny and of my ancestor Odelin, the armorer of La Rochelle."

"You lie," cried the Count of Plouernel, furiously. "Never did woman or
maid of the house of Plouernel dishonor herself with love for a vassal!
As to Colonel Plouernel, a turn-coat and a Protestant, he is the shame
of our family; as such, he may, indeed, have played the part of friend
to a base plebeian."

"Accordingly, I would have pardoned, Count, the evil done by your family
to mine," John Lebrenn continued unperturbed. "But though I have the
right to show myself generous to my personal enemy, my duty as a citizen
forbids me to furnish asylum to an enemy of the nation and the Republic,
to a monarchist conspirator."

"O, the hypocrite!" exclaimed the Count. "All the while pretending a
generosity which would be an insult to me, the clown wants to gratify
his hatred by sending me to the scaffold!"

"I have told you that duty prevents my affording asylum to an enemy of
the Republic; but I am not an informer, I would not deliver up even my
personal enemy when he has sought shelter under my roof. Leave this
place. Go down the stairs softly, and you may gain the street. The gate
is not locked. If you were not under the shadow of a capital accusation,
I would chastise you as you deserve for your insults. So, out of here!
my ex-gentleman."

"Ah, miserable vassal," replied Plouernel, pale with rage. "You dare to
threaten me!" And suddenly throwing himself upon Lebrenn, he dealt him a
blow that crimsoned the side of his face.

"The fellow now belongs to me," grimly muttered John. He went to the
corner where his tools lay, and arming himself with a bar of iron which
he found there, tossed to the Count a sword which hung on the wall,
saying, as he did so:

"Come, Count of Plouernel; take the weapon, and guard yourself!"

"John," shrieked Victoria in terror, "your bar is no match for his
saber. You shall not expose your life so!"

Plouernel drew the sword from its sheath and prepared to defend himself,
while Victoria, unable to intervene, shudderingly followed the duel.

"Son of the Nerowegs," cried John, brandishing his bar of iron, "my
avenging arm is about to fall upon you."

"I await it," coolly replied the Count, putting himself on his guard.
The robust iron-worker advanced upon his adversary, describing with his
weapon a figure-of-eight so lusty, so rapid, and to which the vigor of
his wrist lent such force that, encountering the sword at the moment
when the ex-colonel was about to lunge, the iron bar broke down the
latter's guard, and descended heavily upon his skull. Almost without
losing a drop of blood, and without a single cry, the Count dropped in
his tracks, and rolled upon the floor like an ox smitten with a sledge.

With a bound Victoria flung herself on her brother's neck, wrapped him
in a convulsive embrace, and, suffocated with emotion, broke into tears,
unable to utter a word. Partaking of his sister's emotion, John pressed
her tenderly to his breast; but their embrace ended in a start as they
heard a knock at their room door, and the voice of the porter calling:
"Citizen John, if you are abed, rise! They are looking for an Emigrant
in the house."

The porter had barely uttered these words when John and his sister heard
a low moan from the Count of Plouernel. At the same moment the porter
called still more loudly, once more knocking at the door.

"The wretch is not dead, and we can not give him up," said the workman
to his sister, looking at Plouernel.

"Citizen John, awake!" it was the porter's voice as he redoubled his
knocks. "Here is the commissioner of the Section."

"Who is knocking? Who's there?" answered the artisan, with a meaning
gesture to his sister, and saying to her, softly: "I'll feign to be
waking from a deep sleep. Help me carry the wounded man to your room;
for it would be an infamous deed to give up a suffering enemy. I shall
say that you are ill in bed, and they will not intrude upon you."

"It is I, James," replied the porter. "You sleep a sound sleep, Citizen
John. This is the third time I have pounded at your door."

"Ah, 'tis you, Father James. I slept so hard I did not hear you. What do
you wish?"

"The commissioner of the Section and his agents are after an Emigrant.
They have already visited three floors; they will doubtless come up to
your chamber, as a matter of form. They know well enough that you would
never harbor an Emigrant in your place."

"Alright, Father James. I'll slip on my trousers and open the door in an
instant."

While speaking, John had hustled off his cravat, his vest, and his cloak
of municipal officership. He kept on only his pantaloons, and feigning
to be but half dressed in his haste to get out of bed, opened the door
at the moment that the commissioner of the Section, the same who the
evening before had carried on the search at Desmarais's, appeared on the
landing, followed by his agents and several gendarmes. The magistrate, a
friend of Marat's, knew Lebrenn, and greeted him cordially:

"I regret, Citizen Lebrenn, that you have been awakened. You are one of
those in whose abodes there is no reason for searches and seizures."

"No matter, citizen; come in, do your duty. I ask you only not to go
into my sister's room. She is ill."

"I shall go neither into your sister's room nor yours, Citizen Lebrenn."

"Who is it you seek?"

"An ex-noble, the Count of Plouernel, formerly a colonel in the Guards.
He was installed in a house next to this, in the rooms of an old
huntsman of Louis Capet's; but warned, no doubt, of our approach, our
ex-noble took to his heels. I first thought he might have escaped by the
roofs; but after an inspection of them, I recognized that only a roofer,
and an intrepid one at that, would have dared to risk his life on such a
<DW72>. To acquit my conscience I came, nevertheless, to inspect the
attic of this house. So, good night, Citizen Lebrenn."

The magistrate shook the hand of the young man, who watched the
commissioner proceed towards the attic, and then re-entered his own
rooms and locked the door.




CHAPTER XVII.

PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.


The day following these events in the lodgings of John Lebrenn,
Charlotte Desmarais was again talking with her mother in the parlor of
their apartment. The latter, pale and downcast, and her eyes red with
weeping, still trembled for the life of her brother, who, scenting the
snare in the commissioner's advice to leave Paris by the St. Victor
barrier, had remained snug in his refuge. The lawyer's wife was saying
to her daughter:

"And so you are happy, very happy at your coming marriage, my child?"

"Oh, mother!" echoed the young girl, covering Madam Desmarais's hand
with kisses, "nothing is now wanting to my happiness but to see you no
longer sad."

"You know the reason for my sadness."

"Has not, perhaps, my marriage, to which you consented only reluctantly,
added to the other causes of your sorrow?"

"Since you ask me, my dear daughter, I will admit that the ideas, or
prejudices, if you will, in which I was brought up made me consider this
match with a workingman a misalliance. I opposed it with all my might,
up to the last moment. But--I confess it to you sincerely, my
child--last night when your father announced to Monsieur Lebrenn that
he granted him your hand, the young man showed himself so grateful, he
expressed his joy in such eloquent terms, he evinced so much attention,
so much deference, he spoke so touchingly of his sister, in short he
showed himself so completely a man of heart and generosity, that my
repugnance vanished. Your marriage now satisfies me at all points."

"What delight I feel, good mother, to hear you say so," responded
Charlotte clasping Madam Desmarais around the neck. "John will be to you
the tenderest of sons."

"He will, I doubt not, but--" added Madam Desmarais sorrowfully, "I can
never share your happiness, dear child. I know the uprightness of your
spirit, the strength of your character; and I am going to make to you a
serious and painful avowal: Your father has wounded me to the heart, he
has lost my esteem and affection. It is impossible for me to live longer
with him. You witnessed his conduct toward me, you heard his repeated
denunciations."

"Alas," replied Charlotte, forcing herself to make excuses for her
father, "it was only a shameful role he was driven to by necessity; be
assured of that, good mother."

"No, it was not a role," answered the injured wife. "You must know the
whole truth. Last night, after Monsieur Lebrenn's departure, when we
were alone, your father said to me:

"'Madam, take this once for all, you and your miserable brother; you
almost sent me to the guillotine to-day. God grant that the perils which
I dread be fended off in the future by this marriage of my daughter to
this--this Lebrenn.

"'We live, madam,' continued your father, 'in terrible times, and I am
in such a position that, should it some day come about that I must
either send others to the guillotine or face death myself, I would not
hesitate to send even you before the revolutionary tribunal. Let these
words always be present to your mind, madam, in regulating your conduct
henceforth.'

"In these words your father wound up. Such, my child, was his language,"
concluded Madam Desmarais, burying her tear-bedewed face in her
handkerchief.

Charlotte answered not. She was torn with inward struggle against the
sad flood of ideas borne upon her by her father's hypocrisy. Brought up
in an atmosphere of filial affection and respect, the young girl
suffered at being compelled to lower her estimate of her paternal
parent. But this last conversation of the lawyer with his wife left no
more room for doubt as to his true character.

Having somewhat calmed her tears, Madam Desmarais went on:

"I have now, dear child, too much knowledge of your father's innermost
nature. His presence is hateful to me. It would be impossible for me to
live with him. Hence, my poor girl, we must part."

"We part!" cried Charlotte, passionately embracing Madam Desmarais and
mingling her tears with her mother's: "And where will you go?"

"I shall go back to Lyons, to my cousin's; I have resolved upon that,
since I can do nothing here, alas, to add either to your happiness or my
brother's safety."

"Let us hope, mother, let us hope," said Charlotte through her tears,
after a pause. "Perhaps there is a way for us not to separate, good
mother, and also to save uncle. Ah, mother, happiness, and above all
the desire to make others whom we love share our happiness, renders the
mind quick to invent. Last night, after father and you consented to my
marrying John, he and I were alone for a few minutes. Here is what he
told me: Before coming here, he had gone to Monsieur Billaud-Varenne,
and he learned from this gentleman that father had previously
commissioned him to offer my hand to Monsieur St. Just. Thus John
learned that father counted on finding in him a buffer against the
dangers which he fears, and that this was the motive that led him, in
default of Monsieur St. Just, to offer my hand to John. That does not
matter; but John also learned from Monsieur Billaud-Varenne that he had
said to father: 'Since you so greatly desire to marry your daughter to a
good republican, why not give her to John Lebrenn? He is, you say, your
pupil; he enjoys the esteem and friendship of the most eminent men of
the Revolution.'"

"No doubt your father hoped, in marrying you to St. Just--"

"To build himself a powerful bulwark against possible danger. But
Monsieur St. Just not having accepted the alliance, and Monsieur
Billaud-Varenne proposing John, father feared to seem to despise a
workingman should he refuse him my hand."

"And what opinion did John Lebrenn express of your father?"

"John said that father's conduct was lacking in straightforwardness, and
added, 'I have never failed in frankness toward you, Charlotte. If it
pleases you still to live with your father, I shall yield to your
desires, and I shall keep ever hidden the slight esteem in which,
unhappily, I am forced to hold him. But if it is in your thoughts not to
dwell beneath the paternal roof after our marriage, I shall be more
pleased with that resolution, as it will permit me not to be separated
from my sister.' And in this connection, mother," added Charlotte with
touching emotion, "John gave me a proof of confidence as honorable in
him as in his sister. He recounted to me all that related to the
unfortunate girl, but all under the seal of secrecy. If Mademoiselle
Lebrenn has been the most unhappy creature in the world, because of
certain terrible events, no one is now more than she worthy of the
respect of all."

"Gertrude was speaking to me yesterday about Mademoiselle Lebrenn, and
assured me that during the four years she has lived in our quarter, all
agree in praising her conduct. My husband used this as a pretext for
giving Monsieur Lebrenn to believe that if he formerly refused him your
hand on the ground that his sister had been Louis XV's mistress, that
obstacle no longer intervened, as by her virtuous conduct Mademoiselle
Lebrenn had redeemed the past. Would not such deceit, without, alas, the
other grievances I have against my husband, suffice to estrange us? Such
is our situation."

"Mother," said Charlotte, interrupting Madam Desmarais, "I told you that
John, while consenting to live with me at father's house, would much
prefer for us to dwell by ourselves, with his sister. Ah, well, mother,
as I can not feel for father the sentiments which hallow the paternal
roof-tree, I have resolved to part from him after my marriage. And now,
mother mine, what reason can you give for a separation between us two?"

"Dear child," answered Madam Desmarais, embracing her daughter in tears,
"you grant my wish before I utter it. Much as I longed for it, I did not
dare make the request of you for our living together; and even now I do
not know whether I ought to accept. To live with you would be my most
cherished desire; but Monsieur Lebrenn knows that I have constantly
opposed his marriage, and perhaps it would not please him to see me in
his home."

"Here comes John, mother," cried her daughter as Gertrude led the young
man into the parlor. "He will take upon himself the task of reassuring
you."

As soon as the maid had withdrawn, Charlotte said to her betrothed, who
bowed respectfully to Madam Desmarais:

"My dear John, in case, after our marriage, it should not please me to
live in my father's house, would it be agreeable to you for mother to
come with us?"

"I shall answer you, Charlotte, in all sincerity," responded the young
artisan. "I should be happy to have Madam Desmarais with us; all the
more, seeing that since what passed between her husband and her after
Monsieur Hubert's escape, it seems to me almost impossible that she
could resign herself to inhabit any longer the home of her marriage."
And he continued, to Madam Desmarais: "Believe me, madam; by my respect,
by my filial attachment, I shall strive to make you forget what you have
suffered; moreover, I promise to try to call a halt to the pursuit of
your brother."

"Great God!" cried Madam Desmarais in accents of gratitude, "can it be
possible!"

"I have some hope, due to my political relations, of success in what
concerns your brother's safety."

"Ah, John!" said Charlotte, "you have divined my thoughts, anticipated
my wishes; for just now, in trying to reassure mother on the score of
uncle's fate, I dreamt of asking your assistance."

"And I, Monsieur Lebrenn, am doubly grateful for your generosity towards
my brother, especially since you are not unaware that, even as I, he was
ever obstinately opposed to your marriage with my daughter," added Madam
Desmarais, with tears of happiness standing in her eyes. "Ah, whatever
the result of your efforts, my gratitude towards you will be eternal,
Monsieur Lebrenn. But, alas! how can you save my brother?"

"Write, madam, to Monsieur Hubert, that if he will promise, on his word
of honor, to abstain henceforth from all intrigue, and to live quietly
in Paris, I hope, due to my relations with the procurator of the Commune
and several members of the Committee of General Safety, to be able to
secure a suspension of the searches against him. I ask of him nothing
which a man of honor can not accede to; I ask nothing which looks toward
his dropping his opinions, nothing that engages him towards the
Republic, except that he respect the established laws."

"Ah, uncle is saved, mother. This proposal is too straightforward for
him not to accept. Let your heart rejoice."

"Ah, Monsieur Lebrenn, what generosity, what grandeur of heart! Will you
pardon me for having so long misprised you?"

"John, for answer, embrace _our_ mother," said Charlotte, gently
pushing her betrothed toward Madam Desmarais. The latter held out her
arms to the young workman, who clasped her in a hearty hug.

"Aye, aye, you will hereafter be for me the best of sons," replied she.
"I owe to you forgetfulness from my sorrows, perhaps the life of my
brother, and assuredly the happiness of my Charlotte."

"And now let us talk of our plans," resumed the young girl. "It is
understood, mother, that when we are married, you are to live with us?
We need not go back to that."

"That is my dearest wish."

"Since we are speaking of plans, Charlotte," put in John, "I should
acquaint your mother and you of my intention to continue my trade of
ironsmith. My employer, Master Gervais, has long proposed to turn his
establishment over to me, for which I was to reimburse him by yearly
payments to be agreed on by us. I am not of an age to enter upon another
career from that I have so far lived by."

"But, my dear John," began Madam Desmarais, "as you speak of continuing
your trade, I should tell you that my daughter has a dower--of
considerable importance."

"That is something, I must declare to you, which I have never
considered," John made answer. "Charlotte's dowry belongs to her, she is
to use it as seems good to her. As to me, I am certain that neither you
nor she will disapprove of my resolution to live by my own labor, as
heretofore. The establishment, perfectly equipped, which I shall get
from Master Gervais for thirty thousand livres, should bring me, good
year or bad, five or six thousand livres steadily. The output of my
forge will permit us, then, to live in some comfort, and allow me to pay
off my master in a few years, according to the arrangements that we
shall make."

"But, my dear John, my daughter's dower is more than 120,000 livres in
good gold louis, snugly stowed underground in our cellar; not to speak
of my personal fortune."

"Dear mother, permit me to interrupt you," returned John. "Your private
fortune is yours, and Charlotte's dowry is hers; she and you may dispose
of them as you will, and in acts of benevolence. I wish only to prove to
you that my labor will suffice for the maintenance of our household,
apart from your resources."

"I have always given you credit for delicacy, my dear John," replied
Madam Desmarais.

"For which I thank you, dear mother. You now know that I wish to
continue to live by my trade. For the rest, be easy," added the young
workingman, smiling. "Neither Charlotte nor you will be deafened by the
clang of my anvil. Master Gervais's shop is on Anjou Street, and a great
courtyard separates it from a pretty house in the midst of a garden. The
dwelling is at present occupied by Master Gervais, but as he purposes to
go to live in the country, he will rent it to me. We shall be, my dear
mother--you, Charlotte, my sister, and I--comfortably established in our
little nest, which smiles in the shade of the garden about it. These are
my plans, subject to your and Charlotte's approval; except, I repeat, my
firm resolve to continue to live by the work of my forge."

"I, to begin with, am agreed to these projects of John's," said the
young girl gaily. "The house, surrounded by its garden, charms me before
I see it. But do not be afraid, Monsieur John, that I shall fear to
blacken my dress with the smoke of your forge; I shall also prove to
you that I dread not being deafened with the thunder of your anvil. And
you, mother, what have you to say to our projects? Do they meet with
your approval?"

"I say that our John is honor, probity and delicacy itself," replied
Madam Desmarais with welling emotion. "I say that I would live, if need
be, in a garret, rather than be parted from you, my children. I say that
now I am ashamed of the prejudices in which I have heretofore lived in
regard to the men of the people. John teaches me to value them as they
truly deserve."

"Ah, dear mother," was John's answer, "I understand, I overlook the
prejudices of which you accuse yourself. What causes them, what even
often justifies them, is the faults of so many of the disinherited,
unhappy ones, who, sunk in misery, in ignorance, and abandonment, have
fallen prey to the fatal vices that are nearly always engendered by
these conditions. So, do you know what has been my motive in wishing to
succeed Master Gervais in his smithy, where a score or so of apprentices
are always employed? It is to form in our shop a sort of practical
school of industrious, upright, and efficient workmen, jealous of their
rights as citizens, but also imbued with a sense of their public duties.
I hope to render still more fervent, still more glowing, their love for
their country, and for the Republic. I wish, in associating them with my
labors, to make them associated with the benefits thereof. I hope, in
short, to watch with fatherly solicitude over my young apprentices. I
shall choose orphans wherever possible, to the end of giving them a
family, and bringing them up good republicans. I have not, have I,
Charlotte, presumed too much upon you, in counting on your help for
these poor boys?"

"Ah, count also on my co-operation, my dear John," exclaimed Madam
Desmarais, her eyes filling with tears. "I now understand the grandeur,
the usefulness, the holiness of the task which you impose upon yourself
for the benefit of your apprentices and workmen. You seek to educate
them; you charge yourself with the molding of their characters!"

Gertrude, entering at that moment, said to the young workman:

"Monsieur Desmarais knows that you are here, Monsieur Lebrenn. He asks
you to wait for him. He will be in directly."

"Mother," said Charlotte sadly, "grievous as is the dissimulation, I
believe there is every necessity for us not to inform father as yet of
our resolve to live apart from him after my wedding."

"I am not of your opinion, my dear Charlotte," objected John, whose
candidness would have suffered under the reticence. "At any rate, we
have time to consider the matter. But it is necessary to decide, before
Monsieur Desmarais comes in on how to convey to Monsieur Hubert the
proposal I made to you, dear mother."

"Dear John," replied Madam Desmarais, "I have a secure means of
communication with him. But should my letter indeed be intercepted, and
your name be found in it, do you not fear to be compromised?"

"Should they seize your letter, it will not injure me in the slightest.
The attempt I make is loyal. I accept proudly the responsibility
attached to it, the same as, this very morning, I took upon myself the
responsibility, still more serious on the face of it, of giving an
Emigrant who had sought refuge with me the means, not of escaping
justice--my duty would not permit that--but of leaving our house. Thanks
to me, the ex-Count of Plouernel was able, without molestation, to gain
a safe retreat."

"That great seigneur who once so shamefully outraged my husband?" cried
Madam Desmarais in surprise.

"Monsieur Plouernel," Charlotte asked, "the descendant of that ancient
family of warrior Franks which has done so much injury to your plebeian
stock?"

"Precisely. By a strange fatality, he picked a fight with me last night.
I thought I had killed him, but he was only stunned. This morning when
Monsieur Plouernel had sufficiently regained his senses and strength, I
conducted him to the threshold of our house. The porter, recognizing my
voice, opened the street door to the Emigrant. Now let the justice of
men be done; I can not denounce an enemy defeated and wounded."

At this moment advocate Desmarais stepped into the parlor, cordially
tendering his hand to Lebrenn, and saying:

"Good day, my dear friend, my worthy _pupil_." Then passing to the young
artisan a paper he held in his hand, the lawyer added: "Read that aloud,
my dear John."

Charlotte's betrothed read as follows:

     "Citizen colleague:

     "I announce to you the marriage of my daughter, Charlotte
     Desmarais, to Citizen John Lebrenn, the iron worker.

     "The vows of the two as husband and wife will be received by the
     municipal officer of the Section of the Pikes, on the day that the
     head of Louis Capet the tyrant falls on the scaffold.

     "Fraternal greetings,
     "BRUTUS DESMARAIS.

     "December 12, year One of the
     Republic one and indivisible."

"That is a copy of the circular letter I have just addressed to my
colleagues of the Convention, to invite them to your wedding with my
daughter. What do you say to the phrasing of my missive, and especially
to the time chosen for your wedding?"

"My God!" thought Madam Desmarais with a shudder, "the fate of Louis XVI
aroused my husband's pity, and still he chooses the day of that prince's
execution to marry our daughter upon. What abominable hypocrisy!" And
Madam Desmarais left the parlor.

"You ask me, Citizen Desmarais, what I think of your letter of
invitation, and of the time set for my union with Charlotte; I reply to
you, in all sincerity, that I extremely regret that you chose the day of
the execution of Louis XVI for our marriage."

"And I, father, hold with John."

"I suspect you, my daughter, of being a little royalist," replied the
lawyer in a bitter-sweet tone; "and as to you, my dear pupil, I did not
believe it necessary to remind you that the day a King's head falls into
the basket is a festive day, a day of joy for all good patriots."

"Citizen Desmarais, did I sit in the Convention I would have voted for
the death of Louis XVI, as a perjurer and a conspirer against the
nation. But the day when the glaive of the law strikes the last of the
Kings will not be a day of joy for the Republic."

"And what will it be, then, O my pupil? A day of mourning, perhaps?"

"For good patriots there will be neither joy nor mourning, Citizen
Desmarais. It will be a day of deep and sober thought. Louis XVI is not
a man, but a principle, representing the oldest monarchy in Europe. In
striking Louis XVI, it is royalty that is beheaded. It is not a head
that will fall to the scaffold, but a crown."

"My faith, my dear pupil, you have indeed out-reasoned your master. The
death of the tyrant, in fact, causes patriots more than the delirium of
joy, it causes a religious meditation, as you have so aptly said. But
what is done is done. I sent off my circular this morning to all our
friends in the Mountain; I can not now change the date of your
marriage."

"Father," said Charlotte gravely, "John and I have awaited for years the
day that would consummate our hopes; we would gladly consent to postpone
still further the day that is to unite us, in order not to coincide with
that of the death of the King, guilty though he be."

"Enough on that subject, my daughter, time presses. You, my pupil, will
come to the notary's with me, if you please, to settle the terms of your
marriage contract. Thence we shall hie us to the Convention, where I
shall present you to my colleagues of the Mountain as my future
son-in-law."

"I would say to you, Citizen Desmarais, that I do not intend to
interfere in the making of the contract; that shall be drawn up as it
pleases you."

"But you must know, my dear pupil, what dowry I settle upon my
daughter!"

"That is a financial question in which I am not in the slightest degree
interested."

"Ah, my children," returned the lawyer, in sepulchral tones, "what
regret I feel at not being able to endow you as I would wish! But I have
ruined myself in patriotic gifts. Save for this house and some little
properties which amount to almost nothing, there remain to me in all
only 850 louis, which I share with you, my children. This dowry is very
small, my dear John, after that which you hoped to secure from your
father-in-law."

"The thought of a dower never presented itself to me; be convinced of
that, Monsieur Desmarais."

"I believe you, my dear pupil, expecting no less of your delicacy. But,
apart from the 425 louis which I leave to you, you shall be lodged here,
without expense to you; for we shall never part, my dear pupil. We shall
be but one single family, and we shall also find room for your sister,
who has so admirably lived down her past; for I no longer see in her the
mistress of Louis XV, but the worthy daughter of the proletaire. And so,
my dear John, it is indeed settled that neither you nor your wife shall
leave me; I count on it, absolutely; it is for our peace and mutual
happiness."

Charlotte was as indifferent as John to the figure of her dowry; but
knowing through her mother that the settlement originally was to have
been 120,000 livres, buried in the cellar of the house, the young girl
was wounded by the secret calculations of her father, who, she thought
(nor was she mistaken), in dowering her so niggardly expected to force
John Lebrenn to take up his residence with him.

"I must thank you for your offer, Citizen Desmarais," answered John,
"but I desire but one thing in the world, the hand of Charlotte. That I
have obtained. All the rest is in my eyes but a bauble; it concerns me
little, and troubles me not at all."

"Such delicacy does not surprise me, coming from you, my dear John. So
you accept the terms of contract, as to the dowry? It is agreed?"

"Perfectly, and without objection."

"In that case, let us at once set about drawing up the marriage
articles. The notary awaits us."

"Adieu, Charlotte. I shall at once see the members of the Committee of
General Safety about your uncle," added John softly to his betrothed.

"Ah, if I had ever hesitated to leave my father's house," replied the
young girl to her lover in like tones, "this last interview with him
would have removed my scruples."

"Come, my pupil, let us go," said the lawyer, approaching the young
couple. "Adieu, my daughter; tell mother that our dear John will dine
here--the betrothal feast!"

"Till we meet again, father," answered the young girl, with a look of
intelligence to John, who, accompanying his future father-in-law, left
the house.




CHAPTER XVIII.

THE KING SENTENCED.


If there had ever existed any doubt as to the crimes of high treason
charged against Louis XVI, the doubt vanished before the crushing proofs
furnished against him during his examination. Deseze, Tronchet and
Malesherbes, charged with the defense made their main plea on the royal
inviolability guaranteed by the Constitution of 1791.

According to the defense of Louis XVI, and, indeed, according to the
text of the Constitution itself, the King, even though he violated the
Constitution, even though he betrayed the state, even though he led an
invasion upon France, and at the head of foreign troops put the country
to fire and sword, even then he incurred no penalty other than that of
deposition. Such was the brief of the King's lawyers.

This theory, in which the absurd jostled the monstrous, was not judged
worthy of a refutation by the Convention. Capet's accusers placed the
question on a higher plane, by affirming and demonstrating the nullity
of the Constitutional pact of 1791. Such was the opinion held by
Robespierre, St. Just, Condorcet, Carnot, Danton, several Girondins,
and, in fact, the great majority of the house.

In the name of justice, of right, and of reason, Louis XVI richly
merited the verdict of guilty.

The sovereignty of the people being permanent, indivisible and
inalienable, the Constitution of 1791 was radically null and void, in
that it provided for the hereditary alienation of a portion of the
people's rights, in favor of the ex-royal family. The Conventionists of
1793 were no more in love with the Constitution of 1791 than the
Constituents of 1791 were with the monarchical, feudal and religious
institutions which had weighed like an incubus on France fourteen
centuries long.

A nation has the power, but never the right, to alienate its
sovereignty, either in whole or in part, by delegating it to a
hereditary family. Such an alienation, imposed amid the violence of
conquest, borne out of habits of thought, or consented to in a moment of
public aberration, binds neither the present generation nor those to
come. Accordingly, the Constitution of 1791 being virtually null in
fact, Louis Capet could not invoke the protection of that Constitution,
which guaranteed the inviolability of the royal person, and limited his
punishment to deposition in a few specified cases. Louis XVI was, then,
legally brought to trial. By reconquering its full sovereignty on the
10th of August, the nation invested the Convention with the powers
necessary for judging the one-time King. His crimes were notorious and
flagrant; their penalty was written in the books of the law, equally for
all citizens; he must, then, undergo the penalty for his misdeeds.

I, John Lebrenn, add here some further passages from my diary, relating
to the trial, judgment and execution of Louis Capet.

       *       *       *       *       *

JANUARY 15, 1793.--Having heard the defense submitted by Deseze, one of
the attorneys for Louis XVI, the Convention put to a vote this first
question:

"Is Louis Capet guilty of conspiracy against liberty and the nation, and
of assault on the general safety of the State?"

The Assembly contained seven hundred and forty-nine members.

Six hundred and eighty-three replied:

"Yes, the accused is guilty."

The roll-call being completed, the president of the Assembly announced
the decision:

"In the name of the French people, the National Convention declares
Louis Capet guilty of conspiracy against liberty and the nation, and of
assault on the general safety of the State."

The second question was:

"Shall the decision of the National Convention be submitted to
ratification by the people?"

The members who voted for ratification by the people were two hundred
and eighty-one; those against ratification, four hundred and
twenty-three.

The president announced the result of the vote:

"The National Convention declares the judgment rendered on Louis Capet
shall not be sent for ratification to the people."

JANUARY 17, 1793.--To-day and yesterday the sessions of the Convention
were permanent, due to the gravity of the situation. The debate turned
upon the third question:

"What shall be the penalty imposed on Louis XVI?"

I was present at the sessions wherein the elected Representatives of the
people decided the fate of the Frankish monarchy, imposed on Gaul for
fourteen centuries. It was not alone the man, the King, that the
Convention decapitated--it was the most ancient monarchy in Europe. It
was not only the head of Capet that the Republic wished defiantly to
cast at the feet of allied Europe; it was the crown of the last of the
Kings.

It was eight in the evening. In response to their names as the roll was
called the members of the Convention mounted the tribunal one by one,
and in the midst of a solemn silence cast their vote.

This evening, Thursday, at eight o'clock, while throughout the spacious
hall one might have heard a pin drop, Vergniaud announced the result:

"The Assembly consists of seven hundred and forty-nine members; 15 are
absent on committees, 7 because of illness, 1 without cause, censured;
and 5 excused; number remaining, seven hundred and twenty-one.

"Required for an absolute majority, three hundred and sixty-one.

"Members voting for death unconditionally, three hundred and
eighty-seven.

"Members voting for imprisonment, irons, or conditional death, three
hundred and thirty-four.

"In the name of the people and the National Convention, I declare the
penalty of death pronounced against Louis Capet."

JANUARY 19, 1793.--The question put by Mailhe, "Shall there be any
postponement of Louis XVI's execution?" was discussed during the
sessions of the 17th and 18th. At the end of to-day's session, the
president put the question to a vote:

"Shall the execution of Louis Capet be postponed, yes or no?"

The vote resulted: for postponement, three hundred and ten; against,
three hundred and eighty. The postponement was lost. Pale, and with
grief impressed upon his features, Vergniaud again ascended the tribunal
and in a trembling voice announced:

"The National Convention declares:

"Article first.--Louis Capet, last King of France, is guilty of
conspiracy against the liberty of the nation and of assault upon the
general safety of the State.

"Article second.--The National Convention declares that Louis Capet
shall suffer the penalty of death.

"Article third.--Notice of the decree which condemns Louis Capet to
death shall he sent to the Executive Council.

"The Executive Council is charged to notify Louis XVI of the decree
during the day, and to have him executed within twenty-four hours.

"The mayors and municipal officers of Paris shall be enjoined to allow
Louis Capet liberty to communicate with his family, and to call upon a
minister of the denomination he may elect, to attend his last moments."

At three in the morning of Sunday, January 20, the meeting adjourned;
and to cries of "Long live the Nation!" "Long live the Republic!" the
multitude poured out of the galleries.




CHAPTER XIX.

EXECUTION.


Such were the memorable sessions of the National Assembly of the 15th,
17th, 19th and 20th of January, 1793.

Glory to the men of energy, to the inexorable patriots!

       *       *       *       *       *

JANUARY 21, 1793.--The execution of Louis Capet took place to-day,
Monday, the 21st of January, 1793!

My sister and I were present at the death of Louis. A vast throng filled
the Place of the Revolution. The scaffold faced the avenue of the
Elysian Fields, a short distance from the spot occupied by the statue of
Louis XV.

At ten minutes past ten in the morning, a dull rumor, drawing nearer and
nearer, announced the arrival of the condemned. My sister and I were not
far from the scaffold, behind a line of Municipal Guards. We beheld a
two-horse carriage draw up, accompanied by General Santerre and several
officers of his staff. Claude Bernard and James Roux, an ex-priest, the
municipal officers charged with guarding Capet, alighted first from the
carriage, where Louis remained for two minutes' space with his
confessor. Then, with firm tread, and supported by the executioners, he
ascended the steps of the platform. He was clad in grey trousers and a
soft white waistcoat; his purpled face betrayed intense excitement.
Suddenly he stepped to the edge of the scaffold, and cried to the
people:

"Frenchmen, I am innocent--"

At Santerre's command the roll of drums drowned the rest of the speech.
Louis XVI cast a look of rage at the drummers, and cried to them angrily
to desist.

The drumming continued. Louis Capet was turned over to Sampson, the
executioner-in-chief, and his aides. A few seconds later, the
sixty-sixth of these foreign Kings of Gaul had paid the penalty of his
crimes, had expiated the wrongs of the monarchy of which he was the last
incarnation.

The King's head, held up to the people by the headsman, was greeted with
the shouts of the multitude.

No. 155 of Marat's journal terminates its account of the execution of
Capet with the following reflections:

"The head of the tyrant has just fallen under the sword of the law; that
same blow has overthrown the foundation of monarchy among us. I now
believe in the Republic.... Not a voice cried for grace during the
execution; a profound silence reigned about the scaffold. But when the
head of Capet was shown to the people, from all sides rose the cries,
'Long live the Nation! Long live the Republic!' The execution of Louis
XVI is one of those memorable events which mark epochs in the life of
nations. It will have an immense influence on the fate of the despots of
Europe and on those peoples who have as yet not broken their chains."

Robespierre, in a letter to one of his constituents (second trimester,
page 3), penned the following appreciation of the consequences of the
great political occurrence:

"Citizens, the tyrant is fallen under the sword of the law. This great
act of justice has struck consternation to the hearts of the
aristocracy, annihilated the superstition of royalty, and created the
Republic. It imparts a character of grandeur to the Convention, and
makes it worthy the confidence of France. The imposing and majestic
attitude of the people in this solemn hour will cause the tyrants of
earth more terror than even the death of their fellow. A profound
silence surrounded the scaffold up to the moment the head of Louis XVI
fell. That instant, the air shook with the unanimous shout of a hundred
thousand citizens, 'Long live the Republic!' It was not the barbarous
curiosity of men who came to feast their eyes on the death of a
fellow-being; it was the powerful interest of a people, impassioned for
liberty, and assuring itself of the fact that royalty had breathed its
last.... Formerly, when a King died at Versailles, the reign of his
successor was immediately ushered in to the tune of 'The King is dead,
long live the King!' as if to make the nation understand that despotism
was immortal. This time, a whole people, with a sublime instinct,
acclaimed: 'Long live the Republic,' to teach a universe that tyranny
had died with the tyrant."

May the same lot be reserved for all the Kings.




CHAPTER XX.

MARRIAGE OF JOHN LEBRENN.


Under date of January 26, 1793, the diary of John Lebrenn bears the
record, without comment:

"To-day I espoused Charlotte Desmarais."

Despite the circular addressed by advocate Desmarais to his colleagues
in the Convention, and in which he fixed as the date for his daughter's
wedding the day of the tyrant's death, Charlotte, without regard for her
father's very lively disappointment, and unmindful of his reiterated
importunities, would not consent to be married until the 26th of
January. With his habitual calculation, considering the union merely as
a precaution, the lawyer had chosen Robespierre and Marat as witnesses
to the ceremony; those selected by John Lebrenn were Billaud-Varenne and
Legendre. The municipal officer of the Section received the vows of the
young couple in his office on the evening after the Convention session
of January 26. John Lebrenn had several days previously obtained from
his old employer, Master Gervais, the deed of his smithy and the lease
of the house. The preparations, the modest embellishments of his future
home, were finished on the eve of his marriage.

After returning from the offices of the Section, the young couple
received the pledges and felicitations of the witnesses, and presently
were left alone with Madam Desmarais and her husband, who said to John:

"My dear son-in-law, I leave you an instant to go to look up my
daughter's dowry and present it to you."

When Desmarais left the room, his wife addressed her daughter and
new-found son:

"My children, this is the decisive instant. I would rather die than live
any longer with my husband; but I tremble to think of the rage into
which our resolution will throw him. Do not forsake me."

"Dear mother," responded Charlotte, "could you really think that of us?
Is not our life bound up with yours?"

"Nevertheless, if he should oppose our separation? He would perhaps be
in the right, my children?"

"Reassure yourself, dear mother," quoth John in his turn. "In the first
place, the separation will relieve Monsieur Desmarais of one fear, that
of being compromised by his relationship with Monsieur Hubert, your
brother; who, unfortunately, as you tell me, has refused to accept the
proposal made to him in my name."

"Alas, yes; my brother replied that he appreciated your offer, but that
he considered it an act of cowardice to remain passive; he wished to
retain full freedom to combat the Republic."

"Alas," echoed Charlotte, with a sigh, "I deplore uncle's blindness, but
I can not but pay homage to his strength of character."

"True enough, my dear Charlotte, Monsieur Hubert is one of those
adversaries whom one admires while fighting. As I have several times
told your mother, I hoped that struck especially by the attitude of the
people of Paris on the 21st your uncle, who is a man of sense, would
recognize how vain would now be any attempt against the Republic,"
observed John. "In that case, dear mother, Monsieur Desmarais,
heretofore so terrified at the perils to which he believed himself
exposed by his kinship with Monsieur Hubert, will no doubt see in your
determination to leave him nothing but a pledge of his safety for the
future, and will hardly dream of holding you back. At least, that is the
way it appears to me."

At that moment the attorney returned, holding in his hands a little
inlaid casket which he held out to the young artisan with a radiant air,
saying:

"My dear son-in-law, I have found in my strong-box, besides the sum I
mentioned, a hundred louis, which I add to my daughter's dower."

But seeing John Lebrenn repulse the proffered casket, the attorney added
in great surprise: "Come, take the little chest, my dear pupil. It
contains, in fine good louis, the dower I promised you, to which I have
just added two thousand four hundred livres. Moreover, it is understood
that in recompense for the slimness of the dower Charlotte, you, and
your sister will lodge and board with me, without, to put it plainly,
any expense to you. We shall live as one family."

"Citizen Desmarais," replied John, "before accepting the dower which you
offer me and of which I have no need, it is our duty, my wife's and
mine, to inform you of our plans. First of all, I shall continue in my
station as an iron-worker."

"That is admirable, my dear pupil," exclaimed the lawyer with hastily
assumed enthusiasm. "Far from blushing at your condition, far from
seeing in the advantage afforded you by your marriage with my daughter
an opportunity to renounce honest toil and to live in indolence, you
choose to remain a workman. That is indeed admirable!"

"Citizen Desmarais, I hasten to disabuse you of a misunderstanding that
exists between us. Upon mature consideration my wife and I have decided
to dwell in our own house, completely separated from you."

"What do you mean!"

"I mean, Citizen Desmarais, that my former employer has sold me his
establishment. Whence it follows that my labors and the care of my forge
will oblige me, as well as my wife, to live elsewhere than here with
you. I have, in consequence, hired the house previously occupied by my
old master, and this very night my wife and I shall take possession of
our new abode. The question has been considered and settled."

"Aye, father," added Charlotte. "Such is, indeed, our firm resolution."

At these words, pronounced by John Lebrenn and Charlotte in a voice that
admitted of no reply, advocate Desmarais turned livid with rage and
amazement. Forgetting now all his tricks of dissimulation, distracted
with fear, and exasperated by what he took as an indignity on the part
of his daughter and her husband, the lawyer cried to Charlotte, as he
shook with anger and fright:

"Treason! Shameful treason! Heartless, unnatural daughter! This is the
gratitude with which you repay my bounties to you? You would have the
audacity to leave your father's house, would you! And you----" he added,
turning tempestuously upon John Lebrenn, "and you, traitor, how dare
you thus abuse my confidence, my generosity?"

"Not another word in that tone, Citizen Desmarais," interposed John. "Do
not oblige me to forget the respect I owe the father of my wife; do not
oblige me to tell you for what reasons your daughter--and her
mother--have resolved to fix their abode elsewhere than with you."

"My wife! She also--would dare----" cried the lawyer, his rage
redoubling till it almost choked him.

"Yes, monsieur, I also wish to leave you," replied Madam Desmarais. "You
have treated me most cruelly, because my unhappy brother, a proscript
and a fugitive, came to ask of you a few hours' shelter. You denounced
me to the commissioner of our Section, adjured him to hale me away as a
prisoner. You have even gone so far as to declare to me, 'If it were
necessary, madam, in order to save my life, to send you to the
scaffold--I would not hesitate an instant. Just now I must roar with the
tigers; but then I should become a tiger.'"

"Hold your tongue!" shrieked the advocate, in a frenzy. "Do you wish to
get my head cut off, gabbling like that before this man who perhaps
awaits but the moment to settle me? Serpent that he is, whom I have
warmed in my bosom!"

"Citizen Desmarais," replied Lebrenn, half in pity, half in disgust, "it
depends upon you alone to put an end to your alarms, to the terrors by
which you are assailed and of which those about you are the first
victims. Cease to display in exaggerated form opinions which are at
fisticuffs with your real belief. Renounce your public career. The
weakness of your character, the uneasiness of your conscience, evoke
fantasms before your eyes."

"It is a plot against my life!" continued Desmarais wildly. "They want
to draw upon my head the fury of the Jacobins, and have me packed off to
the scaffold. They want to be rid of me so that my dutiful daughter and
son-in-law may play ducks and drakes with my fortune! But the old fox
knows the trap! I shall stay at the Convention. My daughter and
son-in-law may take themselves off, if they so wish; but as for you,
Citizeness Desmarais, you shall not leave this house. The wife,
according to the law, is bound to reside at the home of her husband."

"I will live with you no longer," resolutely replied Madam Desmarais. "A
hundred times rather die!"

"Once would suffice, worthy wife! And it would be good riddance to a
most abominable burden."

"Come, mother," said Charlotte, wroth at her father's brutal language.
"Come. You shall not remain here another instant."

"Your mother shall stop where she is," cried the lawyer threateningly.
"As for you, my daughter--as for you, my son-in-law--I shall denounce
your execrable complot to my friends of the mad-men's party, to Hebert,
to James Roux the disfrocked priest, to Varlet. Get you hence--I drive
you from my house." Then seizing his wife by the arm, Desmarais added,
"But not you. You stay!"

"You will please to allow my mother full control over her own actions,
Citizen Desmarais," said Lebrenn calmly, and mastering his indignation.
"Unhand her!"

"Get out of here, scoundrel!" retorted the attorney, still holding his
wife by the wrist. "Get out of here, at once!"

"For the last time, Citizen Desmarais," quoth John Lebrenn. "Allow Madam
Desmarais to follow her daughter, as is her desire. My patience is at an
end, and I can not much longer tolerate the brutality I see here."

"Would you have the boldness to raise your hand against me, wretch!"
replied the advocate, foaming with rage, and roughly wrenching his
wife's arm. "Malediction on you both."

"Aye, I shall succor your wife from your wretched treatment," John
answered; and seizing the lawyer's wrist with his iron hand as if in a
vise, he forced the attorney to release his almost fainting spouse. She,
on her part, made all haste to leave the now intolerable presence of her
husband, and, supported by Charlotte, disappeared into the next room.

As John left the parlor to rejoin his bride and his second mother,
advocate Desmarais, hiding his face in his hands, sank into an
arm-chair, crying:

"Abandoned by wife, abandoned by daughter! Henceforth I am condemned to
live alone!"




CHAPTER XXI.

A LOVE FROM THE GRAVE.


His marriage with Charlotte achieved, John Lebrenn, his sister, his wife
and Madam Desmarais took up their abode in the modest dwelling on Anjou
Street. Here also was Lebrenn's smithy, now for two months transformed
into an armorer's shop, for he had received an order for guns for the
volunteers, and, with his companions, set about the work with a will.

On the evening of May the 30th, in the year of his marriage, Lebrenn was
looking over the newspapers while he rested from the heavy labors of the
day, when his wife, sad and engrossed, came to him, saying to herself:

"No--painful though the confidence be, my last talk with the poor child,
and my tender attachment for Victoria, will not permit me to postpone
it--" Then, aloud to her husband, she began:

"I have for long hesitated, my friend, over the communication I am about
to make to you. But the interest I feel in Victoria compels me to-day to
speak. Closer knowledge of your sister's character has shown me, my
friend, that you do not over-state when you say that, despite the
youthful degradation she perforce underwent, her heart has remained
pure. And yet I very wrongly harbored an evil thought against her. Now
I have the proof of my mistake. I attributed to jealousy the change we
noticed coming over her. I thought to myself that Victoria, used to
concentrate upon you all her tenderness, to share your life, might feel
toward me that sort of sisterly jealousy which the best and bravest of
sisters feel in spite of themselves toward the wife of an idolized
brother. I blush for my error, my friend, but still it was pardonable.
Do you recall that shortly after our wedding we began to remark in your
sister a growing sadness and taciturnity? Did she not seem by turns
happy and saddened at our intimacy? Has she not appeared almost
continuously under the empire of some secret brooding?"

"True; for long I have noticed in Victoria a sort of capricious
changefulness of spirit which contrasted strongly with her ordinary
equability. Thus, after having taken upon herself the task of evening
lessons for our three apprentice boys and little Oliver, the orphan lad
whom we took in, who, in spite of his eighteen years, knows no more than
the younger boys, my sister suddenly declared she was going to stop the
lessons and leave Paris; and without a word of explanation, at that."

"You remember, John, how bitter were her farewells at leaving us?"

"Happily, at the end of barely a week, Victoria returned, and--strange
contradiction--insisted upon resuming her functions as school mistress."

"But her sadness, her sighs, the decline of her health proved only too
well the persistence of her secret anguish. I said to myself, 'The
courageous woman is fighting with all her might against her sisterly
jealousy. In vain she tried to flee. Drawn again to us by her
tenderness for John, she prefers to live with us and suffer.' But no, my
friend, I was in error. I am now positive of it."

"To what cause, then, do you attribute Victoria's deep dejection and
chagrin?"

"I shall surprise you, my friend, in revealing the burden--it is love!"

Mute with astonishment, John looked at his wife at first without
answering her. Then, sadly smiling, and shaking his head incredulously,
he said:

"Charlotte, you mistake. Victoria has had but one love in her life. He
whom she loved to distraction is dead. She will be faithful to that
flame to the tomb."

"You related to me the sad story of Victoria and Maurice, the young
sergeant in the French Guards, killed by his disgraceful punishment.
But, recall to mind that two or three days after our marriage, when you
presented Oliver and the three apprentices, whom she wished to teach to
read, to her, she suddenly shuddered, and cried as in great
bewilderment--'Good God! Is it a vision, or is it a specter? 'Tis he,
'tis Maurice I see again!'"

"I remember the circumstance. And instantly coming to herself, Victoria
told us she had had a spell of dizziness; but said no more on the
subject."

"So, noticing her embarrassment, her downheartedness, we did not insist
on knowing from her the real cause of so strange an incident; but a few
days after this first meeting with Oliver, a remarkable change began to
manifest itself in your sister's manner."

"That is all true; but what do you conclude from it?"

"I conclude, my friend, that it was in amazement at something in
Oliver's appearance that your sister uttered the wandering words which
startled us. I now believe the words expressed the surprise, mingled
with affright, into which she was thrown by the striking resemblance
between Oliver and Sergeant Maurice. And finally, the resemblance is
explained by what I have discovered;--Oliver is Maurice's brother!"

"Strange, strange indeed!" muttered John. "But tell me, how did you come
by the discovery?"

"As you know, we had to bring Oliver into the house, so as to have him
close by us, as he is suffering from some languorous malady which
renders him unable, despite his courage and willingness, to work in the
shop. The unhappy boy, undermined by a slow fever, is in a deplorable
state of weakness."

"The physician attributes it to his rapid growth. Oliver is, in fact,
hardly eighteen. He has grown fast lately; this would explain his
temporary lassitude."

"The physician, it seems to me, is deceived there. I shall tell you why,
my friend. Just now, in coming from the shop, I crossed the garden. I
saw Oliver seated under the yoke-elm bower, apparently sunk in mournful
revery. His eye was fixed, his face bathed in tears. On seeing me he
furtively tried to wipe his eyes. His features revealed mental
suffering; it was easy to see that all was not physical in his malady.
'Oliver,' I said, seating myself close beside him, 'the cause of your
illness is not the one the doctor gives. You feel some great
disappointment, you hide it from us--that is wrong. My husband cares for
you like a father, why do you not confide your trouble to him?' He
seemed as much pained as surprised at my penetration; the embarrassed
answers he gave were not sincere. He attributed his sorrow to the
loneliness he felt in being left an orphan, without any relatives."

"Such a reply from Oliver surprises me. Has he not often shown by his
manner the most touching recognition of our kindnesses toward him? We
make him forget, he says, the unhappiness of his orphanhood; we surround
him with a family's attention."

"No doubt he was hiding the truth from me, my friend. Then I spoke to
him of the family he mourned. He eagerly seized upon the topic, as if
glad of an avenue of escape from the new questions he feared I would put
to him. He gave me many details of his parents. I learned that his
furthest memories went back only ten or twelve years, when he was a boy
of six or seven. He remembered that his brother Maurice wore the uniform
of the French Guards, and came often to see their mother, a poor
lace-weaver."

"There can no longer be any doubt!" cried Lebrenn, greatly amazed. "And
indeed, by dint of much turning about of my early memories, which are
greatly confused as I was then only a child, meseems that Sergeant
Maurice, whom I saw often at the house as my sister's betrothed, did, in
fact, resemble Oliver."

"So, my friend, what is there astonishing in the fact that Victoria,
finding again, so to speak, Maurice in his younger brother, should yield
despite herself to the reawakening of a sentiment which always ruled her
so strongly? A strange sentiment, against which Victoria rebels,
although in vain, for a thousand reasons, among them the difference in
years between herself and Oliver. Victoria, although still young and in
the ripeness of her beauty, might be his mother. The slow malady which
is gnawing at Oliver's heart has no other cause than a secret and mad
love for our sister Victoria."

These last words of Charlotte's, recalling to him many circumstances
previously insignificant, forced conviction upon Lebrenn. He felt as one
crushed, under the weight of the revelation, and presaging its sad
consequences, cried, "Charlotte, Charlotte, what sorrows I foresee--if
your suspicions are well founded! And what is worse, I believe you speak
sooth."

"My friend, my suspicions are but too well founded. They explain the
sadness of our poor sister; they explain her heart's anguish, the cause
of which has eluded us. Alas, her grief arises from the conflict between
her reason and this strange passion, so incomprehensible at first
glance. And still, one can see how her love for Maurice, lasting beyond
the grave, would predispose her toward a similar sentiment for his
brother, who reflects so perfect an image of the departed. On the other
hand, no more is it really strange that Oliver, drawn to your sister by
her many proofs of interest in him, by her beauty, by the loftiness of
her spirit and the nobility of her character, should end in becoming
seriously enamored of her. His love, which seeks to hide itself from all
eyes, and which hardly dares acknowledge itself, thinking it could never
be returned, will consume him, and perhaps carry him to the grave."

John was silent for some moments. "The affair is so delicate," he said
at length, "that I would not venture upon taking it up with Victoria,
confident though I am of her attachment to me. We must, then, see to
Oliver, and seek to snatch him from his wild passion. I shall have to
hasten into execution a project I had already formed for his future.
Everything about the boy seems to indicate military inclinations. A long
time before his illness I observed during the Section drills not only
his aptitude in the handling of arms, but with what insight he seemed to
anticipate, as it were, the manoeuvres, and with what precision he
executed them."

"Indeed, you have often told me of it, my friend. There are in Oliver,
you say, the makings of an officer."

"I wished to wait, before proposing to him to enrol, until his health
was completely restored. But, although his convalescence must, indeed,
be allowed time for, I think I shall now push forward his engagement in
whatever corps of the army is most to his liking. The distractions of
the trip to join his regiment, the change of scene, the soldier's life,
will, I doubt not, by awakening in Oliver his martial talents, exercise
a salutary influence over his health. He will feel his mind grow
gradually calmer in the measure that he finds himself further and
further removed from Victoria. And lastly, she, no longer having Oliver
daily before her, will succeed, I hope, in mastering this fatal love.
'Twould be a happy solution."

The conversation of John and his wife was broken in upon by the entrance
of Madam Desmarais. The lady seemed quite uneasy, and said to her
son-in-law in alarm:

"My God! What is going on in Paris to-night? They are beating the
assembly! The streets are all excitement and hubbub. I was hardly able
to get back home, for the crowds. Have we another _day_ to fear?"

"According to what you say, dear mother, there probably will be a _day_
to-morrow," replied John, smiling. "But it will be as peaceful as it
will be imposing, and will, I hope, insure the safety of the Republic."

"May God hear you, my dear John. I know what faith one can place in your
words. Nevertheless, I can not help but tremble when I think of your
being engaged in these struggles, which may at any time end in
massacre."

Gertrude, the old servant of the family, who had followed Madam
Desmarais and her daughter to their new dwelling, just then entered and
said to John: "Monsieur, your foreman Castillon is in the entry. He
wishes me to tell you he would like to speak with you."

"Go and tell him he may come in, my good Gertrude."

"Charlotte and I will leave you," said Madam Desmarais. "If you go out,
John, come and see us before you leave."

"Certainly, dear mother." Then addressing his wife, John added,
significantly, "If you see Victoria before I do, keep silence on the
subject of our talk."

"Speaking of Victoria, my children, I must say that the change in her
health seems serious."

"We share your fears, good mother. Without a doubt, Victoria is
suffering from some secret sorrow. But you know what reserve we must
proceed with if we wish to win our sister's confidence. Depend upon us,
mother, and until John or I have seen you, say nothing to Victoria which
could lead her to suppose that we have remarked the change which
afflicts us--alas, with all too much cause."

"You may count upon my discretion," replied Madam Desmarais. She and her
daughter then left the room, and soon Castillon, foreman to John
Lebrenn, was engaged in conversation with his master.




CHAPTER XXII.

MASTER AND FOREMAN.


The foreman of John Lebrenn's iron works, a stalwart smith of about the
same age as his master, was splendidly typical of the republican
workingman of the time. Like most of the proletarians of his day,
Castillon had embraced revolutionary ideas more by instinct than by
reason. In common with his brother workmen, he desired equality before
the law, and common possession of the tools of production as a means of
escape from bourgeois exploitation. A high-minded patriot, conscious of
his rights and still more conscious of his civic duties; an honest man
in the fullest sense of the word, rigorous of conduct, and despite his
complete lack of education, endowed with a lively intelligence; an
excellent workman at his trade, Castillon often regretted not being able
to go to war. He was a true child of Paris, open, joyous and determined
of character, joining to solid qualities of heart a spirit full of go
and vivacity, and often of an original turn. Much attached to the young
artisan, who had worked more than ten years at the forge beside him,
John Lebrenn appreciated his foreman as he deserved, and exercised over
him a command founded on rectitude of principle, mature judgment, and a
degree of education only too rare among his brothers of the people.
Master and foreman thee-and-thoued each other like old friends, less in
obedience to the general habit of the time than as the result of old
reciprocal affection, and long community of labor.

"Ah, John, I would not have disturbed you," said Castillon, as he
entered the room. "You were in conversation with your wife and her
mother--perhaps I come at the wrong time?"

"You are always welcome, my good Castillon. Be seated. What's afoot?"

"Such as you see me, my friend, I come as an ambassador--but without
emoluments. I shall not break the treasury of the Republic."

"The ambassador of our comrades, no doubt; and what is the text of your
embassy?"

"This: For a fortnight we have none of us had the time to go to our
Section meetings, we had to finish the order of guns and muskets for the
nation; for that is sacred, it comes first before everything. To forge
arms for our brothers at the front! Ah! by my pipe, they will be proud
and happy, down there, to be able to slap the Prussians!"

"Patience, Castillon, our day will come."

"Patience let it be. But it is beggarly hard to be able only to assemble
and polish up for others these fine five-foot clarinets, on which one
would so love to play the _Ca Ira_, while we spat our lead at the
Prussians; and It will come, by my pipe, It will! But what would you? We
are like the poor workpeople of the silk factories of Lyons and Tours,
who see the holy bourgeois sporting the beautiful goods they themselves
have woven! So you see, we could not go to our Section meetings, since
we worked from six in the morning till twelve at night, without
stopping. And in this labor for the country you set us the example, for
if you were before us in the shop, old fellow, you left it after us."

"That was my duty; I demanded great efforts of you in the name of the
Republic, I should share your fatigues."

"Hold, John. You are what we may call a man; a worthy man."

"Come, we are too old friends to be bandying compliments."

"Call it what you like, I repeat that you are a worthy man. Look--what
did you say to us when you bought the place of our old master, Goodman
Gervais? 'Here we are, a score of good fellows, working as one family
like good republicans. Let us take count: The shop brings in, or should
bring in, in income, so much. Good. From this income we must first take
out the sum I must annually pay to Master Gervais, and at the end of ten
years the establishment will belong to us. Up till then, we shall share
the proceeds proportionately to the hours of labor put in by each of us.
My wife, who keeps our books and manages the treasury, will have her
share of the proceeds, like us.' It was in this fashion that you spoke
to us, John. It was in your power, on becoming our employer, to exploit
us, as the bourgeois do. But you, you shared with us as brothers, as
good comrades. Ah, and now, to return to the purpose of my mission, for
I have traveled far from it, here is the business. It is, as you see, a
fortnight since we have been able to go either to our Sections or to the
Jacobins or the Cordeliers, to keep track of events. Then, to-night,
they beat the assembly. We knew vaguely, from one side and another,
that something was simmering; but what it was that was simmering, and
what it was simmering for--that was the rub! We could have learned by
going to our Sections, but we were sworn, due to the urgency of our
task, never to leave the shop before midnight, when work was stopped.
Nevertheless, we were restless over what was taking place this evening
in Paris. We asked ourselves whether we ought not to drop work anyhow,
and go and lend a hand to our brothers, when they beat the assembly. So
that finally my comrades sent me to you, John, to ask whether we should
stick to the shop, or go to our Sections. Decide the question; we shall
follow your advice."

"My advice is that we should work still more diligently to-night, for
to-morrow and perhaps day after to-morrow we may have to go out in the
street to hold a demonstration, a great demonstration."

"Let's get busy!" exclaimed Castillon, his face shining with ardor. "We
have perhaps to exterminate a new intrigue of Pitt and Coburg, or a
little scheme of the ex-nobles and the skull-caps? By my pipe, that's
fine. And, _ca ira_; I have just finished a love of a musket; maybe I
can test it on the blacks or the whites, on the Jesuits, their laymen,
and the nobles! What an opportunity!"

"You will not have that sad chance."

"What, to mow down the enemies of the Republic, you call that a sad
chance? You, my old fellow?"

"Civil war is always a sad thing, my friend. And it is death to the soul
when it must resign itself to take up arms against our brothers, against
the sons of our common mother, the nation."

"Ah, but tell me, friend John, did not these brigands pull sweet faces
and send the blue-bonnets to ambush and cannonade the patriots on the
14th of July, on the 5th and 6th of October, on the day of the Field of
Mars, on the 10th of August, and everywhere, and all the time? The
aristocrats are our enemies."

"If our adversaries are strangers to the sentiment of brotherhood, must
we then imitate them, my friend? In civil war either chance is cause for
mourning--victory or defeat."

"Come, John, we shall never agree on that. As to me, I know but one
motto--'To a good cat, a good rat,' or if you like it better, 'An eye
for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,' as they said of old. That's why, in
September, we did jolly well to purge the prisons, I'm thinking."

"If you are set on recalling dates, my good comrade, speak of the great
days of July 14 and August 10. Let us combat abuse, and be indulgent
toward individuals. We are on the eve of a very grave crisis. To-morrow
the whole people will be in the public place in arms, not to fight--God
be thanked!--but to demonstrate in the name of its rights, in its
fullness and power and sovereign might. All must bow before the people."

"Good! I know it, old friend. A manifestation is afoot like that of the
20th of June of last year, when we went to say to Capet, full in his
face, 'Here, my man, you are the hereditary guardian of the nation! It
has given you for your pains forty million pledges. Excuse yourself! you
betray the nation, in place of serving it. Attention to the command, my
man. If you do not walk straight, we shall sack you, if we don't do
worse!' Capet didn't walk straight; on the contrary; accordingly, we
both sacked him and did worse besides, as was just; we shaved him."

"To-morrow's manifestation should be as peaceable as that of the 20th of
June."

"And for what purpose is the demonstration? It is good to know the
reasons for it."

"I shall tell you, along with your comrades. Let us go down to the shop.
It is nine o'clock, and while we work we shall talk. I shall bring with
me certain papers which will be necessary to give you the full lay of
the land," added John, taking several written sheets in a portfolio from
the bureau. "Return to our comrades, I shall soon join you."

"So be it, my old friend, we await you, big and little, journeymen and
apprentices. Speaking of apprentices, how is Oliver? We have not seen
him to-day. Poor boy, do you know he seems to be in a bad way? He is so
weak he can hardly drag himself along. And yet he does not lack courage!
He haunts the workshop like a lost soul, so great is his chagrin at
seeing us at work while he remains idle against his will. Day before
yesterday he tried to fit in a gunlock, a girl's work, but, bah! almost
at once his weakness seized him, and we had barely time to open our arms
to catch him and carry him out to the garden. He had fainted outright."

"We shall talk again of the good boy. Perhaps I shall have to beg you to
do him a service."

"You have but to speak. We all love Oliver in the shop, and I am like
the rest."

"Thanks, Castillon. I knew I could count on you." And ringing the bell,
John added: "I have two words to say to Gertrude before joining our
friends in the smithy; you shall not have long to await me."

Castillon left, and Gertrude having come in in response to the bell,
John said to her:

"Is my sister in her room?"

"No, monsieur, she went out two hours ago, saying that perhaps she might
not be back for supper. Poor mademoiselle! You really ought, Monsieur
John, to consult Oliver's physician about her."

"Do you know where the boy is?"

"He went up to his room at sundown; he was very tired, he said,
complained of a fever, and shivered with the cold. He asked me to give
him some coals in a chafing dish to keep his medicine warm, which I did
immediately."

"Go, Gertrude, please, and see how he is, and whether he wants for
anything," replied Lebrenn; and to himself he continued, "Ah, what
sorrows I foresee if, as Charlotte supposes and as I have every reason
to fear, Victoria loves Oliver, and he feels for her a mad passion, a
fatal love barren of hope. My sister's past, her betrothal to the poor
boy's brother, condemn her never to marry him. The difference of age
would not in itself constitute any obstacle, but my sister is of too
dignified and firm a mold not to resign herself to the cruel position in
which the memory of Maurice has placed her, even should the resignation
carry her to the grave." And thoughtfully John mused on: "The departure
of Oliver can alone prevent these woes; the matter must be hastened
through."

At that moment Gertrude broke in, saying to John in a mysterious, almost
frightened air:

"Ah! monsieur, something strange--"

"What is it, Gertrude?"

"On the way up to poor Oliver, I had to pass by Mademoiselle Victoria's
door, and I heard the sound of footsteps within."

"My sister did not go out, then?"

"Pardon me, monsieur; I saw mademoiselle leave the house, with my own
eyes, and she gave me the key of her room."

"That is truly strange! Who then can be there?"

"No one, monsieur, for your sister does not receive a soul. That is why
the sound of steps astonished me so!"

"Explain yourself more clearly!"

"I mean I heard, or thought I heard, someone walking in mademoiselle's
chamber. It could not be you, monsieur, because you are here. It could
be neither madam nor her mother, for I had just seen them on the first
floor as I went up to mademoiselle's; so I said to myself, 'Perhaps it
is some rogue who has broken in!' Then I rapped at the door and called,
'Mademoiselle, are you there?' No answer. I rapped again; no answer. I
said to myself, 'It surely must be some rascal or other!' I came down in
haste to get the key; risking whatever might come, I opened the door,
and, 'pon my faith----"

"That is what you should have done first thing. The mystery would have
been solved at once. Whom did you find?"

"No one--absolutely no one. Everything was in good order, as it always
is in mademoiselle's room. Her work table and her other little writing
table were in their accustomed place, near the dormer window that looks
on the garden, and as it was open I peeped out. I saw neither ladder nor
cord which could have served anyone either for entry or escape. I
looked under the bed, I opened the door of the closet--no one! Then I
said to myself--"

"Whence it follows, my good Gertrude, that you thought you heard
footsteps in my sister's room and that you were mistaken, that's all.
Now tell me, how did you find Oliver?"

"When I knocked at his door, the young man was sound asleep, for he did
not hear me at first."

"So much the better. If he sleeps deep it is a happy symptom. His fever
has gone."

"I asked him through the door how he was, and whether he needed
anything. He told me he had lain down after taking his hot drink, and
that he had slept till I woke him; that he felt better, and that he
hoped to pass a good night. Thereupon he wished me good-even."

"Poor boy--may his hope of rest be realized. Tell my wife, Gertrude,
that I am going out to the shop, and not to be worried at my absence. I
shall come in for supper at ten o'clock as usual."

So saying, John passed out of the parlor and went to join his comrades
in the smithy.




CHAPTER XXIII.

TO THE WORKMAN THE TOOL.


The factory of implements of war, established by John Lebrenn in his
iron works, took the toil of twenty workmen. All--apprentices, old men,
young men--vied with one another in patriotic ardor in the
accomplishment of their task. They felt that this was no ordinary labor.
They were conscious of serving the Republic, and lavished their skill on
the arms destined for the patriots at the front. Accordingly, with what
eagerness did not these artisans forge, beat, or file the iron, lighted
here by a smoky lamp against the wall, there by the reverberating glow
of the furnace. The ringing cadence of the hammers on the anvils was
often accompanied by the popular songs of the period chanted in chorus
by the workmen's sturdy voices. Most oft it was the Marseillaise, the
Carmagnole, or the famous _Ca Ira_, whose brief and rapid rythm seemed
to beat the "Charge!"

Songs and labors both stopped short at the entrance of John Lebrenn.
Castillon had notified the shop a few minutes before that 'friend John,'
as they cordially called him, was coming to post them on the events of
the coming day, and to supply the information of which they had for some
time been deprived.

"Citizens," said Castillon when he saw Lebrenn, "I rise to a motion! In
order to lose as little time as possible, and in order to hear friend
John without halting the work, let us set aside for an hour our hammers
and files, and put in the time fitting or polishing our pieces. That
will make practically no noise, and in this way we shall not be idling,
and still can hear friend John in comfort."

"The motion is carried!" cried the workmen. In a few moments the bustle,
consequent on the change of occupations, was over, and silence fell on
the shop. John Lebrenn took his accustomed place, and speaking to
several by name, thus addressed his companions:

"Brothers, we are on the eve of a great day, as beautiful, as decisive,
as those of July 14 and August 10. This day will save, I hope, the
Revolution, the Republic, and France, now more seriously threatened than
ever. And moreover, it is also my firm hope that not a drop of blood
will be shed. The law and the national Representatives will be
respected, the people will know how to rise to the grandeur of its
mission and overcome its adversaries no longer by force of arms, but by
its moral influence. My language surprises you, men of action that you
are."

"My faith, yes, friend John. But after all, if one can win without a
fight, that is so much gained. It makes for peace."

"The victory will only be the purer for it. But, in order that you may
understand the significance of the events now on the threshold, we must
first take up those which have preceded. You know, my friends, and it is
one of the greatest misfortunes of the times, that the Convention chosen
by the people to proclaim the Republic and to arraign and judge Louis
Capet has been, from the beginning of its existence, divided by party
rivalries. The party leaders, the Mountainists, the Moderates, or the
Girondins, are all more or less guilty of the same fault, I ought to say
the same crime; for, forgetting the public weal, or confounding it with
their own personalities, they have lost precious time reciprocally
accusing one another of treason. Thus Capet's trial was dragged out over
four months. The new Constitution is hardly drafted. National education
is as yet but a project. Finally, if they have accepted the compulsory
tax of a thousand million on the rich, and have established a maximum of
wealth, we still await the laws to complete the emancipation of the
proletariat by decreeing the right to the common possession of the
instruments of production, for all citizens, male and female."

"We agree with you, friend John. The bourgeoisie has gotten its part of
the Revolution, namely, justice; but Jacques Bonhomme has still the half
of his to get. He has won political rights, universal suffrage, and the
Republic--that is good, it is something, but it is not all. One must eat
to live, and in order to eat one must have at his disposal either work
or the tool with which to produce the necessaries of life. To the
peasant the land, to the workman the tool. To each his part in the
common property."

"Whose the fault, my friends, if our legitimate hopes have not been
fulfilled?"

"By my pipe, friend John, the fault is in the delays of the Convention;
that is clear as day."

"Whence it follows, that if we had chosen better Representatives we
would never have had to suffer the delays which now bear so harmfully
upon us. If the Convention has not up to now completed the emancipation
of us proletarians, the fault lies with our lack of discernment in
choosing our Representatives. You follow my reasoning? Now let us come
to the conclusion."

"In fact, that is true enough, friend John. But, after all, if we made a
bad choice, on whom can it be blamed?"

"On our inexperience, my friends; an inexperience entirely natural, for
we are still _apprentices_ in the exercise of our political rights. But
experience will teach us how to serve ourselves better with the
sovereign instrument over which we dispose; we shall obtain by the votes
of our Representatives everything that we can legitimately claim and
demand. Are we proletarians not, after all, the vast majority of the
country? Let us then know how to make a better choice for the Assembly
which will succeed the Convention, and our freedom will be complete.
Does that mean, however, that the Convention does not count within its
ranks some true friends of the people? That would be a slander on it;
but these, Robespierre, St. Just, Danton and the other Jacobins, are
unfortunately in the minority. The Girondins, who control the majority,
are incapable of dissipating the perils which now stare the Republic in
the face."

"An idea, friend John! How if we invited the Girondins to take a little
visit down there to see how their friends Pitt and Coburg were getting
along? If they don't accept, we march in force upon the Convention, sort
the goats from the sheep, purge the flock of the goats, and then--.
Stern diseases need stern remedies!"

"Then, my friend Castillon, the sovereignty of the people one and
indivisible would be violated in the person of its Girondist
Representatives. For these, no less than the Mountainists, are sacred by
virtue of their popular election. Their inviolability covers them so
long as there exists against them no proof of overt treason. We shall
not step out of the just path. What must be done to save the Republic
without violence, without illegality, without an assault on the
sovereignty of the people, is to obtain from the Girondins, voluntarily,
an abandonment of their power to the Jacobins."

"But how can that be done?"

"By using our right of assemblage and petition, by making the Convention
hear the voice of the people, of Paris, and of all France. And, I call
God to witness, that voice will be heard! The most refractory of our
Representatives will be forced to obey."

"Bravo! Tell us some more!"

"Here, comrades, is what occurred yesterday, May 29. The Section of the
Cite, through the organ of its president Dobsen, issued an appeal to the
other forty-seven Sections of Paris, inviting them each to send two
delegates to the electoral club sitting at the Bishopric. These
delegates, clad by the Sections with full power for the common safety,
are to act in concert. The call of the Cite has been heeded, and to-day
these ninety-six commissioners of the Sections have named a superior
committee of nine. This committee has resolved as follows:

"To-morrow, in order to establish the legality of the power with which
the Sections have invested it, the committee will repair to the City
Hall, declare its powers, and dismiss (but only for form's sake) the
Municipal Council, whose authority exists only at the will of the
Sections. This done, the Municipal Council will be reinstated in its
functions, as it is composed of good patriots. The directorate of the
department, on its part, being with the Sections, will call upon the
officers of the Commune to assemble at the City Hall to-morrow and meet
with the Municipal Council to the end of consulting, if need be, on
matters of general security. Thus, to-morrow, at daybreak, all the
Sections will assemble, with their cannon; that is to say, all Paris
will be afoot, armed, not to fight, but to demonstrate, calm and
dignifiedly, garbed imposingly in its power and sovereignty."

"I understand, friend John, that the ex-nobles still carry, even in
tranquil times, their rapiers at their sides. It is 'part of their
costume,' they say. Well, by my pipe, on these grand occasions, and
without meaning to fight, the people shall put on _its_ Sunday best, and
march with pike-staves and cannon! That will be its ceremonial costume!"

"You have said it, friend Castillon. The ex-gentleman is not complete
without his sword beside him--it is his symbol of oppression. The
patriot is not complete without the pike in his hand, his symbol of
resistance to oppression. To-morrow, then, when the Sections are
peacefully assembled, in their ceremonial costume, as you said,
Castillon, Citizen Rousselin, the spokesman of the deputation of the
forty-eight Sections of Paris, and L'Huillier, in the name of the
directorate of the department of Paris, will read at the bar of the
Convention the petitions borne by the delegates of the Sections."

"Now, friend John, I understand the affair," returned Castillon. "We go
say to the Girondins: 'Look you, citizens, we are here, a hundred
thousand good patriots of Paris; and down there, in the country, other
hundreds of thousands of good patriots, all convinced, like us, that you
have not enough hair on your eyebrows to save the Republic. That is
settled! We have the numbers, the force and the cannon for you, but
these numbers, this force, these cannon we do not want to use. Only we
say to you, in the name of the country: Citizen Girondins, when your
loins are not strong enough to bear the burden, leave it to others more
robust. Come, make yourselves scarce!'"

"You speak words of gold, my good Castillon. Yes, in all probability,
such will be the consequences of to-morrow's program. The majority of
the Convention--a majority which is often vacillating and undecided, but
which has so far supported the Girondins--will, struck with this
imposing manifestation, this calm, dignified, legal attitude of the
people, and yielding to the pressure of public opinion, throw off the
Girondin influence which dominates it, and join forces with the
Jacobins, who will thus become masters of the situation. Then, my
friends, be sure of it, whatever the allied monarchs of Europe may do,
whatever the plots of the royalists and priests, the Republic, the
Revolution, France, will be saved without the sovereignty of the people
having been violated in the person of a single one of its
Representatives in the Commune or the Convention, even of those most
opposed to new ideas; and without the stigma of bloodshed."

All at once John Lebrenn's wife dashed into the workshop. She was pale
and trembling, and called in tones of terror:

"John, my friend, come at once! What a misfortune!"

"Charlotte, you frighten me," cried Lebrenn, hastening to his wife's
side. "Heavens, what has happened?"

"Come, come, in haste."

"Citizeness Lebrenn, do you need us?" called Castillon, as much moved as
his comrades at the anxiety depicted on the young woman's face.
"Speak--here we are, at your service."

"Thank you all, my friends, thank you. Alas! There is no remedy for the
grief which has smitten us," replied Charlotte. And taking the arm of
her husband, who grew every instant more uneasy, she dragged him out of
the shop and towards their dwelling.




CHAPTER XXIV.

LOST AGAIN.


While John Lebrenn was enlightening his companions on the probable
events of the coming day, Victoria, returning home close on half past
nine, had gone up to her room. Setting the lamp on the table, she took
off her street cloak and sat down, sad and weary. Her head fell between
her hands. Suddenly her glance rested on a sheet of paper, placed
conspicuously in the center of the table, and the young woman read,
almost mechanically, these lines, traced in Oliver's still inexpert
hand:

     In daring to write you this letter, I put to use the little that I
     know, and which I owe to your generosity. You had pity on me, a
     poor orphan, you had compassion upon my ignorance. Thanks to you I
     can read, and form the letters. Thanks be to God, for at least I am
     able to write you what I would never have dared to tell you, for
     fear of incurring your anger or contempt. But at this hour what
     have I to fear?

     What a change has come over me! A moment ago my hand trembled that
     I could not write, at the mere thought of acknowledging that I love
     you passionately. Now it seems to me that this acknowledgment will
     cause you neither contempt nor anger, for it is a sincere one.

     You will not love me, you can never love me, because I am not
     worthy of you, and for that I am too young--I am a child, as you so
     often told me. I can not hope to win your affection.

     This evening, about eight, I saw you go out. I was glad of it. I
     preferred to know that you were not here, and that I could thus in
     your absence place this letter on your table, to be read by you on
     your return.

     I double-locked myself in. I looked at the roof gutter. The passage
     seemed practicable. To assure myself, I went as far as your window.
     It was open. I saw your table, your work-basket, your books. Ah,
     how I wept.

     On returning to my chamber I began writing you this letter. I went
     at once to place it on your table, and then, thanks to some
     charcoal I have procured, I shall--put an end--to my existence--

"The poor child!" exclaimed Victoria, throwing the letter far from her;
and rising, pale with apprehension, she ran to Oliver's door, crying
aloud for help as she went. But in vain she beat on the panels and
sought to force an entrance. Gertrude, Madam Lebrenn and her mother
hastened up at Victoria's summons. The latter's presence of mind was
only increased by the impending danger; failing in all her attempts to
break down the door, she returned to her own room, adventured the narrow
gutter which had served Oliver for a pathway, and arrived thus before
the window of his garret chamber. There it was but the work of a minute
to break one of the little panes, snap back the catch, leap into the
room, and unfasten the locked door from within. Immediately, assisted by
Madam Desmarais, Charlotte and Gertrude, she hastened to take the first
steps for the resuscitation of the unfortunate boy stretched on the
couch. The apprentice no longer gave any signs of life. But soon the
pure air, rushing in by the now opened door and window, dispelled the
deadly fumes of the charcoal. Oliver's breast heaved; he drew a faint
breath. Victoria and Madam Desmarais carried the almost suffocated lad
to the window. There he was propped up in a chair; his ashen features,
covered with icy sweat, slowly regained a slight color, and little by
little life returned to his bosom.

Two hours later he had quite come to, and found himself in John
Lebrenn's parlor, alone with Victoria. One would have difficulty to
frame in his imagination a countenance of more rare perfection than that
of the youth, who possessed a physiognomy of charming candor. On her
part, the young woman was grave. Her eyes, reddened with tears, and the
feverish color which replaced the habitual pallor of her beautiful
features, both bore witness to the painful emotions under which she was
laboring. After a few seconds' hesitation, she thus addressed the youth
in a sweet and solemn voice:

"Oliver, you are now, I believe, in condition to listen to me. I have
requested my brother and his family to leave us to ourselves a while.
Our interview will, I trust, exert a happy influence over your future,
and give you complete satisfaction."

"I listen, Mademoiselle Victoria."

"I have read your letter," resumed the young woman, drawing Oliver's
missive from her corsage. "Frightened at your resolve of suicide, and
thinking only of snatching you from death while there was yet time, I
was not at first able to finish it. But now I have just read it
through."

"What do I hear!" exclaimed the youth, clasping his hands in a transport
of joy. "My letter caused you neither contempt nor anger?"

"Why should it? You yielded to the promptings of gratitude toward me,
and sympathy for my character. So, I am not irritated, but touched, by
your affection."

"You are touched by my affection, Mademoiselle Victoria? My heaven, what
do you say!"

"Now, my friend, answer me sincerely. The fear of seeing me insensible
to an avowal which timidity has for so long kept trembling on your lips,
drove you to think of suicide--am I right?"

"Helas, yes, mademoiselle!"

"Now speak true, Oliver. Was it as a mistress, or a wife, that you
dreamt of me?"

"Good heavens! Do you think--?"

"You thought of me as the future companion of your life? Ah, me, I
declare that I am unworthy to become your wife. Cruelly as this avowal
wounds my heart, Oliver, I must make it to you, in order that you retain
no illusion, and no hope. But I offer you in their place a devoted
attachment, the affection of a mother for her child. That is all I can
give you."

Oliver, who so far had held his hands clasped over his face, now let
them drop upon his knees. He replied with not a single word, but fixing
upon Victoria a dark and foreboding look, rose with difficulty from his
seat, and with a step that still wavered, moved towards the door.

The apprentice's silence and the expression on his face bore evidence to
so profound a despair that Victoria presaged some new misfortune. She
hastened to Oliver's side, took his hand, and asked:

"Where are you going?"

"To my room. I need rest."

"You shall not stay alone in your room. Gertrude and I will watch over
you. We will remain there all night."

"Good night, Mademoiselle Victoria," returned the apprentice, moving
anew towards the door. But Victoria, still holding him by the hand,
replied:

"Oliver, I know what you are thinking of. You are not in your right
mind."

"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Victoria; I am fully in possession of
my senses; and if you have read my thoughts, you ought to realize that
no power in the world can balk my resolution."

"You would have the cruelty to leave me under the weight of the horrible
thought that I--I who love you as a son--was the cause of your death?"

"Your heart is compassionate, Mademoiselle Victoria, and your character
generous. I wish to leave this world because you do not wish, or are not
able, to love me."

"Unhappy child, even were I not sufficiently old to be your mother, I
repeat to you with a blushing forehead, I am not worthy of being your
wife. You can not be my husband. Such a union would be the shame of your
life and the eternal remorse of mine."

"In your eyes, perhaps, but not in mine, Mademoiselle Victoria. Whatever
a past of which I am ignorant may hold, a past in which I am in no way
concerned, you are now for me the one creature in the world most worthy
of respect and love. Life without you will be insupportable. I have
resolved to die--"

"What a crazy thought! I do not love you with a lover's love. Why do you
persist thus in a struggle for the impossible, poor foolish lad?"

"I have no thought of a struggle. I am resigned--and shall put myself
out of the way."

These final words of Oliver's, pronounced without emphasis or
bitterness, could not but remove from Victoria's mind her last doubts as
to the unfortunate boy's resolution. She had been used long enough to
read to the bottom of his open and childlike soul, to recognize there a
blending of gentleness and strength of will. Hardly escaped from one
almost certain death, the apprentice was all the more determined to seek
in self-destruction the end of his torments. Victoria communed long with
herself, and after an extended silence, began again:

"Oliver, you are resolved to die. I do not wish at any price to reawaken
your hopes by entering into any engagement with you whatsoever. I do not
wish to revive your illusions--they must be destroyed, and forever. But
in the name of the interest I have always borne you, in the name even of
your attachment for me, I ask of you only to promise me not to attempt
to destroy your life until to-morrow at midnight. At that hour, you will
meet me here again, or if not you will receive a letter from me. If the
interview I shall then have with you, or if the reading of my letter
does not change your sad designs, you may put them into execution, as
you please. Let your destiny then run its course."

"To die twenty-four hours later, or twenty-four hours earlier, it
matters little. I promise not to go before the hour you have set,"
replied the apprentice with such marked indifference that it was clear
the poor boy entertained no hope of his suicide's being obviated. Again
turning to the door, he added:

"Mademoiselle Victoria, to-morrow, then, shall decide my fate."

"Oliver, we have a full day to reflect on the grave matter which thus
links both our existences."

Hardly had Oliver left the parlor when Victoria rose, and running to the
door of an ante-room where John Lebrenn and his wife were concealed,
said to them in a shaking voice:

"You heard everything?"

"Ah, the unfortunate boy," exclaimed John. "He is out of his mind. It is
certain to me that he will carry out his fatal threat."

"Oh, heaven," added Madam Lebrenn, drying her eyes, "to think that
to-day we saved him from death, and that to-morrow--oh, it is horrible!
But what can one do in such an extremity? What can we make up our minds
on? What is your idea?"

"We can and ought at least to put to profit the twenty-four hours and
over which you have succeeded in winning from him, dear sister," replied
Lebrenn. "I have before now not wished to intrude in this painful
affair. But Oliver has a great affection for me. I have some influence
over him; his heart is good, his spirit unblemished, his character open.
I can appeal to his good parts, I can endeavor to exalt his already so
ardent patriotism, which even his mad passion has not been able to cool.
I shall prove to Oliver that he would commit a crime against the
Republic, against his mother country, in sacrificing his life instead of
devoting it to her protection when she is menaced by foreign invasion."

"Ah, brother, do you then believe that I have not thought of
resurrecting that soul, now crushed and disheartened? Alas, my efforts
were unavailing. I know the child better than you, my friends. Listen to
me--this is the hour of a cruel confession, brother. You know what part
Maurice, the sergeant in the French Guards, the unfortunate victim of
Monsieur Plouernel, played in my life."

"Aye, and I know further, or I believe I know, that Oliver is Maurice's
brother." Then, in answer to a gesture of surprise on Victoria's part,
"It is to Charlotte's penetration that I owe the discovery."

"Oliver is, indeed, the brother of Maurice, and by one of those
inexplicable mysteries of nature, the physical resemblance between the
two is even perhaps less remarkable than their mental resemblance. My
knowledge of Maurice's nature has given me the key to Oliver's. Woe is
me!" cried Victoria in heartrending tones. "In seeing, in hearing the
one, I thought I saw and heard the other! The same voice, the same look!
How many times, entranced in memories, have I surprised myself moved, my
heart beating for this living phantom of the only man I ever loved in my
sad life!"

"You love Oliver--or rather in him you continue to love Maurice. Unhappy
sister!"

"Sister, dear," said Charlotte, warmly seizing the two hands of
Victoria, who stood mute and overcome, bowing her face which was
empurpled with shame and flooded with tears, "do you suppose that we
could breathe one word of censure against you? Your new agonies inspire
but the tenderest compassion. Ah, if our sisterly affection were capable
of any growth, it would increase before this touching proof of the
persistence of the single love of your life. Do we not know, alas, that
for you to love Oliver is but for you to continue faithful to Maurice?"

"And still this love, although as pure as the former one, would be
shameful, revolting," murmured Victoria.

"Victoria," interposed John, unable to restrain his tears, "do not
abandon yourself to despair. Let us face the reality coolly, and
regulate our conduct accordingly."

"Helas, the reality!" broke from Victoria. "This it is: No human power
can prevent the suicide of Oliver, if I do not promise to be his
wife--or his mistress. The only alternatives are my shame or his death."

Victoria's words were followed by silence for several minutes.

"Woe is us," at length resumed John, the first to speak. "Aye, fate has
shut us in an iron circle. And still, despite myself, some dim hope
supports me. Some inspiration will come to us."

"Yes," replied Charlotte, "I also hope, because our sister Victoria is a
noble creature; because Oliver is gifted with generous qualities. I
believe it will be possible to discover a solution honorable for all of
us."

"Oh, dear wife," exclaimed John, "how your words do comfort me. Aye,
aye, every situation, desperate as it may seem, is capable of an
honorable solution. Beloved sister, raise that bowed forehead. Let us
have faith in the unison of noble hearts."

Suddenly Victoria lifted her head, transfigured, radiant; and
passionately embracing her brother's wife, she cried:

"You spoke sooth, Charlotte. We shall come out of this situation with
honor." Then, clasping John with redoubled ardor, she continued: "Ah,
brother, what a weight of fear has been lifted from my heart! To-morrow
you shall know all. To-morrow that circle of iron shall be broken which
now hems us in. A happy path opens itself before me."

The following morning, as John Lebrenn was leaving his house for the
shop, he was met in the courtyard by the servant Gertrude, who drew from
her pocket an addressed envelope.

"Mademoiselle Victoria gave me this letter for you, Monsieur John."

"My sister has gone out, then?"

"Yes, sir. She left at daybreak with Oliver. He had a traveling-case on
his shoulder."

"My sister has left us!" stammered John, in amazement. Then he hastily
broke the envelope he had just received from Gertrude, and read as
follows:

     Adieu, brother! Embrace your wife tenderly for me.

     I have taken Oliver away. I may not at present let you into my
     plans; but of one thing be assured, the solution is honorable for
     all. I am and shall remain worthy of your esteem and affection. Do
     not seek for the present to fathom what has become of me, and have
     no uneasiness over my fate. You shall receive a letter from me
     every week, until the day, close at hand, it may be, or perhaps far
     away, when I can return to you, dear brother, dear sister, never to
     leave you again.

     While awaiting that day so much to be desired, continue, both of
     you, to love me--for never shall I have so much needed your
     affection.

     VICTORIA.




CHAPTER XXV.

ROYALIST BARBARITIES.


The following extracts from my diary will help to trace the course of
the important political events occurring in Paris between the 31st of
May and the 1st of November, 1793.

JUNE 5, 1793.--Rejoice in the day of the 31st of May, sons of Joel. It
means safety for the Republic, certain triumph for the Revolution.
Aroused as one body, the population of Paris, embracing more than a
hundred and twenty thousand citizens in arms, has succeeded in securing,
solely by the moral pressure of its patriotism, the suspension of the
Girondin Representatives. The greater part of these went into voluntary
exile. The people of Paris remained under arms for five whole days--from
May 31 to June 4.

JUNE 6, 1793.--A singular chance placed in my hands to-day a note
written by Robespierre. I hastened to take a copy, as it was of the
greatest interest. It sums up in a few firm and concise lines the policy
which he purposes henceforth to impress upon the Jacobin party, which,
since the 31st of May, is master of power:

     There must be one will.

     It must be Republican.

     In order that it may be Republican, there must be Republican
     ministers, Republican journals, Republican deputies, a Republican
     government. The Republic can not establish itself save with honest
     and Republican officials.

     The foreign war is a deadly scourge so long as the body politic is
     suffering from the convulsions of revolution, and from divided
     counsels. The present insurrection must be sustained until the
     proper measures be taken to save the Republic. The people must
     rally to the Convention, and the Convention must serve the will of
     the people. The insurrection must extend further and further, on
     the same plan; the sans-culottes must be paid and remain in the
     cities. They must be furnished with arms, encouraged, and
     enlightened.

JUNE 7, 1793.--I received this day a letter from Victoria, in fulfilment
of her promise to write me each week. Not to mention the profound grief
her absence caused us, our uneasiness over her was extreme, in spite of
the assurances she gave us in her farewell letter. She now informed me
that Oliver's health was improving, and that his spirits were returning.
She did not despair of bringing him back to reason and the practice of
his civic duties. She was living, she told me, at some distance from the
capital; and she could not yet disclose to us the mainsprings of her
mysterious conduct, and the reticence of her correspondence.

JUNE 10, 1793.--The majority of the Convention has just made recognition
of the value of the passive insurrection of May 31, by adopting the
appended resolution:

     The National Convention declares that in the days of May 31 to June
     4 the general revolutionary council of the Commune and the people
     of Paris powerfully co-operated to save the liberty, the unity and
     the indivisibility of the Republic.

JULY 12, 1793.--Upon a report from the committee rendered by St. Just,
the Girondin members of the Convention were on the 10th of July declared
traitors to the country, and outlawed. Several other adherents of that
party were sent before the revolutionary tribunal.

JULY 19, 1793.--Last Saturday, July 13, Marat was assassinated, between
seven and eight in the evening. His assailant was Marie Anne Charlotte
Corday D'Armans, the daughter of an ex-nobleman, whose usual abode was
Caen, one of those hot-beds of federal insurrection fomented by the
Girondins. Simulating the role of a victim who besought assistance and
protection from the Friend of the People, Charlotte Corday solicited an
interview with him. Worn out and unwell, Marat was taking a bath, but
yielding to compassion for the young girl who implored his aid, he
consented to receive her. Introduced into his presence, Charlotte Corday
struck him with a knife. He died almost instantly. I record this new
assassination as an abominable crime! The beauty, the youth, the
resolute character of Charlotte Corday in no wise lessen her guilt. It
is vain to compare her with Brutus. He struck down Caesar, the undoubted
tyrant of his country, whereas the patriotism of Marat, the Friend of
the People, had never been called into question. Taken to-day before the
revolutionary court presided over by Fouquier-Tinville, the accused
woman confessed her connection with the Girondin party, of which she
plainly was the instrument. She prided herself on having dealt Marat his
death blow, the condign punishment, she said, for his crimes.
Unanimously condemned by the jury to death, Charlotte Corday suffered on
the scaffold the penalty for homicide.

The universal consternation of the patriots as they learned of the
murder of the Friend of the People was an additional proof of the
immense influence exercised by this extraordinary man over their heads
and hearts. All over Paris these verses were placarded:

    People, Marat is dead, the lover of the land;
    Your friend, your aid, the hope of all who would be free
    Is fallen 'neath the blow of an accursed band;
    Weep--but remember, avenged must he be!

This morning I received a letter from Victoria. She informs me that
Oliver's health is being restored, and that he soon will prove to me
that my affection for him was not misplaced. In a few lines in his own
hand at the end of Victoria's letter, Oliver himself repeated the same
pledges. What is her project? I know not. She has at least saved the
unhappy boy from suicide.

JULY 30, 1793.--The royalist and "federalist" insurrection of Lyons,
Marseilles, Toulon and Bordeaux against the Republic and the Convention
has assumed a more threatening aspect through the war that broke out in
the Vendee, and which is spreading amid scenes of ungovernable ferocity.
Read, sons of Joel, and shudder at the atrocious reprisals, the nameless
horrors, committed by the Vendeans under the leadership of their priests
and the ex-nobles. If the law of retaliation, that savage and barbarous
law, is ever applied to the Chouans and Vendeans by the avengers of the
patriots, let the responsibility fall upon the heads of these madmen
themselves.

The brigands of the Vendee themselves gave the signal and set the
example for murder and massacre. Machecoul was the theater of scenes of
horror. Eight hundred patriots were hatcheted to pieces. Several were
buried alive. The women were forced to witness the torture of their
husbands; then, together with their children, they were spiked hand and
foot to the doors of their dwellings, where they expired under the blows
and stabs of the assassins. The parish curate, who had taken the oath to
the Constitution, was impaled on a spit, and marched through the streets
and public places of Machecoul with his genitals cut off. Finally, still
breathing, he was nailed to the liberty tree. A Vendean priest
celebrated the mass standing in blood and upon mutilated corpses. In the
swamps of Niort six hundred children of Nantes were rounded up,
massacred, and atrociously mutilated. At Chollet the brigands repeated
the frightful scenes of Machecoul. They put the patriots through the
most terrible tortures before depriving them of their lives. There,
also, they nailed the women and children alive to their house-doors, and
made their bosoms a target for their bayonets. They put to the torture
everywhere those patriots whom they found, or persons who would not bear
arms against the Republic. When they captured Saumur, all who bore the
reputation of patriot perished amid indescribable tortures. The women,
their children in their arms, were thrown from the windows, and the
tigers in the streets poniarded them. The agonies which they made our
brave defenders undergo were no less cruel; the least barbarous was to
slay them with ball or bayonet; but the most common was to hang them
feet uppermost from trees and kindle bonfires under their heads; or to
nail them alive to the trees; or to place cartridges in their mouths or
nostrils and explode them. It is impossible to take a step in the
Vendee without opening new perspectives of torture to the eye. Here, at
the entrance of one village, are exposed to our view brave defenders of
the Republic hewed to pieces or spiked to the doors of their dwellings.
There, the fringe of trees at the edge of a wood displays to us the
disfigured forms of our brave brothers hanged from the branches, their
bodies half burned. Yonder, we discern their lifeless corpses bound,
nailed to trees, to pieces of timber, mutilated, riddled with wounds,
their faces burned and baked. Nor did the brigands confine themselves to
these inhuman tortures. They filled their country ovens with our
defenders, kindled the fires, and left them to expire slowly in this
atrocious agony. Recently these cannibals have invented a new manner of
torture; they cut off the noses, hands and feet of their prisoners, shut
them in their dark caves, and abandon them to perish of hunger.

The distinguished patriot Chalier, at the head of a list of
eighty-three, was led to the scaffold at Lyons. The instrument worked
poorly. Chalier was twice mutilated. The cruelties of the royalists and
parishioners of Lyons will call down great calamities upon the city.

AUGUST 2, 1793.--Often did my sister and I wonder at receiving no news
from Prince Franz of Gerolstein, our relative, and one of the most
ardent of the Illuminati. The secret of Franz's silence has just been
revealed to me. An officer of the garrison of Mayence, long a prisoner
in the duchy of Deux Ponts, adjoining the principality of Gerolstein,
informed me to-day that for four years, the length of time since Franz
left us, the latter was held in a state prison by order of his father,
the reigning prince. So did Franz of Gerolstein expiate in harsh
captivity his sympathy with the new ideas.

AUGUST 4, 1793.--The Convention passed yesterday a decree of marked
Socialist and revolutionary character:

     The National Convention, in consideration of the evils which
     monopolists inflict upon society by their murderous speculations in
     the most pressing necessaries of life and upon the public misery,
     decrees:

     Article 1.--Monopoly is a capital crime....

     Article 8.--Eight days from the publication and proclamation of the
     present law, those who have not made the prescribed declarations
     shall be held to be monopolists, and, as such, be punished with
     death; their goods shall be confiscate, and also the merchandise
     and food-stuffs seized in their possession.

AUGUST 7, 1793.--The law against monopolies has had its effect upon the
produce and stock jobbers. All food-stuffs have fallen considerably in
price.

With redoubled energy the Convention is turning its attention to the
dangers which threaten the Republic. News is brought that among the
Vendeans have been uncovered the widow of Louis Capet, a large number of
non-juring priests, and several imprisoned ex-nobles. The following
decrees are passed:

     The National Assembly denounces, in the name of the outraged
     humanity of all nations, and even of the English people, the
     cowardly, perfidious and atrocious conduct of the British
     government, which is instigating and paying for the employment of
     assassination, poison, arson, and every imaginable crime, for the
     triumph of tyranny and the annihilation of the rights of man.

Marie Antoinette is taken before the tribunal extraordinary. From there
she is at once transferred to the Conciergerie Prison:

     All the individuals of the Capet family are to be deported outside
     of the territory of the Republic, with the exception of the two
     children of Louis Capet and those members of the family who are
     under the sword of the law. Elizabeth Capet may not be deported
     until after the trial of Marie Antoinette.

Also:

     The tombs and mausoleums of the old Kings, erected in the Church of
     St. Denis, in the temples, and in other places throughout the whole
     extent of the Republic, shall be destroyed on the 10th of August
     next, and their ashes thrown to the winds.

AUGUST 8, 1793.--Up to date Victoria, true to her promise, has written
me regularly every week in her own name and that of Oliver. He, she
says, is treading with firm step the path of duty. My sister raises not
the veil of mystery in which she has enshrouded herself since she quit
our house. She announces that she is going to suspend her
correspondence, but that if anything untoward intervenes she will inform
me of it at once.

AUGUST 23, 1793.--Allied Europe is increasing the masses of troops she
is hurling on our frontiers, here menaced, there already invaded. O
Fatherland! you appeal to the heroism of your children; your call shall
be heard. The Committee of Public Safety, among whose most influential
members are Robespierre, St. Just and Couthon, increases its vigilance.
The Convention passes decree upon decree, brief, pointed, courageous,
like the roll of the drum beating the charge:

     The National Convention, having heard the report of its Committee
     of Public Safety, decrees:

     Article 1.--Until the moment when the foreign hordes and all the
     enemies of the Republic shall have been driven out of the land, all
     French people are under permanent requisition for the service of
     the armies.

     The young men shall go to the front; the married men shall forge
     arms and transfer supplies; the women shall make tents and
     uniforms, and serve in the hospitals; the children shall pull lint,
     and the old men shall betake themselves to the public places to
     kindle the courage of the warriors, keep alive hatred for Kings,
     and promote the unity of the Republic.

The French people will soon present to the tyrants a united front. The
effect produced to-day by the latest decrees of the Convention was
immense, indescribable. Thanks to God! the consignment of arms I was
charged with making will be finished in a few days. I will be able to
rejoin the army. Castillon and I have enrolled in one of the battalions
of our Parisian volunteers.

SEPTEMBER 18, 1793.--Since the commencement of this month, Terror is the
order of the day. Terror reigns; but to whom impute this fatal
necessity, if not to the enemies of the fatherland? The Republic struck
only after she had been outraged; she attacked not, she but defended.
She obeyed the supreme law of self-preservation, the common right of an
individual and a body social. The Terror is reducing our enemies within
to impotence.

OCTOBER 17, 1793.--Yesterday the revolutionary tribunal sentenced Marie
Antoinette to death, in these words:

     The court, in accord with the unanimous verdict of the jury, in
     accordance with its right as public investigator and accuser, and
     in conformity with the laws which it has cited, condemns the said
     Marie Antoinette, of Lorraine in Austria, widow of Louis Capet, to
     the penalty of death. It declares, conformably to the law of the
     10th of March last, that her goods, if any she have within the
     confines of French territory, be confiscate to the benefit of the
     nation. It orders that, at the request of the public ministry, the
     present sentence be executed upon the Place of the Revolution, and
     printed and posted throughout the Republic.

Throughout her trial Marie Antoinette maintained an air of calmness and
assurance. She left the audience chamber after the pronouncement of
sentence without evincing the slightest emotion, or uttering a word to
judges or jurors. She mounted the scaffold at half past four in the
morning. Only a few spectators were present.

OCTOBER 18, 1793.--The Convention has superseded the old calendar with a
new one, based on the observations of exact science. The new names for
the months are as poetic, harmonious, and above all as rational, as the
old ones were barbarous and senseless, borrowed, as they were in part
from the fetes and rulers of the Roman Empire, in part from a pagan
theocracy. The decree of the Convention is as follows:

     Article 1.--The era of the French dates from the foundation of the
     Republic, which took place the 22nd of September, 1792, of the
     common era, on which day the sun arrived at the true autumnal
     equinox, and entered the sign Libra at nine hours, eighteen
     minutes, thirty seconds, Paris Observatory.

     Article 2.--The common year is abolished from civil usage.

     Article 3.--Each year commences at midnight of the day on which
     falls the true autumnal equinox, for the Observatory of Paris....

     Article 7.--The year is divided into twelve equal months of thirty
     days each. After the twelve months follow five days to complete
     the ordinary year. These five days belong to no month.

     Article 8.--Each month in divided into three equal parts of ten
     days each, which are called decades.

     Article 9.--The names of the days of the decade are: Primidi,
     Duodi, Tridi, Quartidi, Quintidi, Sextidi, Septidi, Octidi, Nonidi,
     Decadi.

     The names of the months are,

     For Autumn:

     Vendemiaire (the Vintage month, September 22 to October 21),
     Brumaire (the Foggy month, October 22 to November 20), Frimaire
     (the Frosty month, November 21 to December 20).

     For Winter:

     Nivose (the Snowy month, December 21 to January 19), Pluviose (the
     Rainy month, January 20 to February 18), Ventose (the Windy month,
     February 19 to March 20).

     For Spring:

     Germinal (the Budding month, March 21 to April 19), Floreal (the
     Flowery month, April 20 to May 19), Prairial (the Pasture month,
     May 20 to June 18).

     For Summer:

     Messidor (the Harvest month, June 19 to July 18), Thermidor (the
     Hot month, July 19 to August 17), Fructidor (the Fruit month,
     August 18 to September 16).[13]

12TH BRUMAIRE, YEAR II (November 2, 1793).--The detail of arms is
completed, and Castillon and I leave day after to-morrow to join at
Lille the Seventh Battalion, Paris Volunteers.




CHAPTER XXVI.

A REVOLUTIONARY OUTPOST.


On the 5th Nivose of the year II (December 25, 1793), an advance post of
the main body of the Army of the Republic lay in military occupancy of
an isolated tavern some quarter of a league's distance from Ingelsheim,
a French burg about twelve leagues from Strasburg. Hoche and Pichegru,
the Generals of the detachments called "of the Rhine and Moselle," had
removed their headquarters to Ingelsheim, after several advantages
gained over Marshal Wurmser, the Duke of Brunswick and the Prince of
Conde. The republican troops were bivouacked about the city. The light
of their campfires struggled with difficulty through the mists of a
black winter's night. A line of scouts and pickets covered the position
of the post, which was composed of a company of the Seventh Battalion,
Paris Volunteers, among whom were John Lebrenn and his foreman
Castillon.

The company was gathered in the large hall of the inn, and in the
kitchen, where blazed a great fire. The greater part of the men, worn
out with fatigue, sought repose on beds of fresh straw laid along the
walls, making shift to use their knapsacks as pillows. Others furbished
their arms, or blacked their cartridge-boxes; still others were mending
their dilapidated garments or exercising their wits to cobble their
shoes into a semblance of serviceableness; for neither the stores of the
army nor draughts on nature sufficed to clothe and shoe all the citizens
called to the flag in the last levies, or to replenish their wardrobes
against the havocs of war. Few, indeed, of the volunteers, wore the
complete uniform decreed by the Convention and which was already covered
with the glory of so many victories. This consisted of a coat of deep
blue, with facings and trimmings of red, and large white lapels, which
left displayed the vest of white cloth, like the trousers; black knit
leggins, with leather buttons, reaching to the knee; a flat
three-cornered hat, surmounted with a plume of red horse-hair, falling
beside the cockade; and a knapsack of white calf or buffalo-skin. Only
the most recent recruits to the battalion were dressed correctly in
accord with the decree.

The company was in command of a captain named Martin, a pupil of the
painter David, the Convention member. Martin had enrolled after the days
of September and at once left for the front. He had already advanced
through all the elective ranks. Twice wounded, full of bravery and dash,
and knowing how to win obedience in the moment of action, Captain Martin
showed himself always jovial, open, and engaging in his relations with
the volunteers. Although he had now followed war for fifteen months,
David's young pupil did not renounce his former profession. He only
awaited peace to lay down his sword, take up his brushes, and attempt to
open a new field in his art by depicting the battles of the Revolution,
and episodes of camp life. Seated at one corner of a table that was
lighted by an iron lamp, Captain Martin was even now amusing himself
with sketching, in a little pocket sketch-book, the figure, at once
pitiable and grotesque, of the frightened innkeeper. Although a native
of Alsace, the latter spoke an unintelligible dialect, and understood no
French. Castillon, who was addressing him, indicated with a gesture a
young volunteer in spick-and-span new uniform, scrupulously combed and
shaven, and altogether looking, as they say, as if he had stepped out of
a band-box, and explained:

"This citizen asks for twenty bottles of Moselle wine, to be paid for,
of course. Isn't what I'm saying to you clear enough--barbarian!"

To which the innkeeper, multiplying his manifestations of distress,
replied in an agonizing jargon.

"But, Gott's t'under, ve vant vine! Ve temant vine of you!" retorted
Castillon impatiently, assuming a German patois in the hope of making
himself understood.

It was Captain Martin who cut the gordian knot and ended the already
too-long debate. Hastily outlining in his sketch-book a bottle and a
glass, he waved the drawing under mine host's eyes together with an
assignat[14] which he drew from his pocket. The Alsatian gave a sigh of
relief, motioned that he at last comprehended, and was about to scamper
off to his cellar when the captain held him back, and, to prevent any
further misunderstanding, drew the figure 20 underneath the picture of
the bottle. To this new intelligence the tavernkeeper responded with
uncouth contortions of delight, and a formidable "Yah!"

"The animal!" exclaimed Castillon, shrugging his shoulders, "why
couldn't he answer like that right off!" And addressing himself to the
new recruit: "If our innkeeper weren't such a booby, we would have been
able to drink your welcome to the battalion half an hour ago, Citizen
Duresnel."

"True; but then we would have already drunk it, while now we have still
in store the pleasure of putting it down," replied Duresnel thickly, as
if he had a hot potato in his mouth, and dropping all his r's like one
who had never seen Paris.

"Ho, ho! You come in time, comrade," replied a volunteer banteringly.
"We're going to have a fight to-morrow, you'll see what it is to go
under fire. We'll have a brush of it!"

"That's what I came for," Duresnel made answer in his muffled voice;
"only--and you will laugh at me, citizens--I confess to you--never
having smelled gunpowder, I am afraid--"

"Which? What?" cried the troop in chorus, greatly amused at the
babyishness of the young Parisian. "What are you afraid of? Come,
comrade, explain yourself."

"Damn! citizens--I am afraid--of being afraid!"

The answer provoked an explosion of hilarity. Without being in the least
put out of countenance, Duresnel added: "Yes, wo'd of honor, citizens;
never having been in action, and not knowing what effect it will have
upon me, I am afraid of being afraid. That's very simple."

"Bravo, comrade," interjected Captain Martin, "it is not always those
who make a flourish of their swords in advance who prove the most heady.
Your modesty is a good omen; in consequence of which I wager that
to-morrow you will take your baptism of fire bravely, with a cry of
Long live the Republic! Just have a little confidence in yourself."

"You're a good fellow, captain; I shall do my best. For, wo'd of honor,
it would be disagreeable to me to know that I am a coward, after having
posted from Paris to join the battalion."

"You came by post?" exclaimed Castillon. "You must have been in a hurry
to get here!"

"Surely; I had already lost so much time. First I was at the quarters of
the battalion in the barracks of Picpus, where I learned a little of the
drill, after which I took a stage coach to reach Strasburg. Then, taking
advantage of the escort which accompanied Representatives St. Just and
Lebas to Ingelsheim, I rejoined the battalion, and here I am."

"A beaker of Moselle will give you courage, comrade," said Captain
Martin, full of interest in the young man; and seeing at that moment the
host return with two baskets bursting with bottles: "Come, friends, let
us drink a welcome to Citizen Duresnel. Drink, comrades, to the
extermination of Kings, priests, Jesuits, and aristocrats."

"Thanks, captain, I drink nothing but water;" and seeing on the
sideboard a water-jug, Duresnel poured himself out a glassful. Then
raising his bumper, he replied: "To the health of my brave companions of
the Seventh Battalion, Volunteers of Paris! To the extermination of all
monarchs! To the lamp-post with the aristocrats!--Captain," continued
Duresnel, "since you are my military superior, I have a favor to ask of
you."

"Granted in advance, on one condition."

"And what's that, if you please, captain?"

"That you thee-and-thou us, myself and our comrades, as we thee-and-thou
you. It is a mark of political fraternity."

"Very well, captain. Here, then, is the request I wish to make of you: I
am now a soldier of the Army of the Rhine and Moselle. It seems to me I
should take more pleasure of the business if I knew whereabouts we were
in the war. Otherwise I should be like a man starting to read a story in
the middle, and unable to understand a word, since he does not know the
beginning."

"What you say is in point, comrade. I shall do the right thing by your
request at one of our next watches."

At this moment the attention of the volunteers was drawn to a new
personage who entered the inn-hall. This individual wore the uniform of
a mounted cannonier, and the insignia of chief quartermaster. His dress,
like that of the volunteers, bore many a patch. His face was of a
strikingly martial cut, his long moustaches were covered with
hoar-frost. On entering the room he delivered the military salute, and
said briskly:

"Good even, citizens. Have you room for a moment at fire and lamplight
for a mounted artilleryman of the Army of the Rhine?"

"By heaven, yes!" replied Castillon, stepping away from the fireplace to
make room for the newcomer; then gazing at him curiously, he added: "But
tell me, comrade, this doesn't seem to be the first time we two have
met?"

"Quite likely not," replied the cannonier, in turn searching Castillon's
features. "In fact, listen here, we met on an occasion which is, by
heaven, difficult to forget--a meeting without its like!"

"Last year, on the second of September--"

"At the prison of La Force!"

"When we purged it of the priests, the holy shaven-pates, and the
aristocrats."

"Comrade, you are James Duchemin," cried Captain Martin, seizing him by
the hand. "I heard your name pronounced in the National Assembly along
with the other names of those who had given themselves to the
fatherland. I admire your devotion. You offered all you possessed--your
life and your two horses."

"Ah, you were at the Assembly that day?"

"Aye, I came from the Abbey."

"Where you also did work?"

"A fatal and terrible necessity. I believed so then and think so still.
Death to the aristocrats and priests! But how one does meet! Come, a
glass of wine, my old friend."

"That is not to be refused, comrade. I am frozen numb," returned
Duchemin; and added, in a tone of bitter recrimination, "That brigand of
a Reddy!"

"Of what 'Reddy' do you speak, friend?"

"Oh, that is the name of one of the horses I gave to the country. We
were enrolled, my two beasts and I, in '92, in the Second Battalion,
Flying Artillery. But my other horse, my Double-grey, was missing from
roll call after the battle of Watignies, because of a little impediment
in the way of a four-pound cannon ball, which he received in the belly
while one of the servants of my darling Carmagnole was riding him."

"What, you have a sweetheart whom you call Carmagnole? The idea is a
droll one!"

"That is how I christened the four-pounder I had charge of in my
battery. Ah, citizens," added Duchemin, in reply to the volunteers'
mirth at his explanation, "if you only knew that beautiful little piece!
Such an amorous little mouth--to spit fire and cannon balls at the nose
of the Austro-Prussians and the other Ostrogoths."

"Come, come, old chap, do you take us for marines?" said Castillon,
laughingly. "Do you want to give us the idea that pieces of artillery in
general--and Carmagnole in particular--have characters!"

"Whether they have characters! Just ask your good cannoniers about that,
you'll hear their answer. There are slatterns of pieces on whom you can
never depend for a good shot. Whereas with Carmagnole--never a caprice.
You train her so many lines' elevation--she'll fire just so high; so
many lines' depression--she'll fire low. An angel of a spit-fire! A very
love!"

"Comrades," chimed in Captain Martin gaily, "captivated by the
character, the virtues and the bravery of Citizeness Carmagnole, I
propose her health, and that of the brave artillerymen of the Army of
the Rhine."

"To the health of Carmagnole! To the health of the artillerymen of the
Rhine!" chorused the volunteers, draining their glasses with Duchemin.
Touched by this proof of sympathy for his cannon and his brothers in
arms, the latter in turn raised his own glass and cried:

"Thanks, comrades, thanks! I shall convey your good wishes to
Carmagnole, and I can tell you that in to-morrow's battle we shall be
neither slothful nor over-hot, but just right. Meanwhile, I drink in
her name and mine: To the health of the brave men of the Army of the
Moselle. To the relief of Landau! Long live the Republic! To the
lamp-post with the aristocrats, the black-caps, and all the Jesuits!"

"We shall raise the siege of Landau, or die!" enthusiastically acclaimed
the volunteers. "Long live the Republic!"

"Well, indeed, wo'd of honor, I don't believe I am going to have any
fear at all to-morrow!" exclaimed Duresnel, electrified by the ardor of
his comrades. "Long live the Republic! Death to the aristocrats and down
with the skull caps!"

"Citizen Duresnel," replied Captain Martin, smiling, "you will see that
it is not such a devil of an undertaking to go under fire the first
time, surrounded by gallant comrades."

"Faith, captain, I begin to believe it," replied Duresnel, while
Castillon said, addressing Duchemin:

"See there, old fellow, your love for Carmagnole has interfered with
your telling us your troubles with your horse, that brigand Reddy,
formerly so patriotic a fellow, as you told us, and whom you suspect of
having been bought over by a peck of oats given him by an agent of Pitt
and Coburg."

"Well, comrades, to return to Reddy, yes, I say that dumb animal is a
patriot at heart. Judge for yourselves: Lately, at the affair of
Kaiserslautern, we were tearing along at a gallop with one wing of my
battery, to take up our position. I was helping along with the flat of
my saber two wretches of drivers who had charge of the team of six that
drew Carmagnole, and who looked out of sorts at going into action.
Suddenly a squadron of Prussian Uhlans, until then hidden by a rise in
the ground, broke cover and charged upon us. We were supported by a
squad of the famous Third Hussars. We met at full tilt. But right in the
middle of the embroglio my brave Reddy seized the horse of a Uhlan by
the mane. Reddy did not let go his hold--he lost his footing in the
crush--he fell, and me with him. There I was, pinned under him; but
thanks to the intervention of the famous pair of the Third Hussars, I
was able to escape. This was the first time I saw those two inseparables
of the Army of the Rhine, Victor and Oliver, two heroic fellows!"

"These two cavalrymen are called, you say, Oliver and Victor?" and
Castillon continued thoughtfully to himself. "A singular idea those two
names suggest. What if the gallant pair should be our apprentice and our
master's sister! Despite the strangeness of the disguise, it is said
there are in the army many patriotic women who enrolled to follow their
lovers to the war--"

While Castillon was thus reflecting, the report of a firearm rang out
about a hundred paces from the inn. One of the pickets had fired.
Captain Martin at once spoke to an under-officer:

"Sergeant, take four men and go see what is up out there. It must be
comrade Lebrenn who fired that shot."

"Perhaps he got a bead on some spy within the lines," suggested
Duchemin, as the sergeant hastened out with his guard.

The incident, however, passed almost unnoticed by Castillon, who,
preoccupied with his own thoughts concerning the "pair" in the Third
Hussars approached Duchemin and asked:

"Comrade, did you ever see the two brave cavalrymen you spoke of,
again?"

"Yes, often. After Kaiserslautern our battery was attached to their
division."

"How old would you say Oliver was?"

"He is eighteen or so; black haired, with blue eyes. He is a fine
looking hussar; but in respect of beauty, his companion takes the shine
out of him."

"Victor is also a pretty boy, then?"

"He is too good looking for a man. What an air of authority! What an eye
of fire!"

"No more doubt of it," murmured Castillon to himself. "It is Citizeness
Victoria and Oliver, who have joined the hussars!"

At this moment the sergeant and his squad returned, minus one man who
had relieved John Lebrenn at his post. A man and a boy of ten or eleven,
dressed as Alsatian peasants, were marched in by the volunteers.

The two seemed perfectly calm as they entered the inn-hall. They did not
even shudder when John Lebrenn announced:

"Captain, I think we have laid our hands on a couple of spies."

"And how did they fall into our picket lines, comrade Lebrenn?" asked
Captain Martin.

"I had posted my sentries, captain. The mist was so thick I could not
see the lights of the inn from my position. The ground, hardened by the
frost, carried sounds clearly. All at once I heard at some distance the
steps of men coming almost directly at me. I could distinguish also
that they wore wooden shoes. I could see nothing, but I cried: 'Halt!
Who goes there?' At the challenge the two individuals attempted to flee,
but they failed to perceive a patch of ice, on which their wooden shoes
slipped. The noise of their fall reached me distinctly. I fired my gun
to give the alarm, and plunged in their direction. I reached the pair
just as they regained their feet. I grabbed the man by his collar, the
boy by his frock. They tried at first to break away, but soon realizing
that I had a tough grip, they offered no further resistance. The man
addressed me in some unintelligible jargon. Then my comrades ran up, and
we bring you the catch."

"You young brigand, you are swallowing a paper!" cried Captain Martin,
rushing, but too late, upon little Rodin; for he it was, unrecognized by
John Lebrenn as the latter had seen him but once before, and briefly,
the day of the taking of the Bastille, when the vicious youngster had
attempted to make away with the annals of the Lebrenn family. Needless
to say, the man accompanying him, and also unknown to the company of
volunteers, was his "sweet" god-father, his "gentle" god-father, his
"dear" god-father Abbot Morlet. The wretched youngster had just the
minute before quickly carried to his mouth one of his hands, which he
had up till then held hidden beneath his coat.

"Search the knaves!" ordered Captain Martin. And quickly raising little
Rodin's blouse, he saw that the young one held his left hand tightly
shut. The captain pried it open, and some fragments of torn paper fell
to the floor. John Lebrenn and Castillon discovered nothing upon the
reverend Father Morlet. Carefully the captain pieced together the
scraps of paper he had gotten from the Jesuit's god-son, but found
nothing but figures. After a moment's examination he cried:

"No doubt of it! The man and his brat are emissaries of the enemy. The
letter of which they were the bearers is in cipher, except two names
which I find in the fragments--Conde, and then another of which some
letters seem to be missing;" and drawing nearer to the lamp, Captain
Martin added, "It is something like Plouar--Plouer--"

"Plouernel! without a doubt!" exclaimed John Lebrenn. "This ex-Count of
Plouernel, former colonel in the French Guards, was aide-de-camp to the
Duke of Brunswick, and must now be serving in the Emigrant ranks of the
Prince of Conde."

"Which is all the more probable since the corps of ex-nobles forms part
of Wurmser's army which is to attack us at daybreak," replied Captain
Martin, while John Lebrenn muttered to himself: "To-morrow, perhaps, I
shall find myself again face to face, arms in hand, with that descendant
of the Nerowegs whose life I saved last year."

"Your account will not take long to settle, you old rascal," said
Captain Martin to the Jesuit, gathering together the pieces of the
despatch. "You will be conducted to headquarters and simply shot as a
spy, after an examination by way of preface, of course. All the forms
will be followed!"

The Jesuit, unmoved, seemed not to hear the captain's words, and made
answer in a lingo invented by him for the occasion:

"_Rama o schlick!_"

"Yes, yes, _Rama o schlick_! It is clear as day. Yes, you will be
hanged!" replied Captain Martin imperturbably. Then he said to little
Rodin, who stood no less stolid than his good god-father: "You commence
your pretty trade quite young, you little scoundrel, you brigandette.
Your audacity, your presence of mind don't seem to fail you in the
least. No doubt they charged you with the despatch in the hope that even
if arrested you would not be suspected of carrying it. You are too young
to be shot, but we will first give your trousers a good dusting and then
send you to a house of correction."

During this speech little Rodin showed himself the worthy pupil of his
god-father and master. He did not wink an eyelid, although he kept his
snaky optics fixed on the captain. Then, beating his chest with one hand
with an air of compunction, he carried the other to each ear in turn and
to his mouth, as a pantomimic indication that he was deaf and dumb.

"So, poor lad, you are deaf and dumb?" said the captain. "In that case
you are free. Get out. May the devil take you."

But little Rodin remained motionless, not seeming to have heard.
Instead, he made a new sign that he could neither hear nor speak, and
heaved a most lamentable sigh. The sigh, the motions and the face of the
boy were stamped with such an air of sincerity that Captain Martin and
the brave volunteers who witnessed the scene began to believe that the
Jesuit's god-son had indeed the use of neither faculty.

The captain continued: "If this little beggar is, indeed, as he seems to
be, a deaf-mute, we shall send him to Abbot Sicard. He will have a
splendid pupil!" Then, turning to the Jesuit: "But you, old rogue, who
are neither dumb nor deaf, you shall be recompensed as you deserve!
Come, off to headquarters!"

"_Mira ta bi lou!_" replied the Jesuit, simulating the impatience of a
man tired of listening to gibberish.

"I understand perfectly," the captain said. "Be easy, you shall be well
hanged." He thereupon turned to John Lebrenn, saying, "You, comrade,
will take the prisoners to headquarters, and transmit these shreds of
paper to the staff-officer to whom you give the account of your capture.
One or two volunteers will accompany you to keep watch on the two
rascals."

"Do not weaken your post, Citizen Captain," said Duchemin. "On my way
back to my battery I shall accompany my comrade as far as the General's
quarters."

Then John Lebrenn, noticing for the first time the cannonier whose
patriotism had so strongly touched him a year before, cried out:
"Citizen James Duchemin!"

"Present, comrade! But how the deuce did you know me?"

"I'll tell you on our way to the General's," replied John. And soon,
taking the Jesuit by the collar while Duchemin seized little Rodin
firmly by the hand, the volunteer and the artilleryman left the inn and
set out towards the burg of Ingelsheim.

"The capture of the two spies prevented me from acquainting friend John
with what I have discovered as to Citizeness Victoria and our apprentice
Oliver," thought Castillon that night as he stretched himself out to
rest on his pallet of straw. "Well, the confidence will come a little
later!"




CHAPTER XXVII.

THE HEROINE IN ARMS.


The headquarters of General Hoche were established in the Commune Hall
of the burg of Ingelsheim; soldiers and under-officers of various corps
of the army, detailed as orderlies, awaited the commands of the General
in a sort of vestibule leading to the room in which Hoche himself,
together with his fellow-General Pichegru and their aides-de-camp, were
in conference with St. Just, Lebas, Randon and Lacost, the
Representatives of the people sent on special mission from the
Convention to the Armies of the Rhine and Moselle. Among the various
troopers seated about on the benches, and for the most part sleeping,
overcome by the fatigues of the day, were two, a cavalryman and a
quartermaster of the Third Hussars, who sat to one side of the folding
door in earnest conversation. The manly beauty of one of them, his light
brown complexion, the soft black down which shaded his upper lip, his
thick eyelashes, his height, the squareness of his shoulders, and the
fire and boldness of his glance, left no doubt but that it was Victoria,
the missing sister of John Lebrenn. Her companion, who could be none
other than the apprentice Oliver, seemed transfigured. His radiant
youthful features now shone with hope and martial ardor. His large
brilliant blue eyes seemed to mirror dazzling visions. One would have
said it was Mars himself in the uniform of a hussar.

"With what impatience I await the morrow," he was saying to Victoria.
"Here in my heart I feel that I shall either be killed or named
sub-lieutenant on the field of battle. Hoche, our General-in-chief, was
sub-lieutenant at twenty-two; I shall be an officer at eighteen! What a
future opens before me!"

Dreaming of his martial career, the young soldier gazed long and
silently into the golden picture it held up before him. Victoria
observed him closely. An inscrutable smile overspread her lips, when
suddenly, recalled from his revery by the recollections of love, Oliver
blushed and added: "If I am made an officer, perhaps you will at last
think me worthy of you, Victoria! Oh! what happiness! To merit the
supreme gifts of your tenderness, or to die before your eyes!"

"You yield yourself too readily to the intoxication of glory," said
Victoria, gravely reproaching him.

"Is not the glory of arms the most sublime of all?"

"Oliver, woe to those who, loving arms merely as arms, glory as glory,
give way to such enticements. Their reason becomes clouded, their spirit
becomes unsteeled, their patriotism falters. They grow ready to
sacrifice right, liberty, dignity for that glory whose brilliancy oft
conceals so much of mere low ambition, of abject servility, of shameful
appetites, and vain and childish selfishness. Military chiefs are nearly
all contemptible men, even under the republican regime."

"Victoria, how severe you are!" replied Oliver, sorrowfully. "Have I
really merited this reproach?"

"When St. Just and Lebas came here to hold council with the Generals
over to-morrow's battle, I noticed your hesitancy in giving, as
customary, the military salute."

"Yes, I felt extreme repugnance toward saluting a commissioner of the
Convention to the armies, because these people are in no way military.
If some day I become a general, I shall never consent to submit my plans
of campaign to a Representative of the people. No authority should
precede that of a general in his army. That authority should be single,
absolute, obeyed without discussion; he should be responsible to none
for his acts. His soldiers should hear but one voice: his; know but one
power: his."

"That is the language held by Dumouriez the eve of the day on which he
betrayed the Republic," answered Victoria bitterly. Just then John
Lebrenn and Duchemin entered, bringing in their prisoners.

John did not see his sister sitting with Oliver beside the door. But the
young woman, doubly surprised by meeting at once both her brother and
the Jesuit Morlet, whom she immediately recognized through his rustic
disguise, made at first a move to rush after John. But fearing lest he,
unable to master his surprise, might compromise the secret of a
transformation which she desired to guard, she checked herself, and
whispered to Oliver, who was no less stupefied than she at the sight of
his former master: "My brother has gone with that country fellow and the
little boy into the room of the aides-de-camp. Go tell the cannonier
Duchemin to meet me in the courtyard." Tossing her sword under her left
arm with military ease, the young woman started for the door; and
designating by a glance the other soldiers, she added, "I do not wish my
first interview with my brother to take place before our comrades; his
emotion would betray me."

"I obey, Victoria," sadly replied Oliver. "My surprise at meeting your
brother in the army prevents me from asking you in what I deserve the
cruel words you have but just addressed to me."

"My attachment for you, Oliver, compels me never to conceal the truth,
harsh as it may be. That is the only means of forestalling results of
which you perhaps have no premonition. We shall resume the conversation
later," she added, as she left the vestibule, the pavement of which rang
under her spurred boots.

The courtyard in front of the Commune Hall was a spacious one. On either
side were ranged the horses of the couriers. The fog had lifted; the
stars shone overhead. In the clear air of the crisp, cold night,
Victoria soon beheld the artilleryman coming towards her. She advanced
to meet him, saying: "I desired to speak to you, citizen, for the
purpose of giving you some information upon that man and the young child
whom you and a volunteer have just brought in as prisoners."

"They are two spies of Pitt and Coburg, who fell among our pickets and
were arrested, only an hour ago, by one of our sentries, a Parisian."

"Is that Parisian named John Lebrenn?"

"What, do you know him, my brave hussar!" asked Duchemin.

"That I do. We are old friends. But here is my information: The man
under arrest is a French priest, a Jesuit, an enemy of the Republic."

"A Jesuit! Ah, double brigand and black-cap! The gallows-bird!"

"His name is Abbot Morlet. It it urgent that you go at once and inform
John Lebrenn of this circumstance; he no doubt will be a witness at the
reverend's examination, which may even now be under way. The spy should
be unmasked."

"The examiner will give the black-cap's tongue to the dogs if he answers
in the gibberish he treated us to just now, in order to throw us off the
scent."

"When he finds himself recognized, he will not be likely to persist in
that ruse. Go, then, comrade, acquaint John Lebrenn with the fact that
his prisoner is the Jesuit Morlet, whom he already knows by reputation.
Then say to him that a trooper of the Third Hussars wishes to speak with
him a moment, and awaits him here in the court."

"'Tis well. The two commissions will be fulfilled, as you request."

While awaiting her brother, Victoria paced thoughtfully up and down the
courtyard. "Dear brother," she thought, "he has kept his promise. He
would pay his debt of blood to the Republic, and here he is, a soldier.
I can now unveil to him my mystery, and the object of my conduct in
regard to Oliver."

Informed by Duchemin that a hussar of the Third wished to see him, John
soon stepped out of the Commune Hall, and descrying a cavalryman of the
designated regiment at some paces from the door, walked towards him,
saying:

"Is it you, comrade, who sent me word by an under-officer of the
artillery that you had something to say to me?"

"It is I," answered Victoria, taking two steps toward her brother. The
latter, at first taken aback by surprise at hearing a voice which he
believed he knew, now approached rapidly. Incapable of leaving him any
longer in suspense, Victoria threw herself on the volunteer's neck,
saying in a broken voice:

"Brother! Dear and tender brother! Pardon me the pain I have caused
you!"

"All is forgotten now," murmured John, weeping with joy, and straining
his sister to his breast. "At last I recover you, darling sister!"

"And soon, I hope, we shall be separated no more. My task draws to its
close. And your worthy wife?"

"I heard from her only day before yesterday. She is well, and sustains
my absence courageously. Ah, Charlotte is doubly dear to me now--for she
is about to be a mother."

"How happy she must be!"

"In the midst of all her happiness, she still thinks of you. There is
not one of her letters in which she does not mention you, and wonder at
the mystery which has enveloped you for so many months. Good heaven, to
find you here in the army, in uniform. I know not whether I am awake or
dreaming. I can hardly collect my thoughts." And then after a moment's
silence, John resumed: "Your pardon, sister. I am now calmer. I now
believe I can divine the cause which led you to emulate those many
heroines who are enlisted against the enemies of the Republic.
Oliver--doubtless--serves in the same regiment with you? You were
anxious to continue directing him, watching over him?"

"Yes, brother mine; and already, by his bravery and aptitude in war he
has scaled the lower rounds of the ladder. A brilliant future is
unrolled before him."

"Sister--" began John with some hesitancy, "the result is beyond what we
hoped--but--"

"At what price have I obtained it? is it not, John? I can read your
thoughts. I have no cause to blush for the means I have employed. The
day of his attempted suicide, Oliver pledged me, as you know, that he
would not make a second attempt within twenty-four hours. Before
daybreak I rapped at his door. He had not retired. His face was as
ominous as the evening before. 'Oliver,' I said to him, 'let us go at
once.' 'Where are we going?' 'You shall know. You have promised me to
renounce till night-fall your projects of suicide. It matters little to
you where you pass your last day, here or elsewhere. Come.' Oliver
followed me. We went to Sceaux, where I had once before spent some time,
hoping to find relief in solitude from my griefs. Perhaps you have
forgotten that when the chateau of Sceaux became national property, our
good old patriot porter in St. Honore Street became, by your
recommendation to Cambon, one of the guardians of the domain. The fine
old man occupies with his wife the ground floor of a pavilion situated
near one of the gates of the estate. The second floor is vacant, and it
was there I dwelt during my former sojourn in the place. To this abode I
conducted Oliver. I presented him to the keeper and his wife as one of
our relatives who had been ordered to the country for his health; I was
to stay to take care of him. The good people received us with joy. They
fitted up, from the relics in the furniture repository of the old
mansion, a room for Oliver, and took upon themselves the task of
preparing our meals. I had in the neighborhood of six hundred livres,
which I had saved. That sum would suffice for all our needs for quite a
while.

"My arrangements with the keeper concluded," continued Victoria, "I led
Oliver out into the park. We had left Paris before dawn. By the time we
arrived at Sceaux, nature had donned all the fragrant beauty of new-born
day. The May morning sun cast his first radiant beams over those
enchanted vistas. We walked in silence over the velvety lawns, whose
richness was reflected in the little ponds that dotted them. Here were
vases and statues of marble niched in the green of the hedges; yonder
spouting fountains surrounded by immense rose-bushes then in full bloom.
Their scent filled the air. These details may seem childish, brother,
but they were all important."

"I can well see it; you hoped to reattach the poor boy to life by
displaying to him, in that fine spring morning, nature in her most
smiling aspect."

"Such indeed was my purpose. I observed Oliver closely. His looks, at
first lorn and somber, brightened little by little. He breathed in with
wide nostrils the morning ambrosia of the woods, the fields and the
flowers. He rapturously bent his ear to catch the chirping of the birds
nested in the foliage. His glance lost its heaviness, and again glowed
with youthful buoyancy. He took new hold of life while abandoning
himself to the sweet sensations awakened in him by the contemplation of
nature. I sought to stir the most sensitive and delicate chords of the
boy's being. My friendliness tempered what had up till then been stern
and parental in my relations with him; I spoke to him now more as sister
than as mother.

"'It would be paradise upon earth to live here,' he said.

"'Then let us settle in the village, Oliver.'

"'What! You consent to share this solitude with me?'

"'Most assuredly. Indeed, it was even with that hope that I brought you
here.'

"He beamed with happiness. But suddenly, his face clouding again, he
asked me sadly 'what I would be to him.' 'Your sister,' I told him. But
seeing him continue to lose the brightness he had just regained, I added
gaily:

"'Yesterday, my friend, I would consent to be nothing more than mother
to you. To-day I am willing to rejuvenate myself sufficiently to become
your sister. Is not that great progress?'

"'So,' he cried in a transport, 'you give me leave to hope?'

"'I give you permission to hope for what I hope myself, Oliver: that one
day I may feel for you a sentiment more tender than that of fraternity.
But it depends upon you still more than on me.'

"'What must I do?'

"'Become a man, Oliver; a man of whom I can be proud.'

"Oliver at first gave himself up with joy to this hope; but soon he
again asked, with a shade of suspicion in his voice, 'You will not make
me any promises--are you thinking, then, of forsaking me?'

"'Not at all, Oliver; and moreover, here is what I propose. We shall
remain in this charming retreat until you are completely recovered,
then we shall join the army, and enroll in the same regiment.' And in
answer to a gesture of stupefaction from Oliver, I added, 'Shall I, do
you imagine, be the first woman who shares the perils of our soldiers,
with her secret locked under her uniform? I wish to see you rise from
rank to rank. Then will come the day, perhaps soon, when some brilliant
deed will raise you to the height I dream of for you, and to our common
hope. Now, Oliver, choose between suicide and the glorious future I
present to you.'"

"All is now explained, worthy and great-hearted sister," exclaimed John
Lebrenn.

"I am now happy to note that my influence over Oliver diminishes daily.
His warlike ardor, the intoxication of his early successes, the activity
of camp life--all, according to my calculation, have combined to
overcome his passion. I foresaw that love would be fleeting in that
warlike soul, I sought above all to snatch him from suicide, from
failure. I wished by a vague hope to rekindle his dying courage,
initiate him into the career of arms, which his nature called him to,
and by watching over him like a mother and sharing his soldier's life,
to preserve him from the pitfalls that destroy so many young men. I
wished, in fine, to affirm him in the path of justice and virtue, to
develop his civic character, and to render still more fervent his love
for the fatherland and the Republic. Then, this self-imposed duty once
fulfilled, I reserve the means of casting Oliver upon the destiny which
the future seems to hold for him. Such was my project. In part it is
realized. The young man's passion for war is now his only amour.
Accordingly, I will soon be able to leave him."

At this point in their conversation the brother and sister saw Jesuit
Morlet and little Rodin file out of the Commune Hall, escorted by
several soldiers. One of these carried a lantern. The artilleryman
Duchemin brought up the rear.

"Hey, comrade!" called John Lebrenn to the quartermaster, as he
approached him, while Victoria remained behind, "I have something to ask
you."

"Speak, citizen."

"Do you know what they have decided about this doubly-dangerous spy,
this minion of the Society of Jesus?"

"According to what I just heard, the black-cap will be shot to-morrow
morning. They are taking him to the quarters of the Grand Provost of the
army, who has charge of the execution; and as my battery is established
near the Provost's quarters, I am acting as conduct to the agent of Pitt
and Coburg."

One of Hoche's aides-de-camp now stepped precipitately out of the
Commune Hall, hastened across the court, and ran in the direction of the
General's quarters. A company of grenadiers stationed there at once
caught up their arms and fell in line, drum at the right, officers at
the head, and soon the four Representatives of the people, St. Just and
Lebas, commissioners in extraordinary from the Convention to Strasburg,
and Lacoste and Randon, commissioners to the Army of the Rhine and
Moselle, descended the steps of the Commune Hall, preceded by several
officers furnished with lanterns, and followed by Generals Hoche and
Pichegru, and the superior officers of the divisions. The
Representatives of the people wore hats, one side of which, turned up,
was surmounted with a tricolor plume; their uniform coats were blue,
with large unbroidered lapels, and crossed with a scarf in the national
colors; over their trousers, which were blue like their coats, they had
on heavy spurred boots, and cavalry sabers hung by their sides. St. Just
walked before the others. He was of almost the same age as Hoche, about
twenty-four. The two conversed in low tones, some steps ahead of the
other Generals and Representatives. The features and attitudes of Hoche
and St. Just, as revealed by the light of the lanterns, contrasted
sharply. The republican General, of robust stature and with a bluff
countenance, intelligent and resolute, which a glorious scar rendered
all the more martial, displayed an insistence almost supplicating, as he
addressed St. Just. The latter, of only medium height, with a high and
proud forehead, accorded to the pleadings of Hoche a silent attention.
His pale and firm-set features, set off by his long straight hair, gave
to the man an air of sculptured impassivity. His life, his feeling,
seemed concentrated in his burning glances.

"Brother, do you remark Oliver's countenance?" said Victoria. "Pride
possesses it. He seems to regard as acts of servility the marks of
respect shown by the officers to the Representatives of the people."

"Oliver's expression is indeed significant," replied John.

"Halloa! Courier of the Third Hussars!" one of the under-officers cried
at that moment from the doorway, holding up a sealed packet. "To horse!
A despatch to carry to Sultz."

"Present!" called back Victoria; then she continued in a voice filled
with emotion, as she held out her hand to John,

"Adieu, brother, till to-morrow. Perchance the order of battle or the
fortunes of war will bring us near each other."

"I hope--and fear it, sister," answered John, his eyes moist with tears,
lest this should be the last time he was to see Victoria. "You have
shown yourself valiant, devoted and generous in your conduct towards
Oliver. Till to-morrow."

"Adieu, brother!" And Victoria hastened to receive the despatch, while
John returned to the bivouac of the Paris Volunteers.

The despatch which Victoria carried to Sultz had been written by Hoche
that very evening, and addressed to Citizen Bouchotte, Minister of War.
It read:

     Ingelsheim, 6th Nivose, year II, 1 A. M.

     I hasten to inform you, Citizen Minister, that the Representatives
     of the people have just placed me in command of the two armies of
     the Rhine and Moselle, to march to the succor of Landau.

     No prayer or pleading on my part could change the resolution of the
     Representatives of the people. Judge me. With nothing but courage,
     how will I be able to carry such a burden? Nevertheless, I shall do
     my best in the service of the Republic.

     Greetings and brotherhood,

     HOCHE.[15]

This letter of Hoche's, in which the great captain reveals the modesty
that in him equalled his military genius, illustrates also his anxieties
on the score of the responsibility which had just fallen upon
him--anxieties his noble and touching expression of which was unable to
shake the will of St. Just.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

SERVING AND MIS-SERVING.


Jesuit Morlet and his god-son, little Rodin, had been taken in due
course before the Provost, and the reverend fellow was now awaiting the
hour of his execution, which was set for sun-up. The cord which bound
his arms was fastened to a post of the cart-shed that served as shelter
for the Grand Provost's mounted police; at the foot of the post the
Jesuit lay huddled. Too case-hardened not to face death with a certain
degree of calm, he said to his god-son:

"I have no chance of escaping death. I shall be shot at break of day.
Here ends my career."

"You will soon be with the angels," dryly responded little Rodin, who
now seemed strangely to have recovered both speech and hearing.

"Poor little one! My beloved son, you are, are you not, very sad at my
approaching death?"

"You are an elect of the Lord, predestined to glory, and you will sit at
His right side through eternity. _Hosannah in excelsis!_ On the
contrary, I rejoice in your martyrdom."

"So young, and already devoid of affection!" muttered the Jesuit to
himself. "Are you not grieved at the idea of being left behind and
forsaken by my death?"

"The Lord God will watch over His servant, as He watches over the birds
of the air. He provides for all."

"Listen, dear child; when God has called me to Him, go you to Rome, to
the General of the Order. God will perform the rest."

"I shall go to Rome; your recommendations will be precisely followed,
dear god-father; I shall serve the holy cause of God."

As little Rodin concluded these words, a courier came up and said to the
cavalryman on picket duty before the Jesuit and his god-son: "Comrade,
can you show me to the quarters of Citizen General Donadieu? I have a
message for him."

"You haven't far to go. Pass through the shed, turn to the right, and
you will see another cavalry picket before the door of a house. There is
where General Donadieu is quartered," replied the sentry, while the
courier vanished in the direction indicated.

"Good god-father, General Donadieu is attached to this army! Good news
for us!"

"But, dear god-son, how will the presence of this general serve us any?"

"Good god-father," replied young Rodin in a whisper, "if you wish it,
you need not go to-day to visit the angels of the Lord. Think and decide
whether you would rather go. I am here to obey you."

With a nod the Jesuit approved the advice of his god-son, and beckoning
to the cavalryman, who approached them, he said: "Hey, sentry! Is it
indeed decided that I be shot at daybreak?"

"In the shake of a lamb's tail. You won't have long to wait."

"Well, well! Since it must be so, I have decided to make
revelations--very important ones."

"I shall call the brigadier and he will take you before the Provost."

"No, no. It is to a general that I wish to make my revelations. Let your
chiefs know without delay."

"You hear that, brigadier!" commented the sentry to an under-officer who
had come up. "The old rascal calls for a general to make revelations
to!"

"I'll go see the Provost about it," said the brigadier. The few moments
he was gone the Jesuit utilized to confer in whispers with his god-son.
The brigadier quickly returned, went up to the post to which the
reverend was tethered, and said to him:

"Off to General Donadieu. But look out for yourself if your confidences
are a sham!" And seeing that little Rodin made ready to follow the
prisoner, the soldier added: "Has this brat also revelations to make?
Has he got anything to do with you?"

"The child will attest, by his tender candor, the sincerity of my
communications, and will complete them in case of gaps in my memory."

General Donadieu, commandant of a brigade of light cavalry in the Army
of the Rhine and Moselle, had just finished reading the order he had
received, when one of his aides-de-camp informed him that a spy,
condemned to be shot at sunrise, asked for an audience to give him
information of the utmost importance, but requested that the interview
have no other witness than the child who would accompany him.

"I do not accept the scoundrel's proposal," replied the General to his
aide-de-camp. "His condition is compromising. Send him in, and stay here
yourself."

Accompanied by his god-son, the Jesuit appeared. Both were calm. The
General looked the spy over from head to foot, and said to him sharply:

"You pretend to have important matters to disclose to me, which, you
say, concern the army? I shall listen to you. But be brief. Do not abuse
my patience."

"When we are alone," replied the Jesuit, glancing at the aide-de-camp.
"Our interview must be in secret."

"My aide is my second self. He may hear all. Speak, then. Speak at once,
or go to the devil!"

"I shall speak, then, General, since you command it. The day after the
battle of Watignies a cavalry colonel in the republican army was taken
prisoner. He was marched to headquarters--"

"Wait a moment!" cried General Donadieu, visibly troubled at these
opening words of the Jesuit's. "You hope to obtain a suspension of
sentence as the price of your revelations?"

"More than that. I must be set at liberty."

"I can grant you neither delay nor liberation without the authority of
the Representatives of the people. Captain, find Citizen St. Just at
once, and ask him whether I may suspend the execution of this man if his
revelations seem worthy of it."

"At your orders, General," replied the aide, as he left the room.

The General, at last overcoming the uneasiness which the Jesuit's first
words caused him, now resumed, haughtily:

"As you were saying, the day after the battle of Watignies a cavalry
colonel--"

"General Donadieu," came imperiously from the Jesuit, "your moments are
numbered. If, before your aide returns, you have not contrived a way to
set me at liberty, you are lost. Think it over. A prisoner at the battle
of Watignies, you were conducted by the Count of Plouernel before
Monseigneur the Prince of Conde, who received you most flatteringly. You
admitted to him that it was with regret that you served in an army so
lacking in military pride as to submit to the yoke of the
Representatives of the people. You added--still speaking, be it
remembered, to the Prince of Conde--these words, literally:
'Monseigneur, my dignity as an officer is so outraged by subjection to
the tyranny of these bourgeois pro-consuls, that, without the slightest
scruple of conscience, I would offer you my sword and serve on your
side.'"

"Ah, indeed? So I said that to the Prince of Conde, did I? And perhaps
you have proofs of what you say?"

"The proofs are inscribed in a certain register kept in the Prince's
staff headquarters. In that register are kept the names of all the
officers in the republican army on whom, in case of need, the royalist
party thinks it can call. The fact which concerns you was related to me
by the Count of Plouernel, former colonel in the French Guards, who was
present at your interview with Monseigneur the Prince of Conde; which
interview was continued by his Most Serene Highness in these words: 'My
dear colonel, remain in the republican army. You will there be able to
serve the cause of our rightful King most efficaciously by spurring your
regiment to rebel at the proper moment in the name of military honor,
against these miserable bourgeois pro-consuls. Be sure, my dear colonel,
that the day the good cause triumphs you will be rewarded as you
deserve. Until then, keep snug behind your republican mask.' So,"
continued the Jesuit, "you have so well worn your mask that after being
returned to the army in the exchange of prisoners, you were first
promoted to the rank of Brigadier General, then to Division General--"

"Enough, stop," cut in Donadieu in a sardonic tone of complete
reassurance. "What now is your project? You intend to make your
disclosures to others besides me, if I do not at once enable you to
escape?"

"Aye, General, that is my intention."

"There is only one obstacle--"

"And that is, General? Have the goodness to make it known to me. We will
find a way around it."

"Eh!" replied Donadieu, moving towards the door, "It is that I shall
call the mounted patrolman who brought you hither, order him to shoot
you on the spot, and your secret dies with you. The solution is swift
and simple."

"And St. Just, to whom you have just applied for permission to remit my
sentence? You have forgotten that detail."

"I shall tell St. Just that your revelations were rubbish, and I let the
execution take its course. St. Just is not the man to reproach me for
hastening the death of a counter-revolutionist. So, then," continued
General Donadieu, taking another step toward the door, "you will be
shot at once. Our conversation in over."

"And me?" piped up little Rodin, who had so far kept himself motionless
and silent in a dark corner of the room. "And me? They won't shoot me,
I'm very sure. I am hardly eleven. So then, if you send my good
god-father to the angels, I shall tell everyone what I have just seen
and heard."

"Whence it follows, General," chimed in the reverend, "that you have no
other safe course than to shut your eyes to our flight, and if you are
wise, accompany us, and carry the plan of to-morrow's battle to the
Austrian headquarters with you."

"This low window opens on the ground," volunteered Rodin, examining the
casing. "We will be able to clear out through it, General, before your
aide-de-camp comes back. The rest--God will care for."

"The light will help us to avoid your picket lines, among whom we fell
last night," added the prelate, in turn approaching the window, whence
he beheld the first grey streaks of dawn. Then to Donadieu, who stood
paralyzed with fear, he added: "Come, General, loose me of my bonds. I
must have this place far behind me when your aide returns."

"What shall I do?" stammered the bewildered General. "My aide will
return with St. Just's orders. The prisoners' escape will be the end of
me--I shall be suspected of having assisted in it--and suspicion is
death!"

"Good god-father," cried Rodin, who had been ferreting around the room
and had just opened a door leading into a neighboring apartment,
"listen, the General does not wish to fly with us--he will let us
escape. He will say to his aide-de-camp that while he was in the next
room a minute or two, we profited by his momentary absence to cut the
cords on your wrists and to vanish by yonder window."

"What presence of mind!" exclaimed the Jesuit; and, turning to the
General, "My god-son is right. There is nothing else left for you to do.
You will be accused of negligence; that is grave. But you will at least
have a chance of averting suspicion."

"All the more, seeing that if the General had had the intention of
letting us escape he would not have sent his aide to St. Just for
orders," judicially added Rodin. "You have every chance not to be
molested because of our escape, General. But if you have my god-father
shot, I shall denounce you to St. Just."

This reasoning commanded prompt action. General Donadieu chose of the
two evils the lesser. Hurriedly whipping off the prelate's bonds he
said: "Fly, quick. You will find a clump of trees a hundred paces off,
within our picket line. Hide there; and lie close till you hear the
cannon, which will announce to you the battle is on. Then you will have
nothing more to fear. Now go!" cried the General, flinging open the
window, "Go, quickly!"

"I shall not prove an ingrate," promised the Jesuit as he passed towards
the opening the other had made for him. "When I see the Prince of Conde,
I shall report to him that he may always count on you."

The prelate's god-son slipped like a serpent through the window, and was
gone. The Jesuit followed suit.

"Ah, well," said General Donadieu to himself. "If St. Just suspects me,
over I go to the enemy. We soldiers know how to serve or mis-serve
according as our interests or safety demand. If I carry the plans of the
battle to the Austrians, I shall at least have saved my life and
general's commission. Devil take the Republic!"




CHAPTER XXIX.

BATTLE OF THE LINES OF WEISSENBURG.


Towards eight o'clock on the morning of the 6th Nivose, year II
(December 26, 1793), under cover of a thick fog, St. Just and Hoche
began their advance. The two leaders walked their horses side by side,
close behind a squad of cavalrymen detailed as scouts. A short distance
to the rear of the Representative of the people and the
Commander-in-chief followed a group of aides-de-camp and artillery
officers.

Gradually, in the teeth of a stiff north wind, the fog began again to
lift. The gallop of an approaching horse was heard, and one of Hoche's
aides loomed out of the thinning haze, made straight for his
commander-in-chief, and said, as he reined in his mount:

"Citizen General, our scouts just encountered a party of Uhlans. We
charged them and reached the enemy's advance guard near enough to make
out a considerable body of cavalry."

The north wind continued to blow, clearing away the mists, and soon,
from the rising ground where they had taken their station, St. Just,
Hoche, and their staff were able to sweep with their eye the field of
the approaching battle. Before them, from northwest to southeast at the
extreme edge of the horizon, stretched the regular outline of the
"Lines" or entrenchments of Weissenburg, parallel to the course of the
Lauter, a rapid river which served as moat to these fortified works. To
the right, the now leafless fastnesses of the forest of Bienvalt, which
also bordered on the Lauter over which the remnants of the fog still
hung, reached away till they lost themselves in the distance toward
Lauterburg, a town situated in one of the bends of the Rhine, now the
headquarters of the army of Conde.

With his glass Hoche examined the position of the Austrian army, and
said to St. Just:

"The Austrian general, as I foresaw, surprised by our march which has
taken from him the offensive, has changed his plan of battle by making
his infantry fall back half way upon the plateau of Geisberg. We must
haste to profit by the hesitation into which this discreet retreat will
have thrown the enemy." Then, addressing one of the artillery officers,
Hoche added: "Citizen, order General Ferino to push out with the cavalry
and flying artillery of his division. His cannoniers are to open fire
upon the enemy's squadrons, and when they weaken, he is to send in his
cavalry."

The officer left at a gallop to convey the order to Ferino, who
commanded the advance guard. The republican army was drawn up in three
columns, the cavalry on the right, the infantry in the center, and the
artillery on the left, with the reserves, the supplies and the
ambulances in second line. Suddenly a distant booming, deep and
prolonged, resounded on the left, in the direction of Nothweiller, and
Hoche exclaimed:

"The cannon! The cannon! Gonvion St. Cyr has followed my orders! He is
pouring out of the valley of the Lauter and attacking Brunswick's
position. There are the Prussians engaged. They will hardly bring aid to
the Austrians now! If Desaix has carried out his movement as well, and
attacked Conde's body at Lauterburg, the Austrian army is thrown on its
own resources. The Lines of Weissenburg are ours, and we shall raise the
siege of Landau!"

At that moment General Ferino, in response to Hoche's orders, advanced
at a rapid trot at the head of his cavalry and artillery. Beside the
General rode Lebas, the Representative of the people on mission to the
armies. Recognizing the importance of this first charge for the success
of the day, he desired to assist Hoche, and to march in the front rank.

"On, my brave Ferino," called Hoche to the General as he swept by.
"First shatter the Austrian cavalry with your cannon, and then--a taste
of your saber for them!"

"Count on me, General. I'll send the white-cloaks to drink in the
Lauter, whether they are thirsty or not," replied Ferino; and waving his
sword he turned towards his cohorts and gave the cry:

"Forward, my children, forward! Long live the Republic!"

"Long live the Republic!" shouted back the cavalrymen, flashing their
swords in the air as they thundered past Hoche. "Our comrades have
retaken Toulon--we shall free Landau!"

"Soldiers," called Hoche, "show yourselves worthy of your past
victories. The Republic counts on the Army of the Rhine and Moselle! To
victory or death!"

The battle was on. General Ferino's artillery mowed down the Austrian
cavalry, Wurmser's first line. Profiting by their disorder, gathering up
his squadrons and hurling them with himself at their head upon the
enemy, Ferino overthrew the forces which opposed him, and carried his
mounted sabers right into the infantry squares of the second line. Then
Hoche flung his attacking column upon Wurmser's center, while that
general's left wing fell under the fire of several batteries of flying
artillery. One of these batteries, consisting of six four-pounders, had
taken position on an eminence where lay a solitary farmhouse. From this
hillock it was possible to rake the Austrian's left flank from the rear.
A squadron of the Third Hussars and two companies of the Seventh
Battalion, Paris Volunteers, were detached to act as guard to this
artillery. The captain of the battery, on reconnoitering his position,
found that the farmhouse and its buildings occupied nearly the center of
a mound about three hundred paces in diameter. Toward the enemy the hill
presented a rapid rise of some thirty feet, while on the side of the
republican army it was nearly level with the plain occupied by the
reserves. A thicket of trees and live brush extended to the right and a
little to the rear of the battery's position. The inhabitants of the
place had fled with the opening of the engagement, carrying with them
their cattle and all their more valuable belongings. One by one the iron
spit-fires arrived to take their position in the battery, the first to
appear being Carmagnole, the sweetheart of quartermaster Duchemin. This
piece, by the almost grotesque cut of its furniture, presented a curious
example of the oddity of artillery carriages in those days.

The team drew up with a half-turn, Duchemin and his eight assistants
leaped to the ground, and confided their horses to the two artillerymen
charged with their care. The pin which coupled the piece proper to the
caisson was removed, and there she stood in position on her two wheels,
some distance ahead of the caisson, in which the cartridges were kept.
The drivers hurried their horses under shelter of the farmhouse, some
fifty paces away. Soon the six spit-fires were in position. The
commanders of the squadron of hussars and the two companies of
volunteers also took what advantage they could of the lay of the land to
protect their men from the fire which an Austrian battery might at any
moment be expected to open upon the republican guns. One of the Paris
Volunteers' companies was masked in the brush of the little wood just
mentioned, in position to fire from under cover in case the enemy should
attempt to seize the battery. The other company entrenched itself behind
the stone wall which enclosed the courtyard of the farm, and behind the
buildings which already acted as cover to the artillery horses.

By the chances of war there were thus reunited among the defenders of
the battery Oliver and Victoria, John Lebrenn and Castillon, and finally
the young Parisian recruit Duresnel, who also was a member of Captain
Martin's company.

"Well, comrade," said Captain Martin to him, "how goes it? Your heart is
still whole? Keep up your courage, all will go well."

"So far, captain, things are not going badly. But we must wait for the
end--or rather for the beginning, for we haven't begun to fight yet."

"It seems it is going to be warm!" volunteered Castillon. "By my pipe,
what a cannonade! That must be comrade Duchemin making his Carmagnole
spit! Let me see if I can get a glimpse of him over the wall."

Stretching himself on tiptoe, Castillon raised himself sufficiently to
cast his eye above the wall, upon the group of cannon, now half
enveloped in the smoke of their first volleys. Duchemin, kneeling on the
ground after conning the hostile battery through his pocket-glass, was
training his piece, already roughly aimed by a brigadier, while his
assistants on either side, armed with their ramrods, sponges and levers,
stood ready for action. One of them held the match, waiting for the
order to light the fuse. The other five pieces, ranged parallel to
Carmagnole, were likewise surrounded by their attendants and being
sighted by their under-officers. The captain of artillery and his
lieutenants, on horseback, superintended the manoeuvring. In the
distance the Austrian lines and the advancing columns of the French were
lost almost completely in the smoke and smother of the now general
cannonade. Nevertheless, the watchers on the hill soon perceived a large
mass of opposing infantry so cut up and thrown into disorder by the
relentless and accurate fire of the battery, that the Austrian general
was moving up four howitzers and four six-pounders, with the intention
of crippling the republican artillery. Seeing with his glass the first
howitzer advance to the left from the enemy's battery, Duchemin at once
carefully re-trained his Carmagnole, shook his fist in the howitzer's
direction, and growled under his heavy moustache, alluding to the short
and stocky build of those pieces:

"Ah, it is you who would presume to silence my Carmagnole, stump-nose!
I'll show you that you were never cast to clip my sweetheart's words!"

Just then, in response to a sign from the captain, the trumpeter of the
battery sounded the signal to "Fire!"

"Come, my cadet," cried Duchemin to the soldier with the burning match,
"the soup is ready--all we need is to serve it! Light her! light her!
Let her go!"

The cannonier touched off the fuse with his match, and Carmagnole's
discharge rang out several seconds ahead of the general volley of the
battery. Gazing again through his field-glass to watch the effect of his
shell, Duchemin cried out: "There she is! The stump-nose is knocked off
one wheel, and two of her flunkies are keeled over. Long live the
Republic!"

In fact, Carmagnole's ball had crushed one of the wheels of the howitzer
and knocked down two of the Austrian artillerists an instant before the
hostile battery had gotten in its first shot. But almost immediately the
enemy's guns were crowned with several little clouds of white smoke,
lighted up with streaks of flame. A prolonged roar reached the
Frenchmen, and Duchemin exclaimed, turning towards the stone wall where
the volunteer infantrymen were entrenched:

"Citizens, look out for the shells!"

Hardly had Duchemin sounded the warning when the rain of iron was upon
them; the balls screamed, the shells rebounded and burst. The commander
of the little republican battery was cut in two by a flying shell; horse
and rider went down mangled before the shot. Another shell burst between
two cannon, killing one of their crew and wounding two others so
severely that they fell and with difficulty dragged themselves to the
ambulance sheltered behind the farmhouse.

"Cannoniers! Load at will! Aim for the howitzers!" cried the first
lieutenant, assuming command. The trumpet repeated the order through its
metal throat. The artillerymen vied with one another in haste to charge
their pieces. Then cries of "Fire! Fire!" rang out from the farmhouse,
which suddenly became enveloped in thick black smoke. A shell exploding
in a hay loft had set the blaze.

"In one way that little bonfire isn't bad," said Castillon, "for it is
deuced cold. But too much is too much, and now we're going to roast."
And catching sight of the volunteer Duresnel, pale, propping himself up
with his gun, his lips working as though he would talk, though no sound
proceeded from them, Castillon continued: "Well, neighbor, here we are,
'wo'd of honor;' but what the devil do you see back there to make your
eyes pop out so?" So saying, Castillon followed Duresnel's fixed and
frightened stare, and what he saw made him pull the young volunteer
toward him, with the words: "Come, comrade, do not look that way. You
haven't got the hang of the thing yet. That is the fortune of war."

"My heaven," stammered Duresnel, as he followed Castillon's advice. "My
heaven, it is horrible! Poor victims!"

A ball, rebounding on the inner face of the stone wall, had struck the
lines of volunteers sheltered there, killing and maiming all in its
path. The dead and wounded weltered in blood. Captain Martin, struck by
the spent ball near the end of its course, had been knocked down, but
only bruised on the shoulder. Soon recovering from the shock, he lent
his aid to the soldiers of his company, John Lebrenn among them, to
help or carry the wounded to the surgeons' post in the rear. These at
once gave their care to the cannoniers and to some hussars of the Third,
among whom a shell had also wrought its havoc.

Undaunted by these disasters, the republican artillery continued to work
marvels. At last the opposing commander, fearing lest his right wing be
annihilated, sent word to the regiment of the Gerolstein Cuirassiers to
storm the battery. Up to this time masked behind a hill, this regiment
of heavy reserve cavalry had taken no part in the conflict. They were
part of the contingent put by the principality of Gerolstein at the
service of the Germanic Confederation, and were commanded by the Grand
Duke himself. This prince was the father of Franz of Gerolstein, whom he
held immured in a state dungeon. In spite of his sixty-and-odd years,
the old Grand Duke preserved the freshness and buoyancy of youth; to his
natural bravery he now added the incentive of hatred for the Revolution.
The Count of Plouernel, having made good his second escape from Paris,
and now for some time married to the daughter of the Prince of Holtzern,
was second in command. The horsemen of this troop wore a cuirass and
helmet of steel, over a livery in the Grand Duke's colors--bright blue
with orange facings--with heavy boots, and white wool trousers. In
short, the regiment was one of the best equipped and finest in the
allied army. The rank and file, lusty fellows in the prime of life,
warlike, well drilled, well clad, well fed and well paid, pampered up,
in short, like a troop of the chosen, were typical 'soldiers of
monarchy.' Disciplined by their officers with the cane, after the German
fashion, they were the instrument of their master's will, ready to
saber father, mother, brother or fellow-citizen, or to march upon the
enemy, with equal indifference, killing merely because some one said
"Kill!" or falling in the onslaught because some one said "Forward!" On
the right of the regiment rode the Grand Duke, a robust man, tall of
frame, and hard and proud of feature. His face was half concealed under
the visor of his helmet, which was surmounted with a rich plume of heron
feathers. The gentlemen and officers of his household rode somewhat
apart from him, while he himself held the following conversation with
the Count of Plouernel, who now bore the uniform of a colonel of
cuirassiers:

"Count, I saw the Prince of Conde yesterday on his way through
Weissenburg to take up quarters at Lauterburg. 'The Republic,' he said
to me, 'is no longer betrayed by its generals. _Our goose is cooked!_'
The Prince's observation was sound; I look forward to a series of
reverses to our arms. In case I am killed in to-day's battle, do not
forget the promise you have given me. Go to my son Franz, in the prison
where he lies; tell him that my last thoughts were curses upon him.
Then," the Grand Duke added, with a sinister air, "see that justice
takes its course with him. My highest court has judged and condemned my
unworthy son; he is convicted of a revolutionary plot against the safety
of my states, and against my person. He has incurred the penalty of
death--the sentence is to be executed with the briefest possible delay.
My nephew Otto, whose cousin you married, is to inherit my grand-ducal
crown. All the bequests, minutely set forth in my testament, are to be
fully carried out."

"Drive away these dark thoughts, monseigneur," replied the Count. "You
will reign a long time yet, and decide all these matters for yourself."

The word to advance was given, and the Gerolstein regiment, the Grand
Duke at its head, set out at a round trot. The ground shook under the
hoofs of its eight hundred horses; the rattle of its sabers, muskets and
breastplates made a formidable din. Two hundred rods away rose the
hillock on whose brow scowled the republican battery that now menaced
every foot of the plain the cuirassiers were advancing over. Unable to
outflank the battery, owing to its being protected to the right by the
little wood and to the left by the semi-demolished farm buildings, the
Grand Duke could see nothing for it but to charge right into the muzzles
of the cannon which he hoped to capture, little thinking that they were
supported by both infantry and cavalry so cunningly disposed that he was
prevented from detecting them.

"The republican position is too strong, monseigneur, to be attacked in
front," said the Count of Plouernel, "and yet it would be difficult to
try to turn its flank."

"I am resolved to take it in front," replied the Grand Duke. "I rely on
the courage of my cuirassiers. Here we are within short range of their
cannon, and those fellows do not fire."

"They await our closer approach, that their discharge may be the more
deadly."

"Then let us close up the distance, and start the action," exclaimed the
Grand Duke.

The trumpets sounded the charge. Formed in a narrow column, to offer
less front to the republican fire, the troop trotted rapidly forward.
Then, at two hundred paces from the hill, they spread out into two
lines, and, at the Grand Duke's command, spurred their steeds to a
gallop. In this order, and uttering loud huzzahs, they reached the foot
of the hill. Here their impetuous advance was checked by the steep rise
they had to surmount in order to reach the summit and the guns. They
discharged their muskets at the cannoniers of the battery, whose pieces,
pointed straight down the hill, and till this minute dumb, now spoke out
with a fearful volley of shot and shell. The Paris Volunteers, placed as
sharpshooters in the fringes of the woody thicket, rained upon their
assailants a storm of bullets which mingled with the fire of the other
company cloaked in the courtyard of the farmhouse. The rain of lead and
iron being especially trained on the steeds of the first advancing line,
these fell or stumbled, rolled over on their riders, and threw the
second line into such disorder that in spite of its momentum it was
forced to waver and flee. The Grand Duke ordered a retreat on the
gallop, in order to reform his ranks out of range.

Repeated cries of "Long live the Republic!" greeted the retreat. The
German musketry-fire had gone over the heads of the French; only a few
were wounded. All hastened to reload their pieces. The volunteers threw
fresh cartridges into their guns, in order to receive the second charge
of the enemy. The cuirassiers, galled and goaded by the desire to
retrieve their first set-back, reformed while describing a wide circuit
on the plain. Then, led on by the example of the impetuous Grand Duke,
they came on again, not this time in wide front, but in still narrower
column. Again they reached the rise of the hill, bending low over their
horses' manes, and belaboring the animals with boot and spur. They
received the new volley of artillery almost point blank, but still
almost immediately gained the top of the eminence, the Grand Duke in the
lead. They found themselves awaited by the two companies of volunteers,
formed in a hollow square about the cannon, whose attendants were
furiously reloading them. Of the three ranks which formed the square,
the first was on one knee; the others were erect, their bodies bent
forward, guns at position; ready to let fly at the command of Captain
Martin.

Solemn silence reigned among the volunteers as they saw, some thirty
paces from them, the Grand Duke of Gerolstein gain the summit of their
hillock, flanked on one side by a colossus in casque and cuirass bearing
the regimental standard, and followed by several officers of his
military household.

Castillon, who was in the second line, with John Lebrenn half kneeling
before him, and the new volunteer Duresnel behind, said to the former,
sotto voice:

"Friend John, let us unite to bowl over that drum-major on horseback
with the flag. What say you? Let us fire together."

"I am with you. Take the man--I shall aim for the horse."

"Citizens, I also shall aim at the giant," said Duresnel, in his
reed-like voice; "if you will permit, I shall be of your party."

At that moment Captain Martin saw behind the Grand Duke, their bodies
half over the brow of the hill, the first rank of cuirassiers. Only
then, the cavalry being exposed, did he give the order: "Citizens!
Attention! Pick each his man! Aim! Fire!"

"Onward, cuirassiers! Saber this canaille!" shouted the Grand Duke,
urging his horse to a great leap in order to reach the serried square.
"Onward! Hurrah! Thrust, my braves, and on!"

Attackers and defenders disappeared together in the heavy cloud of smoke
from cannon and musket. For long the lurid obscurity of battle hung over
the little hill; when the blue haze cleared away, the scene that
presented itself to the survivors was one of rejoicing for the Republic,
of rout and disaster for its enemies.

The foremost cuirassiers, overwhelmed by the fire from the hollow
square, had nearly all either fallen, with their horses, or been
trampled down by the following ranks which succeeded in scaling the
hill. Still the Grand Duke of Gerolstein and several of his men had been
carried by the impetuosity of their charge into the interior of the
square, in spite of the forest of bayonets with which it bristled; but
they came to a stop when their coursers, exhausted by their last
assault, and pierced by the republican bayonets, sank under them.
Castillon had been sabered in the shoulder by the old Grand Duke;
Duresnel was stunned and bruised but not wounded. Both at once, after
their first disorder, beheld the Grand Duke within the square, pinned
under his riddled horse. The great orange belt which he wore marked him
as a military chieftain. Castillon and Duresnel precipitated themselves
upon him and took him prisoner. John Lebrenn, for his part, had aimed
accurately, and sent a ball into the chest of the color-bearer's mount.
The giant, proof against musket balls, thanks to the thickness of his
helmet, breastplate and heavy boots, leaped clear of his steed, and, his
saber in one hand, his standard in the other, defended himself against
John, who rushed at him with fixed bayonet. The colossus whirled his
sword about him and wounded John in the knee; though wounded, the latter
rushed on--and captured the colors.

Simultaneously with this, at a few paces' distance, another episode was
enacting. An under-officer of the Gerolstein Cuirassiers, seeing himself
surrounded, fell furiously upon quartermaster Duchemin and his men.
Duchemin, old wagoner that he was, entrenched himself behind one of
Carmagnole's wheels, which thus served to shield nearly half his body
from the saber and hoof-strokes which his adversary sought to rain upon
him. Thus barricaded, and further defending himself with a gun-swab, he
at last succeeded in landing so masterful a blow upon his antagonist's
helmet that the latter tumbled from his saddle half senseless. Meanwhile
Carmagnole's other servitors had reloaded her. At a signal the ranks
opened, and once more the artillery belched forth its iron hail upon the
last squadron of the Gerolstein regiment, a reserve squad which the
Count of Plouernel led again to the charge. Suddenly the remaining
cuirassiers, seized with panic, wheeled about and fled full tilt down
the steep incline. Their hurried departure was not due alone to the
lively and sustained fire of the republican battery. The squadron of the
Third Hussars, drawn up in battle array behind the burning farm
buildings, had so far taken no part in the fray. Its captain had been
killed and its lieutenant disabled by an exploding shell. But Oliver,
although the youngest of the under-officers, already possessed so great
a reputation for bravery that the soldiers, by common accord, voted him
the command of the regiment. "Ah, I was sure of it!" said the dashing
young man, leaning over to Victoria, as they walked their horses
together alongside the first platoon; "I felt that I should either be
killed to-day or win my epaulets. I shall be named an officer on the
field of battle."

The French squadron, now put to a gallop, fell upon the rear ranks of
the Gerolstein Cuirassiers just as their head was being thrown into
disorder and repulsed by the joint fire of the battery and the volunteer
infantrymen. Oliver charged the German horsemen furiously. The broil was
desperate. The Count of Plouernel, who strove in vain to rally the
fleers, suddenly found himself beset by a young hussar whose cap had
fallen off in the tumult of battle.

Apparently careless of self the young cavalier rushed straight at the
traitor Count--slashed at his face--one eye he would never see out of
again. Infuriated by the wound, the Count made a lunge and drove his
saber into his adversary's breast. Then Neroweg urged his horse towards
the left wing of the Austrian army, and escaped the pursuit of the
republican hussars.

The young horseman was Victoria.




CHAPTER XXX.

DEATH OF VICTORIA.


Night was come. Across the December fogs glared the watch-fires of the
republican army. The French troops rested on the field of battle,
establishing headquarters in the ruins of the chateau of Geisberg, half
demolished by cannon-balls. A large barn, one of the outbuildings of the
estate, was turned over to the hospital corps. There the wounded were
stretched upon litters of straw, receiving medical attendance by the
light of torches. Everywhere were heard the moans drawn by the pain of
an amputation, or the extraction of a ball. At one end of the barn, an
enclosure of planks set off the threshing floor from the rest of the
building. Mortally wounded by the Count of Plouernel, Victoria was at
length carried from the field hospital into this retreat, her sex having
been revealed while her wound was receiving its first dressing.

A torch fastened into a post illuminated the scene. John Lebrenn, also
wounded, knelt beside his sister, who lay out-stretched upon her pallet,
half wrapped in a coverlet. His back to the wall, Oliver buried his face
in his hands and with difficulty checked his sobs, while Castillon,
whose manly face was streaming tears, stood a little apart, leaning
against one of the door posts.

Victoria's pallor, and her broken breathing, announced that her sands of
life were run. Tightly clasped in both of his, her brother held her
hand; he felt that hand grow ever colder and colder.

"Adieu, Oliver," said Victoria feebly, as she turned toward the young
fellow. "Love and serve the Republic as you would a mother. Bear in mind
that you are a citizen before you are a soldier. Remember above all that
those who see in war only a field opened to their ambition and their
pride are the worst enemies of the people." Then, addressing her
brother, Victoria continued: "Adieu, brother. Before the battle I had
the presentiment that I would die as did our ancestress Anna Bell--whose
sad life bears so many resemblances to mine." Then, struck by a sudden
idea, Victoria continued on a new train of thought: "The Grand Duke of
Gerolstein is taken prisoner, you told me, brother? St. Just should be
told of the services rendered to our cause by Franz of Gerolstein, and
the Grand Duke informed that he will be kept in durance until his son is
set free. Franz's liberation will mean one soldier the more for the
Revolution."

"Your recommendations will be followed, sister dear," replied John
between his sobs; "and oh, dear sister, I weep at our separation. You
are going on a journey without return. I am young yet, and long years
will pass, perhaps, before I will again be able to behold you."

"Those years will pass for you, brother, as a day--sweetened by the
tenderness of your wife, by the love of your children, by the fulfilment
of your civic duties."

Then, just as a lamp before its dying flicker casts still some bright
beams, the young woman rose to a sitting position. Her great black eyes
shone radiantly from within; her voice, erstwhile choked and gasping,
became sonorous and full; her beautiful features glowed with enthusiasm;
she exclaimed:

"Ah, brother, I feel it--my spirit is shaking off my present body, in
order to inhabit a new envelope beyond. The future unrolls before me--

"Hail to that beautiful day predicted by Victoria the Great! Hail!
Radiant is its dawn! I see shattered irons, crumbled Bastilles, thrones
and altars in dust, and crowning the ruins of the old world a scaffold,
the reckoning of Kings! Hail, holy scaffold, symbol of popular justice!
O, Republic! Radiant is your birthday! Glorious your sun rises over
Europe! Your star, full-orbed, O Republic, pours its torrents of light
upon a regenerate world! It buds--It flowers--It bursts into bloom--It
sheds in peace its treasures, its riches, its glories, its wonders, amid
the joy of its children, free and equal, freed forever from the double
yoke of Church and Misery--and united forever by the brotherly
solidarity of the confederated peoples--"

The witnesses of the scene, carried away by Victoria's words, deceived
by the clearness of her glance and the superexcitation of which she was
capable in a supreme burst of energy, forgot that the young woman was
dying. Her eyes half-closed, her countenance ashy pale and bathed in an
icy sweat, Victoria fell back in her brother's arms; after a moment's
agony she passed out of this life to live again in those worlds whither
we shall all go.




CHAPTER XXXI.

ONRUSH OF THE REVOLUTION.


The army was to move at break of day. Before dawn John Lebrenn and
Castillon dug Victoria's grave on the heights of Geisberg. Thither she
was carried on a funeral litter borne by Captain Martin, Castillon,
Duchemin and Oliver. John Lebrenn, leaning because of his wounded knee
upon the arm of the young volunteer Duresnel, followed his sister's bier
in deep grief. It was snowing, and Victoria's last resting place soon
disappeared beneath the white blanket that fell upon the heights as the
army marched from its bivouac to advance upon Weissenburg, which might
still be defended by the Austrian army. But the Austrians left their
trenches during the night; they evacuated Weissenburg; the hordes of the
monarchs fled before the legions of the Republic.

Oliver was made under-lieutenant in the Third Hussars. Captain Martin
was elected commander of the battalion of Paris Volunteers, succeeding
the former commander, who was killed in the siege of Geisberg. The
standard captured from the Gerolstein Cuirassiers was carried to General
Hoche by John Lebrenn, who received from the hands of the young general,
in honor and memory of the glorious defense, a sword taken from the
enemy on that day.

On the 10th Nivose, General Donadieu, denounced before the revolutionary
tribunal, and convicted of treason, was condemned to death, a penalty
which he paid on the scaffold.

Hoche's victory, of the Lines of Weissenburg, decided the success of the
whole campaign. On the 12th Nivose the Convention, upon motion of
Barrere, rendered this decree:

     The National Convention decrees:

     The Armies of the Rhine and of the Moselle, and the citizens and
     garrison of Landau, have deserved well of the fatherland.

John Lebrenn, accordingly, being a soldier of the Army of the Rhine and
Moselle, engraved these words on the blade of the sword presented to him
by Hoche--JOHN LEBRENN HAS DESERVED WELL OF THE FATHERLAND.

The war continued. As soon as his wound had closed, Lebrenn wished to
rejoin the Army of the Rhine and the Moselle. But the cut, hardly
healed, opened again, and grew worse under the fatigues of a new
campaign. He was invalided to the hospital at Strasburg late in the
month of Germinal of the year II (March, 1794).

During her husband's absence Charlotte Lebrenn continued to live with
her mother in the house on Anjou Street. Master Gervais consented to
resume the direction of the smithy he had sold to Lebrenn, until the
latter's return from the army. Charlotte, as previously, kept the books
of the house. On this task she was engaged on the 23rd Prairial, year II
(June 11, 1794). The young woman, now nearing her confinement, was still
dressed in mourning for Victoria, her sister-in-law. Madam Desmarais
was employed about some dressmaking.

Having finished her accounts, Charlotte closed her books, took out a
portfolio of white paper, and prepared to write.

"I must seem very curious, my dear daughter," said Madam Desmarais, "but
I am piqued about these sheets of paper which you fill with manuscript
every night, and which will soon make a book."

"It is a surprise I am preparing for John upon his return, good mother."

"May he be able, for his sake and for ours, to enjoy the surprise soon!
His last letter gave us at least the hope of seeing him any moment. He
wrote in the same tenor to Monsieur Billaud-Varenne, who came to see us
day before yesterday expecting to find your husband here."

"John awaited only the permission of his surgeon to set out on his way,
for the results of his wound made great precautions imperative. Ah,
mother! How proud I am to be his wife! With what joy and honor I will
embrace him!"

"Alas, that pride costs dear. My fear is that our poor John will be
crippled all his life. Ah, war, war," sighed Madam Desmarais, her eyes
moistening with tears. "Poor Victoria--what a terrible end was hers!"

"Valiant sister! She lived a martyr, and died a heroine. Never was I so
moved as when reading the letter John wrote us from Weissenburg the day
after Victoria expired in his arms prophecying the Universal Republic,
the Federation of the Nations." Then smiling faintly and indicating to
her mother the papers scattered over the table Charlotte added: "And
that brings us back to the surprise I am getting ready for our dear
John. Read the title of this page."

Madam Desmarais took the sheet which her daughter held out to her, and
read upon it, traced in large characters, "TO MY CHILD!"

"So!" began Madam Desmarais, much moved, "these pages you have been at
work on so many days--"

"Are addressed, in thought, to my child. The babe will see the light
during a terrible period. If it is a boy, I can not hold before him a
better example than that of his own father; if it is a girl--" and
Charlotte's voice changed slightly, "I shall offer her as a model that
courageous woman whom chance gave me to know, to love, and to admire for
a short while before her martyrdom."

"Lucile!" cried Madam Desmarais, shuddering at the recollection. "The
unfortunate wife of Camille Desmoulins! Poor Lucile! So beautiful, so
modest, so good--and a young mother, too! Nothing could soften the
monsters who sat upon the revolutionary tribunal; they sent that
innocent young woman of twenty to the scaffold!"

"Alas, the eve of her death, she sent to Madam Duplessis, her mother,
this letter of two lines:

     "Good mother; a tear escapes my eye; it is for you. I go to sleep
     in the calmness of innocence.

     "LUCILE.[16]

"Touching farewell!" continued Charlotte. "I also, shall know how to
die."

"You frighten me!" exclaimed Madam Desmarais, trembling. "But no; you
are a mother, and women in your condition escape the scaffold."

"The child protects the mother. So I address this writing to my child,
to whom, perchance, I may owe my life. Camille Desmoulins, Danton, those
illustrious men, those lofty patriots, were all sacrificed yesterday. My
husband has equalled them in civic virtue, he may be judged and
guillotined to-morrow. Sad outlook!"

"Ah, blood, always blood!" murmured Madam Desmarais, her heart sinking
within her. "Good God, have pity on us."

"Good mother, let me read you a few lines from the memoirs I have
written for my child on the events of our times:

"'You are born, dear child, in times without their like in the world.
And when your reason is sufficiently grown, you will read these pages
written by me under the eyes of a loving mother, while your father was
gone to fight for the independence of our country, and for the safety of
the Revolution and the Republic.

"'Perhaps some day you will hear curses and calumnies leveled at this
heroic epoch in which you were born. Perhaps for a day, but for a day
only, you will see walk again the phantoms of the Church of Rome and of
royalty.

"'Christ, the proletarian of Nazareth said, _The chains of the slaves
will be broken; all men shall be united in one fraternal equality; the
poor, the widows and the orphans shall be succored_.

"'And now the time has arrived.

"'Those who called themselves the ministers of God continued, for
eighteen centuries, to possess slaves, serfs and vassals. In one day
the Revolution has realized the prophecy of Christ, misconstrued by the
priests.'"

"True, true, my daughter," assented Madam Desmarais, "the Republic did
in one day what the Church had for centuries refused to do. It was the
place of the Church at least to set the example in freeing the slaves,
the serfs and the vassals who belonged to it before the Revolution. May
it be accursed for its failure to do so."

"You recognize, then, dear mother, that in these troublous times the
good still outdistances the bad;" and Charlotte resumed her reading:

"'Church and royalty purposely kept the people in profound ignorance, in
order to render them more docile to exploitation. On the other hand,
behold what the Republic decreed, on the 8th Nivose, year II (December
28, 1793):

     "'The National Convention decrees:

     "'Instruction is unrestricted and shall be gratuitous and
     compulsory. The Convention charges its Committee on Instruction to
     draw up for it elementary text books for the education of the
     citizens. The first of these books shall have in them the
     Declaration of the Rights of Man, the Constitution, the Table of
     Virtuous or Heroic Deeds, and the Principles of Eternal Morality.

"'This it followed up by two other decrees, the first under date of the
28th Nivose, year II (January 17, 1794):

     "'The National Convention decrees:

     "'A competition shall be opened for works treating of;

     "'Instruction on preserving the health of children, from the moment
     of conception till their birth, and on their physical and moral
     training until their entrance into the national schools.

     "'The National Convention decrees:

     "'There shall be established in each district within the territory
     of the Republic a national public library'!"

"These are, as you say, my daughter, great and useful things."

Charlotte continued reading:

"'The National Convention, upon a report of the Committee of Public
Safety, adopted also this resolution:

     "'The National Convention decrees:

     "'There shall be opened in each department a register entitled the
     Book of National Benefits.

     "'The first division therein shall be for old and infirm farmers;

     "'The second, for old or infirm mechanics;

     "'The third shall be set apart for mothers and widows as well as
     unmarried mothers, who have children in the country districts.

"'These decrees prove that the Republic, in its commiseration for the
unfortunate, consecrates to them a sort of religious care; not only does
it relieve the miseries of the people, but it honors their misfortune.
It is not a degrading alms which it throws them, it is the debt of the
country which it seeks to pay off to the aged who have used up their
lives in toil upon the land or in trades. This debt the Republic also
pays off to the poor widows who can not undertake the care of their
young family. The aged, the child, and the woman, are the constant
objects of the solicitude of the Republic.'"

Just then Gertrude the serving maid ran quickly into the room. Her
countenance was at once joyous and pained. Charlotte sprang from her
seat, and cried,

"My husband has come!"

"Madam--that is to say--but pray, madam, in your condition do not
agitate yourself too greatly--" replied Gertrude. "Monsieur John is,
indeed, come, if you please--but--"

Charlotte and her mother were both about to rush to meet their returning
soldier when he appeared on the threshold, supported on Castillon's arm.
The two men were dressed in the uniform of the volunteers of the
Republic. John embraced his wife and her mother rapturously, and wiped
from his eyes the happy tears which his wife's approaching motherhood
caused him. Then seeing that Castillon stood aside, with tears in his
eyes also, John said:

"A hug for Castillon, too. In this campaign he has been to me not a
comrade, but a brother."

"I knew it by your letters," replied Charlotte, as she warmly embraced
the foreman.

"You will sup with us, Citizen Castillon--you would not leave us to
celebrate my husband's return alone?"

"You are very kind, Citizeness Lebrenn. I accept your offer
gratefully--my day will then be complete," answered the foreman. "I
shall just run out and say good-day to my comrades in the shop. But do
not forget--friend John must be kept from walking, if he is not to
remain a <DW36>." And Castillon stepped out of the room.

"My child," said Madam Desmarais, "your husband must get off his uniform
and lie down. Besides, his wound no doubt needs dressing. Let us attend
to it."

Several hours later John and his wife were sitting together, still
drinking in the delicious raptures which follow long separations. Day
was nearly done.

"When I left you," John was saying, "you were the dearest and best of
wives. I return to find you the noblest of mothers. Words fail me to
express how moved I am by the sentiment which dictated to you that
address to our child which you have just read me. I, too, am affrighted,
not for the future but for the present, for the present generation. The
most upright spirits seem now to be stricken with a sort of mad vertigo;
and still the republican arms are everywhere victorious, everywhere the
oppressed peoples stretch out their hands to us. The Terror has become a
fatal necessity. The Convention, having restored the public credit and
assured the livelihood of the people, continues daily to issue decrees
as generous and lofty in sentiment and as practical in operation as
those you have embodied in your pages to our child. The national wealth
still opens to the country enormous financial resources. The people,
calm and steady, has cast the slough, so to speak, of its effervescence
and political inexperience. It now shows itself full of respect for the
law, and for the Convention, in which it sees the incarnation of its own
sovereignty. And yet, it is at this supreme moment that the best
patriots are decimating, mowing one another down, with blind fury.
Anacharsis Clootz, Herault of Sechelles, Camille Desmoulins, Danton, and
many others, the best and most illustrious citizens, are sent to the
scaffold."

"Eh! no doubt; and if there is anything surprising, it is your own
astonishment, my dear Lebrenn!" suddenly put in a voice.

Charlotte and her husband turned quickly around, to see Billaud-Varenne
standing in the open doorway. For some moments he had been a party to
Lebrenn's confidences; an indiscretion almost involuntary on Billaud's
part, for the young couple, absorbed in their conversation, had not
noticed his entrance. Now stepping forward, he said to Charlotte:

"Be so good as to excuse me, madam, for having listened. Your door was
open, and that circumstance should mitigate my 'spying'." Then with a
friendly gesture preventing John's rising from the reclining chair where
he half sat, half lay, Billaud-Varenne added, as he affectionately
pressed the hand of Charlotte's husband: "Do not move, my dear invalid.
You have won the right to remain on your stretcher. Your worthy wife
must have written to you what interest I took in all that concerned you
since your departure for the army."

"My wife has often given me intimation of your affectionate remembrance,
my dear Billaud; and further, I know it is through your intervention
that Citizen Hubert, my mother-in-law's brother, has been mercifully
forgotten in the prison of Carmes, where he has long been held as a
suspect. Thanks to you, his life is no longer in danger."

"Enough, too much, on that subject," declared Billaud-Varenne, half
smiling, half serious. "Do not awaken in me remorse for a slip. Citizen
Hubert has ever been, and ever will be, one of the bitterest enemies of
the Republic. For that reason, he should never have been spared. I
should have ordered his head to fall."




CHAPTER XXXII.

AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM!


It was forty-five days after the visit of Billaud-Varenne to John
Lebrenn; that is to say, it was the 8th Thermidor of the year II (July
26, 1794). Alone in his parlor, towards eight o'clock in the evening,
advocate Desmarais now paced up and down in agitation, now sank
pensively into a chair, his face between his hands. The anguish and
terror which for two years had dogged the hypocrite's steps had
completely whitened his hair. His sallow, atrabilious features disclosed
the tortures of his soul. Throwing himself into the arm-chair, worn out,
he muttered to himself:

"They insist upon coming! Such a session on my premises! I tremble to
think of it--I may be sent to the guillotine to-morrow if Robespierre
triumphs. Curses upon my wife and daughter who deserted me! Yet, a
plague on my weakness, there is not a day goes by but I regret the
unworthy creatures! How happy I was in my family. I loved my daughter, I
love her still, as much as it is possible to love a creature on this
earth. With what tenderness she would have surrounded my old age. I
should have been consoled, comforted; for from my daughter I had no
secrets, and her confidences gladdened my heart. My God, 'tis I that am
unhappy!"

After this outburst the lawyer remained for a long time silent and
dejected. Then, rising of a sudden, he shouted: "That infamous Lebrenn!
It is he who is the cause of my woes. He came to bring trouble under my
roof."

The advocate's soliloquy was cut short by the entrance of a lackey, who
announced that several citizens desired audience with him.

"Show them in," answered the lawyer; and as the servant vanished he
added, mentally: "The devil take Fouche, who conceived the idea of
choosing my house for the meeting place of his friends--a perilous honor
I wish I had the power of declining."

Soon there were introduced into the parlor the Convention members
Tallien, Durand-Maillane, and Fouche; the reverend Father Morlet
accompanied them. The three Representatives of the people belonged to
the bloc formed against Robespierre. Durand-Maillane was a member of the
Right, or royalist side of the Assembly. Tallien was from the Mountain;
while Fouche, an ex-monk of the Oratory, was a Terrorist. A more ignoble
physiognomy than Fouche's it would be impossible to imagine. It was a
hang-dog face, hedged about with tow-hair, and seamed with vice,
treachery, dishonesty, baseness, and cruelty unrestrained. A cynical
smirk raised one corner of his thin mouth. He was the first to enter the
advocate's parlor. Leading up the Jesuit Morlet, he said:

"Allow me, citizen colleague, to introduce to you a former priest, the
reverend Father Morlet. He is of the Society of Jesus, as I was of the
Order of the Oratory. Cassock and frock go together."

"But," replied the attorney, very uneasily, as he returned the Jesuit's
salute, "the object of the conference which brings us together can not
be discussed before witnesses."

"The reverend is one of us," answered Fouche. "He comes from London, and
will give us information of the greatest importance. His head answers
for his discretion; he is a dissident priest. And so, let us get to
work."

Fouche, Durand-Maillane, Tallien, Abbot Morlet and advocate Desmarais
thereupon seated themselves about a round table. Desmarais was made
chairman, and the conference began.

"I ask the floor," said Durand-Maillane, "to state the question, and to
establish the conditions upon which as spokesman of the leaders of the
Right, I am empowered to pledge here the assistance of my political
friends, royalists, clericals, and conservatives."

"You have the floor," said the chairman.

Durand-Maillane continued:

"Gentlemen, none of you is unaware that in presenting the law of the
22nd Prairial to the Convention six weeks ago Robespierre hoped to
obtain for the Committee of Public Safety, and under control of three of
its members, the right to pass judgment upon the Representatives of the
people without consulting the Assembly. Whence it follows that, by means
of the signatures of St. Just and Couthon, Robespierre would be able at
any time to send before the revolutionary tribunal, that is to say, to
the scaffold, those members of the Convention whom he wished to be rid
of. The law of Prairial threatened particularly the Terrorists; its
effect would soon have extended to the other parties. It is necessary
that we examine and discuss the most significant passages of
Robespierre's speech to-day in the Convention, in order to decide what
we are to do to temper its effect and conjure away the danger which
overhangs us. Here are the particular points of the speech."

Durand-Maillane drew a paper from his pocket and read:

"'The counter-revolution has made its appearance in all parties. The
conspirators have pushed us, in spite of ourselves, _to violent
measures, which their crimes alone rendered necessary_. This system is
the work of the foreigners, who proposed it through the venal medium of
Chabot, Lhuilier, Hebert, and a number of other scoundrels. Every effort
must be made _to restore the Republic to a natural and mild rule_; this
work has not yet commenced. Slacken the reins of the Revolution for a
moment, and you will see military despotism seize upon it, and overturn
the maligned national representation; a century of civil wars and
calamities will desolate our country, and we would die for not having
seized the moment marked by history for the founding of liberty. Aye, we
would deliver up our country to calamities without number, and the
people's maledictions will fall upon our memory, which should remain
dear to the human race....

"'The conclusion is, What are we to do? Our duty! What objection can be
raised to one's speaking the truth and consenting to die for it? Let it
be said, then, that there is _a conspiracy against the public liberty,
which owes its force to a criminal coalition that is intriguing in the
very heart of the Convention_; that this coalition has accomplices in
the Committee of General Surety and in the bureaus of this committee,
which it dominates;--that the enemies of the Republic have set this
committee up against the Committee of Public Safety, thus constituting a
government within a government;--that _members of the Committee of
Public Safety are in the plot_;--that the coalition thus formed is
working for the destruction of patriots and of the fatherland. What is
the remedy for this evil? _Punish the traitors_, reorganize the bureaus
of the Committee of General Surety, purge the Committee itself, and
subordinate it to the Committee of Public Safety; _purge the Committee
of Public Safety itself_; establish unity of government under the
supreme authority of the National Convention, which should be the center
and the judge; _suppress all factions by the weight of national
authority_, and rear upon their ruins the power of justice and liberty.
Such are the principles the hour demands. If it is impossible to advance
them without earning the epithet Ambitious, I shall conclude that
principles are outlawed, that tyranny reigns among us,--but not that I
should keep quiet; for how can one object to a man who is right, and who
knows how to die for his country? I am made to fight crime, not to
govern it. The time is not yet come when men of worth can serve the
country fearlessly. The defenders of liberty are no better than exiles,
so long as there exists the horde of rogues and rascals.'

"So, gentlemen, to sum up this harangue of Robespierre's, we find out
that 'it is necessary to bring back the Republic to a milder rule, to
check the bloodshed, to purge the Convention and the Committees, to wipe
out factions by the weight of national authority, and to combat crime,
because the defenders of liberty are but exiles as long as the horde of
rogues and rascals exists.' There remains no one, it seems, outside of
Robespierre and the Jacobins, capable of defending, preserving and
strengthening the Republic. Therefore we, royalists and clericals, have
decided to form a coalition with the Terrorists and the Mountain for the
purpose of sending Robespierre to the scaffold, and, along with him, the
most active spirits of the Jacobin party."

"I declare my approval of all the previous speaker has said," observed
Morlet the Jesuit. "Robespierre is the enemy not only of us Catholics
and royalists, but also of the Terrorists and Mountainists here present,
and of several of their friends, who insist upon living in splendor,
peace and happiness at the popular expense."

"Robespierre to-morrow will attempt to hold a 'day,' with the support of
Commandant Henriot and the Commune. His designs must be frustrated,"
added Tallien.

"The surest way of reaching our end," Fouche advised, "is to drown St.
Just's voice when he mounts the tribunal to complete the speech of
Robespierre. He will want to speak in defense of his partner. Our cries
will redouble: 'Down with the tyrant!' 'Down with the dictator!' 'Death
to St. Just and Robespierre!'"

"It is decided, then," asked Durand-Maillane, "that from the beginning
of the session we are to interrupt St. Just and Robespierre, and demand
of the Assembly their immediate arrest? Who will start the ball?"

"I will," volunteered Tallien.

"Collot D'Herbois, Robespierre's implacable enemy, is in the chair
to-morrow. The affair will go roundly," Desmarais plucked up heart
enough to say.

"It is probable," continued the Jesuit, "that the Convention will not
confine itself to packing to the guillotine Robespierre, St. Just,
Couthon, Lebas, and the other leaders of this truculent party of virtue.
It may add to the batch several of the most rabid Jacobins from outside
of the Convention."

"We shall rid ourselves at once of the big guns of the club, and the
Jacobins in the Commune, Fleuriot-Lescot the Mayor, Coffinhal, and their
consorts," chuckled Tallien.

"I greatly desire," the Jesuit put in, "for motives of my own, to see
included in that batch a certain John Lebrenn, who has been made member
of the General Council of the Commune since his return from the army."

At the mention of the name Fouche turned to Desmarais and said, with a
leer, "Hey, colleague, the reverend Father demands your son-in-law!"

To which Desmarais grandiosely replied: "Brutus gave his own son--and
this Lebrenn is not even of my family. I grant you the Jacobin's head."

"To-morrow, messieurs, let us be present at the Assembly before the
opening of the session, in order to prepare our colleagues of the Right
and the Center for what we expect of them," suggested Durand-Maillane.

"Fouche and I," acquiesced Tallien, "will take care of the Mountain and
the Terrorists."

So it was arranged. The cabal then broke up, while Jesuit Morlet said to
himself:

"The Republic is lost. The sacrifice of the Jacobins delivers it up to
us, bound hand and foot--_ad majorem Dei gloriam!_ to the greater glory
of God! May France perish, and our holy Order triumph!"

During this mental invocation of the Jesuit's, Desmarais showed his four
guests to the door and returned to his parlor alone. For some time he
brooded somber and silent in his arm chair. At last he muttered
defiantly:

"Was it I who demanded the guillotining of my son-in-law? After all, it
will be but justice; I will have returned him evil for evil. Is he not,
truly speaking, the prime cause of my torments? After his death my
daughter and wife will return to me. Everything will be for the best!"




CHAPTER XXXIII.

ARREST OF ROBESPIERRE.


Early the next morning the chiefs of the anti-Robespierre factions were
in the Riding Hall of the Tuileries, where the sessions of the
Convention were held. At about eight o'clock Tallien came in. As he
walked to his seat on the crest of the Mountain, he passed along in
front of the benches of the Right, greeting Durand-Maillane and his
friends with an "Oh! what brave men are these of the Right!" Collot
D'Herbois, that ex-comedian, thief and criminal, occupied the
president's chair. St. Just, coming into the hall, went up to
Robespierre, who appeared to give him some instructions. Couthon was
carried to his seat between Robespierre the younger and Lebas by two
ushers; he was paralyzed in both legs. These three citizens were counted
among the purest, the most generous and energetic of the time. Long
before the opening of the session the galleries were filled with people
picked and stationed there by the enemies of Robespierre. The latter
took his seat, an air of firm assurance dominating the preoccupation
legible on his austere features. He knew not of the plot laid against
him, and depended upon St. Just's speech to settle in his favor the
question of accusation unhappily left undecided the night before. The
chiefs of the allied factions exchanged signals of intelligence.
Billaud-Varenne was speaking with one of the vice-presidents of the
Convention, Thuriot, an irreproachable Terrorist. The whole aspect of
the Assembly was foreboding. Suddenly the tinkling of Collot D'Herbois's
bell sounded above the tumult of conversation, and the session was on.

Why follow the debate into all its bitterness and spite; why tell how
again and again the plotters against the Republic raised their cries of
"Down with the tyrant! Death to St. Just and Robespierre!"? Suffice it
to say that the day ended in decrees of accusation against the
Robespierres, elder and younger, St. Just, Lebas, and Couthon. An
officer of the gendarmery was commissioned by the president to lead the
accused to prison.

At five o'clock that afternoon, the 9th Thermidor, Madam Desmarais and
her daughter, seated side by side in their parlor, pricked their ears at
hearing the sound of the drum, mingled from time to time with the
hurried and distant clanging of the tocsin.

"My God!" exclaimed Madam Desmarais, grief-stricken, "Again a
'day'--again a bloody struggle!"

"Reassure yourself, good mother; the wicked shall not triumph,"
Charlotte replied. "Robespierre is put under ban of arrest, but the
Jacobins and the Sections will go to his rescue. The Commune has
declared the country in danger, the tocsin calls the people to arms."

"Alas, I fear for your husband. He is at the City Hall as a member of
the General Council. The Commune is in insurrection against the
Convention; if the Commune loses, John will have become an outlaw."

"My husband will do his duty; the future belongs to God."

Suddenly Castillon entered the parlor, crying: "Good news! The Sections
are taking arms and assembling to march to the Commune, with their
cannon; the Jacobins have declared themselves in permanent session.
Robespierre has been taken to the Luxembourg Prison; his brother to St.
Lazare; St. Just to the Scotch Prison; Couthon to La Bourbe; and Lebas
to the Chatelet. As I left the City Hall they were discussing the means
of rescuing them."

"You see, mother, the Sections are in the majority, with the Commune."

"Ah, madam, madam!" cried Gertrude, running in in a fright. "Don't be
too alarmed--Oh, heavens, there he is!"

Hardly had Gertrude uttered these words when advocate Desmarais, pale,
half frightened to death, tumbled into the room, crying: "Save me! In
heaven's name!"

And running to his wife and daughter, whom he pressed in his arms, he
continued wailing, "Hide me! They are after me!"

"Fright has unbalanced you, father," said Charlotte. "No one is pursuing
you."

Madam Desmarais had hurriedly found a bottle of smelling salts, which
she held to the nose of her half-fainting spouse. He recovered his
senses, and began again, in a quaking voice: "Thank you. You are
generous. Now, I beseech you both, conceal me somewhere. Charlotte's
husband may come back and be accompanied by some member of the General
Council. I shall be recognized--arrested--guillotined. Pity me!"

"But, father, your fears are all exaggerated. My husband will not allow
you to be arrested in his house."

At that moment Gertrude, opening a crack of the door, called
mysteriously to her mistress:

"Madam, come at once!"

"What is it, Gertrude?" Charlotte asked. "Who is there?"

"A man of the mounted police demands to speak with you."

Hearing the nature of the visitor, Monsieur Desmarais flew into a new
fit of fear. His mind gave way. He ran to a window and sought to hide by
wrapping himself up in the curtains. Charlotte left the room, closing
the door behind her. In a second she was back, joyfully waving a paper
she held in her hand. "It is good news, mother. Where's father?"

Madam Desmarais indicated with a gesture the window, the curtains of
which revealed the figure of the attorney, and left his feet exposed at
the bottom. Then she added, in a low voice: "If we do not hide your
father somehow, he will die of agony and fright."

"His fright is baseless, but I think you are right about it," responded
Charlotte in the same tone. "We can take him up to the garret, to the
locked room; there he will no doubt feel that he is safe, and his fears
will calm down." And she went to the window where her father, white as a
sheet and bathed in a cold sweat, was clinging for support to the window
casing.

"That gendarme!" stammered the lawyer. "What did he want?"

"He just brought me a letter from John. I shall read it to you and
mother, after which you will be taken, as you wish, to a retreat, in the
top of the house, where you need not fear being seen by a soul. Here is
what John wrote me:

     "Dearly beloved wife:--All goes well here so far. The General
     Council of the Commune is almost complete. We are advising on
     energetic and prompt measures--prompt above all; the Convention, on
     its side, is not idle. We are in session. The majority of the
     Sections are with us. We shall receive word in an instant that the
     suburbs of St. Antoine and Marceau are ready to march; we await
     their delegates. The City Hall Place is covered with an armed
     force, furnished with several pieces of artillery, and all crying
     'Long live the Republic! Down with the brigands of the Convention!'
     Robespierre and his friends are still in prison; we shall deliver
     them. Be of good cheer, and remember that you live not alone for

     "Your

     "J. L.

     "Tell Castillon to join me as soon as possible. He is a sure man,
     and I shall need him."

"If the suburbs march with the Commune, the Convention is lost!"
murmured the lawyer. "Conduct me to the hiding place you spoke of. You
shall lock me in, you will keep the key about you, you will not give the
key to anyone, not even to your husband--you promise me?"

"I swear it;" and forcing a smile, the young woman added: "I alone shall
be your jailer. Come, come."

As she went out, Charlotte said to her mother, "Please ask Gertrude to
have Castillon wait for me in the parlor." The advocate staggered out on
the arm of his daughter. Looking after him, Madam Desmarais sighed to
herself, "Unhappy man! I pity him." Sinister reflections followed close:
"The triumph of Robespierre will mean the death of Billaud-Varenne, our
friend, our protector, he who has prevented, to this very day, my
brother Hubert from being called before the revolutionary tribunal. But
when he is there no longer, who will take his place in protecting my
brother's life? Alas, this day, whatever its issue, will hold a sad
outcome for our family. How can one prepare for such a crisis?"

Charlotte at that moment returned, bearing the walnut casket in which
reposed the legends and relics of the Lebrenn family. Madam Desmarais,
running to her daughter quickly, said, in a tone of reproach, as she
helped her set the casket down on a table, "Could you not have called
Gertrude, instead of yourself carrying such a burden?"

"Have you asked Castillon to come here, good mother? I wish to set him
to a task."

"I forgot your request, my girl. I shall at once repair the
forgetfulness, and go seek your foreman. But before all, tell me, why
you have brought this box in here?"

"I wish to place it in a safe and secret place, with Castillon's aid,
dear mother. You know what store John and I set by the papers and
objects contained in it. In these times of revolution, one must think of
everything. John will be grateful to me for the precaution." So saying,
she rang the bell.

Castillon entered. The foreman seemed preoccupied. He had slung on his
cartridge box, his sword, and his volunteer's rifle.

"Put this chest on your shoulder and follow me, brave Castillon," said
Charlotte. "I shall soon be back, dear mother. Hope and courage, all
will go well! The Commune will triumph over the Convention."

"Oh, my presentiments, my presentiments did not deceive me," moaned
Madam Desmarais after her daughter's and Castillon's departure. "This
day will be fatal to us!"

Ten o'clock at night of that same day found the General Council of the
Insurrectionary Commune of Paris still in session in that chamber of the
City Hall called the Equality Chamber. The open windows gave on the
square choked with citizens. Their bayonets and pike-heads glittered in
the light of numerous torches; several cannon had been dragged up by the
Sections, and from time to time one might hear cries of "Long live the
Republic!" "Long live the Commune!" Within, torches lighted the vast
expanse of the Equality Chamber, and the table about which sat, under
the presidency of Fleuriot-Lescot the Mayor of Paris, the members of the
Council of the Commune.

"Here is the proclamation," said the Mayor, preparing to read, "which is
about to be placarded on the streets of Paris:

     "Citizens, the country is more than ever in danger. Scoundrels
     dictate laws to the Convention, which they overmaster. They pursue
     Robespierre, who declares for the consoling principles of the
     existence of the Supreme Being and the immortality of the soul; St.
     Just and Lebas, those two apostles of virtue; Couthon, who has but
     his heart and head alive, though they are glowing with the ardor of
     patriotism; Robespierre the younger, who presided over the
     victories of the army in Italy.

     People, arise! Lose not the fruit of the 10th of August and the
     31st of May. Let us hurl all the traitors into their tomb!

     Signed, FLEURIOT-LESCOT,

     Mayor,

     BLIN,

     Secretary."

As the Mayor's proclamation was declared adopted by the session, John
Lebrenn, who had approached one of the windows, remarked that not only
had the number of armed Section representatives in the square
diminished, but that the place was almost deserted. Soon the whole City
Hall Place, with the exception of a group here and there, lay silent and
empty. John had barely returned to his seat at the table when the doors
were flung open with a crash by the press of people who sought to enter.
They carried in Robespierre the elder, Robespierre the younger, Lebas,
St. Just and Couthon, borne aloft in chairs. At the sight of the
liberated Representatives of the people, surrounded by their Jacobin
friends, the members of the Council rose spontaneously with cries of
"Long live the Republic!" Gradually the tumult died down, and the Mayor
of Paris began to speak:

"Citizens--from this moment the functions of the General Council of the
Commune should undergo a change. I move that it be transformed into a
committee of action, and that the presidency of it be conferred upon
Maximilien Robespierre. The _Revolution_ now commences!"

Robespierre responded in the following words:

"Citizens, I long resisted the entreaties of the patriots who sought to
deliver me from prison. I wished to respect the law, for the very reason
that our enemies make of it a football. I wished, in Marat's steps, to
appear before the revolutionary tribunal. Had they pronounced me
innocent, the villains of the Convention would have been confounded, and
honest folks would triumph; on the contrary, had they pronounced my
death sentence, I would have drunk the hemlock calmly. But I yield to
events. I accept the presidency. The era of the Revolution has begun."

On the instant there rushed into the hall General Henriot, pale,
excited, his clothing in disorder. "All is lost!" he cried.

Leonard Bourdon and Barras, delegates of the Convention, and escorted by
half a hundred gendarmes with pistols and muskets, burst in at Henriot's
heels. The soldiers covered with their guns the members of the Council
of the Commune and the five Representatives of the people, all of whom
remained standing; calm; impassible.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE NINTH THERMIDOR.


In the early morning of the 10th Thermidor, Charlotte Lebrenn and Madam
Desmarais, pale from a night of sleeplessness, silent, worried, listened
anxiously at their garden windows, which had been left open through the
beautiful, balmy July night. From their nests in the trees the birds
greeted with their chirping the first glow of the sun, which lighted up
the eastern azure. Nature was smiling, with repose and calm in every
lineament.

"Not a sound, absolutely nothing!" said Madam Desmarais, the first to
break the silence. "It is more than an hour since the tocsin ceased
clanging."

"If that is so, mother, have courage! If the tocsin has ceased, the
Commune is worsted. The Convention triumphs," replied the younger woman
in a tense voice. Then, unable to withstand the emotion which seized
her, Charlotte burst into tears, raised her hands heavenward, and cried,
"Just God, spare my husband!"

At this moment Gertrude entered and said to her mistress: "Madam, there
is a citizen in the ante-chamber who says he is sent by your husband to
bring you news of him."

"Let him enter," answered Charlotte gladly. "I wonder what the news will
be," she added, to her mother.

No sooner had she spoken than Jesuit Morlet appeared in the room. His
hypocritical countenance at once caused Charlotte a revulsion of
feeling; but immediately reproaching herself for what was perhaps an
involuntary injustice to the man, she came a few steps toward the
Jesuit, saying: "Citizen, you come from my husband?"

"Aye, citizeness; to reassure you, and inform you that he is in a safe
place."

"You hear, my poor child," cried Madam Desmarais, weeping with joy as
she embraced her daughter. "He is out of danger."

"Can you, citizen, conduct me at once to where my husband is?"

"Such a trip would be very imprudent, citizeness. My friend John Lebrenn
has sent me to you, first to reassure you as to his situation; next, to
post you on the course of events. The City Hall is in the power of the
troops of the Convention, commanded by Leonard Bourdon and Barras. Lebas
is a suicide. Robespierre the younger has flung himself from a window
and broken both legs. Robespierre the elder has his jaw broken by a
pistol fired at him by a gendarme;[17] St. Just and Couthon are
arrested, they will be executed in the course of the day, without any
form of trial, having been outlawed by the Convention; the same decree
has been passed upon the members of the General Council of the Commune,
who will also, accordingly--all except my friend John, who escaped in
the melee, and is now in safe hiding with me--be guillotined without
trial. In short, to tell you all in two words, the Republic is lost. The
brigands triumph!"

For a moment Charlotte's tears flowed in silence. Reassured as to her
husband, she wept for the first five victims of the 9th Thermidor, those
illustrious and virtuous citizens.

"My eternal thanks are yours," she at length replied; and added: "Take
me to my husband, I implore you. I long to see him."

"To do as you request, citizeness, would be to commit a great
imprudence. Perhaps its only result would be to put the police on his
track. As to the gratitude you believe you owe me, let us speak no more
of it. Between patriots there should be mutual aid and protection; in
concealing John from the searches of our enemies I did my duty, nothing
more. But time is fleeting, and I must get to the end of the errand your
husband sent me on: It is that you give me a certain casket, containing,
he told me, some precious legends which it is of importance to carry
away from here, lest they fall into the hands of our enemies; the latter
will not delay descending with a search party upon your house."

"My husband has already given me his advice on that subject," answered
Charlotte. "Foreseeing that in the struggle against the Convention the
Commune might be worsted, my husband arrested, and the house searched, I
already have had the casket carried to the home of one of our friends."
A slight spasm of anger contracted the brows of the Jesuit; the young
woman caught the expression, and the thought flashed over her mind:
"Careful! This man may be a false friend!"

"Madam," said Gertrude, coming in leading a young boy by the hand, "here
is a poor child who asked to speak to this gentleman; I brought him up
to you."

The Jesuit's god-son--who else but he?--respectfully greeted Charlotte,
at the same moment that the latter whispered to her mother: "My anxiety
for John is still lively, despite this man's reassurances. Something
tells me he is deceiving us."

"Gentle god-father," Rodin was whispering to the Jesuit, "I just saw
John Lebrenn hurry down a street at the end of Anjou Street, and turn in
this direction."

"The devil!" thought the Jesuit to himself, "our man will land at home
sooner than I counted on. I shall have to double my audacity; nothing is
lost as yet." And then, sotto voice to his pupil, "Are the police agents
placed, and in sufficient number?"

"They are watching all around the building--I counted twenty. John
Lebrenn will be caught like a mouse in a trap, _Ad majorem Dei
gloriam!_"

"While the house is being searched from cellar to garret, follow you the
agents, and try to put your hand on that casket you know of."

"Mother," whispered Charlotte, on her part, "they are plotting some
treachery." Then, suddenly dashing toward the door, which just then
opened, she cried,

"Husband!"

Charlotte's husband, into whose arms his wife joyfully threw herself,
was pale, his clothing in disorder; his face was bathed in sweat, and he
panted for breath. In a gasping voice he said to his wife, as he
returned her embrace, "Charlotte, I could not resist the craving to see
you an instant, and to reassure you and mother of my fate, before I
flee. The Commune is defeated, I am outlawed; but I hope to escape our
enemies. Have courage--" Then his eyes falling upon the Jesuit and
little Rodin, he recognized in them the two spies he had arrested before
Weissenburg; he recalled that Victoria had designated Morlet to him as
an enemy of the Lebrenn family; hence, struck with astonishment, he said
to his wife as he stared at the reverend, "What does this fellow here?
How did he get entrance to my house?"

"He professed to be sent by you, my friend. He demanded in your name the
chest with the family legends."

"Ah, my reverend! The Society of Jesus never lets the scent of those it
seeks to run down grow cold!" cried John. "Wretched, infamous
spy--hence!"

"Not before you," replied the reverend with a bow and a smirk,
indicating to John the commissioner of the Section, newly appointed by
the Convention, who appeared in the door, accompanied by several of his
agents.

"Search, the house from top to bottom," ordered the magistrate; and to
Lebrenn: "Citizen, here is a warrant of arrest issued against you. I am
further ordered to seal your papers and carry them to the office of the
revolutionary tribunal."

Lebrenn read the warrant and replied to the magistrate, "I am ready to
follow you, citizen."

"I must first place the seals, in your presence, upon all your
furniture, and especially on your papers."

The agents of the police, in their search of the house, soon arrived at
the retreat which sheltered advocate Desmarais. They incontinently broke
open the door. The advocate was soon informed by the agents of the turn
events had taken, and at once planned the new role he was to play in the
business. Stepping briskly down the stairs, he strode into the parlor,
and went straight to the commissioner:

"Citizen, in the name of the law, I denounce a plot of which I am
victim. Since yesterday I have been sequestered in this house."

While the advocate was speaking to the officer, Charlotte had given her
surprised husband in a few words the history of the pretended
sequestration, and added, "Now, my friend, for your own dignity, and out
of regard for my mother and myself, maintain the silence of contempt.
The wretched man is still my father."

"Dear wife, now, and in your presence, I shall keep silence. But
later--I shall speak," answered Lebrenn, yielding to Charlotte's plea;
then, recollecting, he suddenly asked, softly, "And the casket?"

"It is safe. Yesterday I thought of burying it, with Castillon's aid, in
the cellar; but he suggested taking it to the house of one of his
friends, a workman like himself, in the St. Antoine suburb. This latter
course I adopted."

"You did wisely. This Jesuit's presence here proves to me that the
Society of Jesus, which has so many a time and oft already sought the
destruction of our family legends, will leave no stone unturned to
ferret them out."

John's words were interrupted by an exclamation from Madam Desmarais.
"Brother!" she cried as she ran toward the financier, who had just
entered the room precipitately, "Hubert! You here! You are free!"

"Yes, free," replied Hubert, embracing his sister effusively. "And my
first visit is to you. The prisons are opened, and all the royalist
suspects are giving place to the brigands and terrorists."[18]

"Ah, brother, you forget that we are under the roof of my son-in-law
John Lebrenn, who has been accused, and has just fallen under arrest."

"What!" exclaimed Hubert, not having noticed Lebrenn as he came in, "is
that true?" Then, addressing the young man, to whom he extended his
hand, "I was unaware of the misfortune which has fallen upon you,
Monsieur Lebrenn; I know what interest you have always borne me, and if
I can to-day in my turn prove useful to you, I am entirely at your
service."

The commissioner received the report of his agents. They had unearthed
not a paper in the entire house, nor in the furniture, nor in the
workshop. They had sounded the cellar floor, examined the earth in the
garden, nothing gave suspicion of a secret hiding place. Little Rodin
also confirmed this information to the Jesuit.

"Citizen," said the magistrate to John, "a coach is at the door. Are you
ready to follow me?"

"_We_ are ready," said Charlotte, hastily throwing a cloak over her
shoulders. "Come, my friend, let us go. I shall accompany my husband to
the prison door."

"Adieu, good and dear mother," said John to Madam Desmarais, embracing
her. "Be of good heart, we shall see each other soon again, I hope.
Adieu, Citizen Hubert. Revolutions have strange outcomes! You, the
royalist, are free--I, the republican, go to prison!"

"Whatever your opinions, I have always found you a man of courage,"
quoth the financier, in a voice of emotion. "If any consolation can
temper the bitterness of your temporary separation, let it be the
certainty that my sister and my niece, your wife, will find in me a most
tender and devoted friend. I shall watch over them both."

John Lebrenn and Charlotte left with the commissioner. Monsieur Hubert
and Madam Desmarais accompanied them as far as the waiting carriage, and
strained them in a last adieu.




CHAPTER XXXV.

DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE.


Eight months after the events of Thermidor just described, I, John
Lebrenn, write this chapter of the story of the Sword of Honor, on the
26th Germinal, year III of the Republic (April 15, 1795).

Escaped from my prison, I lay for several weeks in hiding in a retreat
offered me by the friendship of Billaud-Varenne; to him I also owed a
passport made out in another name, thanks to which I was enabled to
leave Paris, gain Havre, and there take a coasting vessel for Vannes. I
chose Vannes as a haven not alone because I was unknown in that retired
community, but because it was close by the cradle of our family, towards
which, after such excitement and such cruel political deception, I felt
myself strongly attracted. At the end of about a month's sojourn in
Vannes, certain then that I could continue to dwell there without
danger, I wrote to my wife to rejoin me in Brittany, with her mother and
our son, whom she had named Marik, and who was born the 7th Vendemiaire,
year III. Thus I had the joy of being soon reunited with my family. My
wife brought with her the inestimable treasure of our domestic legends,
happily preserved from the clutches of Jesuit Morlet. My wound, received
at the battle of the Lines of Weissenburg, having reopened, I was for
some time almost helpless, and was forced to give up my trade of
ironsmith. Madam Desmarais was able to lay out for us some moneys, and
Charlotte proposed that they be expended in setting up a linen-drapery
and cloth store in Vannes.

This business afforded my wife and mother-in-law an occupation in line
with their tastes and aptitudes. For my part I was able, although still
very lame, to drive about in a carriage to the various markets and out
into the country, to dispose of our cloth. Everything gave me to hope
that my obscure name was forgotten in the hurly-burly of the
Thermidorean reaction.

A short time after the arrival here of my cherished wife, we made a
pilgrimage to the sacred stones of Karnak; we found them as they had
lain for so many centuries. You will undertake that same pilgrimage for
yourself when you have attained the age of reason, my son Marik, you to
whom I bequeath this legend of the Sword of Honor, which I add to the
relics of my family.

I conclude my recital of the events of the bourgeois revolution of 1789
with a few words on the last moments of the martyrs of the 9th
Thermidor, the words of a hostile eye witness. What could be more
touching than his account:

     "Robespierre the elder was carried to the City Hall, to the
     Committee of Public Safety, on the 10th Thermidor, between the
     hours of one and two in the morning. He was carried in on a board,
     by several artillerymen and armed citizens. He was placed on a
     table in the audience hall which lay in front of the executive
     room of the committee. A pine box, which held some samples of bread
     sent from the Army of the North, was placed under his head and
     served in some sort as a pillow. He lay for the space of nearly an
     hour so immobile that one might think he had ceased to live. Then
     he began to open his eyes. Blood flowed freely from the wound in
     his lower left jaw. The jawbone was shattered by a pistol shot. His
     shirt was bloody; he was hatless and cravatless. He wore a sky-blue
     coat, and trousers of nankeen; his white stockings were rolled down
     to his shoes. Between three and four in the morning they noticed
     that he held in his hand a little bag of white skin, inscribed 'At
     the Grand Monarch; Lecourt, outfitter to the King and his troops,
     St. Honore Street, near Poulies Street, Paris.' This sack he used
     to dispose of the clotted blood which came from his mouth. The
     citizens surrounded him, observing all his movements. Some of them
     even gave him a piece of white linen paper, which he put to the
     same use, keeping himself ever propped up on his left elbow, and
     using only his right hand. Two or three different times he was
     scolded at by citizens, but especially by a cannonier of the same
     district as himself, who reproached him, with military vigor, for
     his perfidy and scoundrelism. Towards six in the morning a surgeon
     who happened to be in the courtyard of the National Palace was
     called in to tend him. For precaution he placed a key in
     Robespierre's mouth, and found that his jaw was fractured. He drew
     two or three teeth, bandaged the wound, and had a hand-basin with
     water placed beside him. Robespierre made use of this, and also of
     pieces of paper folded several times, to clean out his mouth,
     still employing only his right hand. At the moment when it was
     least expected, he sat up, raised his stockings, slid quickly from
     the table, and ran to seat himself in an arm-chair. As soon as
     seated he asked for water and some clean linen. During all the time
     he had lain on the table, after he regained consciousness, he
     fixedly regarded all who surrounded him, especially those employes
     of the Committee of Public Safety whom he recognized. He often
     raised his eyes toward the platform; but apart from some almost
     convulsive movements, the bystanders constantly remarked in him a
     great impassibility, even during the dressing of his wound, which
     must have caused him the severest pain. His complexion, habitually
     bilious, assumed the pallor of death.

     "At nine o'clock in the morning Couthon, and Gombeau, a conspirator
     of the Commune, were brought in on stretchers as far as the big
     staircase of the Committee, where they were deposited. The citizens
     detailed to watch them stood about, while a commissioner and an
     officer of the National Guard went to report to Billaud-Varenne,
     Barrere and Collot D'Herbois, then sitting in committee. They took
     an order to these three calling for Robespierre, Couthon and
     Gombeau to be removed at once to the Conciergerie Prison, a decree
     which was immediately carried out by the good citizens to whom had
     been confided the guard over the three prisoners.

     "St. Just and Dumas were taken before the Committee in the audience
     hall, and at once taken on to the Conciergerie by those who had
     brought them in. St. Just gazed at the large engrossing of the
     Declaration of the Rights of Man, and said, as he pointed towards
     it, 'Yet it was I who got that passed!'

     "Such was the downfall of Robespierre. His agony was more cruel
     than his death. His erstwhile colleagues on the committees insulted
     him, struck at him, spat in his face; the clerks of the bureau
     pricked him with their penknives."

So died Robespierre by the guillotine. Let us glorify, sons of Joel, the
memory of this great citizen, the Incorruptible revolutionist. And as
sacred for us let the memory be of the other illustrious martyr-victims
of Thermidor, like St. Just, Lebas, Couthon, Robespierre the younger; or
martyrs obscure, like that throng of patriots whose blood flowed from
the scaffold in torrents during the Four Days. The reaction of Thermidor
smote with the guillotine without judgment; it assassinated the greater
part of the last defenders of the Republic.




PART III.

NAPOLEON




CHAPTER I.

THE WHITE TERROR.


To-day, the 22nd of September, 1830, the thirty-eighth anniversary of
the foundation of the French Republic in 1792, I, John Lebrenn, arrived
at the sixtieth year of my life, add these pages to the legend of the
Sword of Honor.

I have been for long back in Paris, established with my family in St.
Denis Street. During my stay in Brittany, beginning after the days of
Thermidor, 1794, I kept track of the more important historical events by
means of the journals of the period. Later, on my return to Paris, I
re-entered political life and took part in the events of the Eighteenth
Brumaire, the Hundred Days, and the Revolution of 1830. In the following
pages I shall endeavor to reproduce briefly the principal deeds of these
three epochs--1800, 1815, and 1830.

Should I depart this life before the completion of my task, my son Marik
Lebrenn, now arrived in his thirty-seventh year, will supply my place in
the work, aided thereto by the material and notes left by me, and by his
own memories. I have postponed from year to year this continuation to
our family legends, awaiting the accomplishment of the two prophecies
which hover ever above these accounts. One has been realized, in the
period from 1800 to 1814; the other has had but one approach toward
success--in July of this present year 1830.

       *       *       *       *       *

Alas, we have already seen the sinister fulfilment of the prophecy of
Robespierre the Incorruptible, the martyr of Thermidor--'_The brigands
have triumphed, the Revolution is lost._' The reins of the Revolution
fell into hands that were corrupt, perfidious, criminal. The national
representation was debauched, annihilated in the month of Brumaire by
Bonaparte; _military despotism seized the power, and civil war desolated
the country_.

The second prophecy of our family records--that there should be no more
Kings--had already begun to move towards fulfilment. Since 1793 the
tradition of republicanism had struck in the people's minds roots that
were live, deep, and indestructible. The people protested against the
Consulate of Bonaparte by the conspiracy of Topino Lebrun and Arena; it
protested against the Empire by forming the secret society of the
_Philadelphians_ and by the conspiracy of General Mallet; it protested
against the Restoration by several conspiracies, among them that of the
four sergeants of La Rochelle.

Let us rest firm in the assurance that, despite these eclipses, the star
of the Republic will yet rise over France, over the world, and our
children will yet greet the appearance of the United States of Europe,
the Universal Republic.

Meanwhile the disinherited shuddered and trembled before the fury of the
counter-revolution. At Avignon, at Lyons, at Marseilles, prisoner
patriots were massacred without even the excuse the latter had when in
September they put the traitors to death in the name of public safety
and of the fatherland, menaced from without and within. The victims of
the royalist reaction were ten times as numerous as those of the Terror.
The murders of Lyons pass all belief, and that in time of peace, without
provocation or cause. In one single day and in one single prison one
hundred and ninety-seven prisoners, among whom were three women, were
assassinated by the royalist dandies known as the Jeunesse Doree, or
"Gilded Youth." At Marseilles, at the St. John Fortress, two hundred and
ten patriots were slashed to pieces or burned in the same day.

But let us draw the veil over these saturnalia of blood, these orgies of
the White Terror, and compose our minds in thoughts of the republican
armies. Our armies learned with grief of the fall of Robespierre; but
then, submissive to the civil and military powers, and respecting the
decrees of the Convention, they accepted the Thermidor government; and
under the command of Hoche, Marceau, Jourdan, Moreau, Augereau, and
Joubert, they continued to battle against the coalized Kings. Holland,
freed by our arms, set itself up anew as a Republic; Prussia and Spain
sued for peace and obtained it; the royalists, encouraged by the
reaction, attempted again to arouse the Vendee, with the support of the
English, who made a descent upon Quiberon; but Hoche snuffed out that
civil war in its first flickers. The Convention modified on the 15th
Thermidor, year III (August 2, 1795), the Constitution of 1793. The mass
of the proletariat was stripped of its political rights. According to
the Constitution of 1793, all citizens twenty-one years old, born and
living in France, were electors, and members of the sovereign people;
according to the Constitution of 1795, on the contrary, it was necessary
to pay a direct tax in order to be eligible to the electoral right. The
Constitution of the year III, further, divided the legislative power
into two bodies, the Council of Five Hundred, and the Council of
Ancients; to be a member of the latter, one must have attained the age
of forty. The executive power, or Directorate, was to be composed of
five members, chosen by the Councils, which were themselves elected by a
taxpayers' and indirect vote, in two degrees. Primary assemblies
nominated electors, and these latter chose the deputies to the Councils.
The imposition of a tax qualification excluded the proletariat from the
count, and delivered it up to the will of a reactionary bourgeoisie;
hence the royalist party had not the slightest doubt of the success of
its candidates. The majority of the old Convention, composed in part of
lukewarm oligarchic republicans, but in the main of corrupted
legislators who were opposed to a restoration of the monarchy (whose
vengeance they feared, most of them having been regicides), attempted to
obviate the certain success of the royalists by decreeing that
two-thirds of the old members must be re-elected. This restraint imposed
upon the freedom of the ballot was at once iniquitous and absurd, and
paved the way for a new civil war. The Constitution of the year III and
the clause relative to the re-election of two-thirds of the members of
the Convention was submitted to the sanction of the primary assemblies,
composed of taxpayers. Among these, thanks to the exclusion of the
proletariat, the reaction was on top. Certain of a majority in the
approaching elections, and expecting consequently to control both the
Councils and Directorate, the reaction had anticipated dealing the last
blows to the expiring Republic, and re-establishing the monarchy. But
defeated in their hope by the decree rendering obligatory the
re-election of two-thirds of the Conventionals, the royalists incited
the primary assemblies against this decree. On the 11th Vendemiaire,
year IV (October 3, 1795) the bourgeois and aristocratic Sections of the
center of Paris--Daughters of St. Thomas and Hill of the Mills among
others--came to the front of the movement, and a horde of Emigrants and
ex-suspects raised an insurrection. The rebels declared the decree
compelling the re-election of two-thirds of the old Conventionals an
assault upon the rights of the 'sovereign people'; they took up arms and
organized a council of resistance under the presidency of the Duke of
Nivernais. The Convention named a committee of defense and called to its
assistance the patriots of the suburbs. Twelve or fifteen hundred
patriots responded to the appeal. The royalists, to the number of forty
thousand men, or thereabouts, under the command of Generals Danican,
Duhoux, and the ex-bodyguard Lafond, marched against the troops of the
Convention, and won at first some advantage over them. Barras,
commander-in-chief of the forces at the disposal of the Assembly, called
to his staff a young artillery officer named Bonaparte, whose military
renown dated from the siege of Toulon. The latter hastily brought up the
cannon from the camp of Sablons, made an able strategic disposition of
his forces, and, with the aid of the patriots of '93, wiped out the
royalist insurrection before the Church of St. Roche, on the 13th
Vendemiaire, year IV. The Convention employed its last session in
organizing the Councils; that of the Ancients was composed of two
hundred and fifty members; the remaining elected deputies formed the
Council of the Five Hundred.

The members of the Directorate elected by these Councils were Carnot,
Rewbell, Lareveillere-Lepaux, Letourneur, and Barras--all of them,
except Barras, men of honesty, only moderate republicans, but sincere.

The 4th Brumaire, year IV (October 26, 1795), the Convention pronounced
its own dissolution. It had been in session since the proclamation of
the Republic, September 21, 1792.




CHAPTER II.

COLONEL OLIVER.


The studio of Citizen Martin, painter, member of the Council of Five
Hundred, and former captain and then battalion commander of the Paris
Volunteers who fought at Weissenburg, was decorated in martial fashion
with pictures and sketches depicting episodes in the republican wars,
placed here and there on easels; models of antique statuary and studies
of nature graced the walls. On one side was a gay display composed of
the epaulets of Commander Martin, his arms of war, and his military hat,
whose two bullet holes bore witness to its wearer's intrepidity. One
morning early in November, 1799, the painter himself was gladsomely
embracing John Lebrenn, who had just deposited on a stool the traveling
bag he carried.

"Well, but I'm glad to see you, my friend," said John warmly, "after so
many chances and such a long separation!"

"It was made less grievous for me," rejoined Martin, "by our
correspondence. What is the news of your worthy wife, your little Marik,
and Madam Desmarais?"

"They were all well when I left them."

"And your cloth business--does it prosper as you would wish?"

"Our labor furnishes us the means to supply our modest wants; we desire
nothing more. Our life is rolling on peacefully at Vannes, that old town
of Armorica, the cradle of our family."

"I know how greatly the country should please you."

"And nevertheless, we must soon leave our nest, for it is impossible
there to give my son a suitable education. In a year or two, or perhaps
even sooner, we shall return to Paris, where we shall continue our
Breton cloth commerce. Such, at least, is my intention and that of my
dear wife and her mother."

"Hurrah! May your plan be realized, the sooner the better, my dear
friend. Then we shall no longer be reduced to a correspondence for
consolation."

"Your last letters," replied John, "decided me to come to Paris, seeing
the Republic was in danger of perishing. I think I could be useful to
you in such a case, and also perhaps to the Republic, by still pulling a
trigger against her enemies."

"The political situation is indeed grave. Nevertheless, there is no
ground for fearing a catastrophe very soon. In the Council of Five
Hundred there is an imposing republican majority; we are decided to
preserve liberty, and to fight the clericals, Jesuits and monarchists to
the finish."

"I doubt not your energy nor that of your friends; but the Republic has
now been for some time deprived of the popular element, its life, its
spirit, its strength."

"True; since Thermidor a great gap has been made in the republican
ranks. You may be sure that General Bonaparte, for all his military
renown, would never have dared affront Vergniaud, Danton, or
Robespierre, had they been in the Council of Five Hundred. At their
voice the people would rise in arms, and the ambitious dictator would be
sent before the revolutionary tribunal."

"Belated regrets, my friend. But explain to me how it is that the
Directorate, knowing full well the intrigues organized in Napoleon's
favor by his brothers, by Fouche, and by that former Bishop Talleyrand,
than whom no meaner rascal ever lived--how the Directorate was so weak
as not to send this General Bonaparte before a court-martial, guilty as
he was of deserting the army in Egypt, more than six hundred leagues
from France? In the height of the Convention such an act would not have
passed unpunished."

"For this weakness of the Directorate, and our own indecision in the
Council of Five Hundred, there are many causes. Sieyes is the soul of
the conspiracy against the Constitution of the year III, which he
himself framed, while we republicans rather defend that Constitution,
defective as it is, in order not to throw the Republic open to new
dangers. Sieyes, a member of the Directorate, and Roger Ducos, his
colleague and accomplice, are at the head of the sworn enemies of the
present Constitution. Among these oppositionists are the majority of the
Council of Ancients and some members of the Council of Five Hundred;
then come a crowd of intriguers of all sorts, stock brokers, men with
frayed reputations, get-rich-quick contractors, bourgeois weather-vanes,
corruptionists, harpies, repentant Terrorists, like Fouche and your
brother-in-law Desmarais, who is now a member of the Council of
Ancients. Sieyes's object is to overthrow the Constitution of the year
III by a coup d'etat and replace it by a bourgeois oligarchy; on top of
which would come a constitutional monarchy similar to that of '92, and
then it would be done for the Republic. That is the plan of the
opposition. Now here is the situation of us republicans, who constitute
the majority of the Council of Five Hundred. We count on the support of
two members of the Directorate, Moulins and Gohier, devoted to the
Republic. Then in case of a conflict, we have cause to hope that General
Bernadotte, whose influence may serve to blanket Bonaparte's, will march
on our side. The Council of Five Hundred has, moreover, for braces, the
remains of the several republican parties--Girondins, Mountainists,
Jacobins, Terrorists--as well as a large number of former members of the
Commune who escaped the scaffold after Thermidor, and belong to the
bourgeoisie--men of progress and free thought."

"And the people," inquired John again, "the workingmen of the suburbs,
are they also sunk in inertia? They should form a strong element for
you."

"Alas, they live indifferent to public affairs, except some workingmen
in Santerre's brewery and some old sans-culottes, such as your old
foreman Castillon--whom you will no doubt see this morning, as I
notified him of your arrival."

"Thank you, friend, for having arranged this pleasure for me. I shall be
happy to see our brave Castillon."

"He is still the industrious and honest artisan of yore; only, credulous
and naive as a veritable child of the people, he is like so many other
sincere republicans, a great partisan of Bonaparte's."

"Castillon, once so devoted to the Republic!"

"Exactly, since there is not a better republican--God save the
mark!--than this very General Bonaparte, according to Castillon and his
friends."

Just then Martin's servant entered to hand him a letter, saying: "An
ordnance dragoon has just brought this epistle, citizen, and awaits your
answer."

Martin tore open the envelope and read aloud:

     "Perhaps you recall, sir, an under-officer in the Third Hussars,
     who in the days of terrorism when the nation's honor sought refuge
     in the armies, fought with you in the defense of a battery at the
     battle of Weissenburg. This under-officer has made his way. He has
     had the happy fortune of serving under the orders of the greatest
     captain of ancient and modern times, on whom to-day hangs the
     safety of France.

     "Knowing, sir, your renown as a painter of battles, I desire to
     engage you on a picture. I beg you to let me know at what hour
     to-day you can grant me an interview on the subject of this work,
     on which you may set your own price.

     "Accept, sir, my best sentiments,

     "OLIVER,

     "Colonel of the Seventh Dragoons, aide-de-camp to General
     Bonaparte.

"Tell the soldier I await his colonel this morning," added Martin to the
domestic, after a moment's thought.

The servant left the studio, and Lebrenn, to whom Martin had passed the
letter, began:

"My sister's forecast, I see, was not wide of the mark. 'Oliver,' she
said to me, 'loves battles. He sees in war only a trade, a means to
carve out a fortune--pride and ambition.' And Oliver has become a
colonel and one of the staff officers of Bonaparte."

"This order for a picture," replied Martin, "is only a pretext to renew
acquaintanceship with me, and attempt to bring me over into the party of
his general."

"Painful as a meeting with Oliver will be, I almost congratulate myself
on the opportunity. Who knows but I may be able to bring home the truth
to him who was once my apprentice, and perhaps, thanks to my old
influence over him, open his eyes to the light?"

"I would like to think, at least, that he will not show himself a
monster of ingratitude toward you. I know all that he owes to your
family, and above all to the devotion of your sister."

"Oliver wrote me several times from Italy to inform me of his rapid
promotion in the army. Then the correspondence gradually died out, and
now for two years I have completely ceased to receive news from him.
Such have been his forgetfulness and ingratitude!"

At this moment who should enter the studio but Castillon, accompanied by
Duchemin, the old quartermaster of the field-artillery of the Army of
the Rhine and Moselle. The latter wore the fatigue uniform of the
artillery, and the straps of his rank; his left arm hung in a scarf. His
face, bronzed by the sun of Egypt, was dark as an Arab's. Unable to
repress his tears of joy, Castillon fell into Lebrenn's arms, crying
"Oh! Friend John!"

"Embrace me, my old Castillon," replied the latter, with unrestrained
warmth. "I find you still as I left you, the best of men."

Lebrenn and his former foreman continued their conversation to one side,
in low tones, while Duchemin said to Martin, who was studying his face
as if seeking to trace a resemblance:

"You don't recognize me, captain?"

"It seems to me I have seen you----" replied Martin dubiously.

"That blasted sun of Egypt has spoiled my complexion, else you'd
remember Duchemin, once cannonier in the Army of the Rhine and Moselle,
where we served together."

"Aye, now I remember you, old comrade," cried the artist, seizing the
other's hand. "And how is Carmagnole--and Reddy?" he added with a grin.

"My poor Reddy--he went the way of Double-grey," sighed the artillerist.
"He died like a brave war-horse. He received a ball in the body at the
battle of Altenkirchen. As to Carmagnole, my sweetheart of a spit-fire,
she split laughing, my pretty piece, while sending a triple charge of
grape-shot into the Austrians. After which, widowed of my Carmagnole, I
set out for the Orient."

"And so you went through the campaign in Egypt?"

"Bad luck to it, yes! A devil of a war! And Bonaparte!--Twist his noose
without drum or trumpet! To leave the army in the lurch! Name of names,
what cries, what shouts there were against the 'Little Corporal,' when
it became known he had abandoned us. Had we caught him, we'd have tied
his necktie for him!"

"_You left Egypt, then, after him?_"

"Three days after, with a convoy of wounded men they were sending back
to France. Our ship had the luck to dodge the English cruisers and
disembark us at Toulon. Thence I demanded to be sent during my recovery
to my old Paris, to see again my St. Antoine and the sans-culottes of
'93. They are not very thick now, but those who are still of this world
are all good and solid, witness comrade Castillon, one of the first I
encountered in the suburb. He told me that he was on his way to visit
you, captain, and as an old soldier of the Rhine and Moselle and a pure
Jacobin, I thought I might be permitted to follow along with him."

"You could not afford me a greater pleasure, comrade," the painter
assented, cordially. "The faithful of '93 are scarce in these times."

"Monsieur Colonel Oliver asks to see you, citizen," announced the
servant.

"Let Colonel Oliver enter. You, Castillon, and you, Duchemin, are going
to St. Antoine to have a talk with Santerre's workmen?"

"To meet here again at eight this evening, and decide what we shall do,
in view of developments," added Lebrenn.

Colonel Oliver was introduced. The brilliant uniform of the dragoons
besat him with natural grace; but his face was haughty, imperious and
rude; every line in it denoted the arrogance of command. He did not at
first recognize, or rather he paid no attention to, Lebrenn, Castillon
and Duchemin; but addressed himself straightway to Martin:

"I am delighted, citizen, to take this opportunity of renewing
acquaintance with an old brother in arms."

"Citizen," politely rejoined Martin, "I am no less happy than yourself
at the circumstance that brings us together, as well as three of our old
comrades of the Army of the Rhine;" and he indicated the three friends.

Greatly surprised, Oliver held out his hand and quickly ran over to
Lebrenn, crying, "Good meeting! You here? How are Madam Lebrenn and your
son?"

"All the family are in good health; my son is growing up, and I hope to
make a good republican out of him."

Castillon now approached, and slapping the colonel familiarly over the
shoulder, called out, "Say now, my boy--has your rank of colonel made
you near-sighted?"

Oliver trembled and turned purple with rage. He looked Castillon up and
down, and replied: "Who are you, sir, to permit yourself such
familiarity?"

"Well, well! Forsooth, it is I, Castillon, your old foreman, who taught
you how to handle a file and hammer a piece of iron, when you were our
apprentice."

"Give you good day, my dear sir, give you good day," retorted Oliver
haughtily and impatiently; and continuing his conversation with Lebrenn:
"And what chance brings you to Paris? Tell me about it."

But Castillon touched Oliver on the arm before he had time to get an
answer, and said: "Say, my boy, have you truly become, to all intents
and purposes, an aristocrat, since you belong to the staff of General
Bonaparte, as Duchemin says, our old comrade of the Lines of
Weissenburg, here, whom you don't seem to recognize either?"

"Hush, my old fellow," said Duchemin in Castillon's ear, "else he will
have the commandant of Paris toss me into the headquarters of police,
and then we won't be able to go to St. Antoine."

After a moment's silence, Colonel Oliver spoke, with difficulty holding
himself in: "I would reply to Monsieur Castillon, that if I was his
apprentice, it is nothing to blush for. He should understand that my age
and the rank I owe to my sword render inappropriate the pleasantries
permissible when I was eighteen."

"Pardon, excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis!" rejoined Castillon, not a
whit put down by Oliver's manner. "Ah, that's how the staff of General
Bonaparte comports itself!"

"As to you, who are still in the service," continued Colonel Oliver
rudely to Duchemin, "do not forget that we put the insolent in cells,
and shoot the unruly."

"I said nothing, Colonel," replied Duchemin quietly.

"Shut your mouth, hang-dog, and go to the devil!"

"Yes, hold your peace, old comrade, and make yourself scarce, since you
have but the choice between a cell and the shooting squad," Castillon
advised Duchemin; and then he turned on Oliver: "As to me, who, as a
private citizen have hanging over me the shadow of neither, nor yet the
awe of gold epaulets, I tell you this, Oliver, son of the people, a poor
orphan, put on your feet by the goodness of our friend John--you contemn
your brothers. A soldier of the Republic, you conspire against her.
You're an ingrate and a traitor! But the day of remorse will come."

"Do not provoke me, wretch, or----" cried Colonel Oliver.

Castillon and Duchemin turned on their heels and went out, Martin
accompanying them to the outer door, as Lebrenn had requested that he be
left alone a few minutes with the colonel. The latter hung his head and
maintained an embarrassed silence.

"Castillon's reproaches seem to have made some impression on you,
Oliver," Lebrenn began, at last.

"Not at all; such insolence does not trouble me. But let us forget the
wretches, and speak of you and your family, my dear Lebrenn."

"Let us speak rather of you, Oliver; let us speak also of my sister,
whose memory should be sacred to you. Her forebodings of your future are
realized; I fear her devotion to you has gone for naught."

"In what may my conduct justify your criticism? Has not my sword been
ever at the service of the Republic?"

"At the service of your ambition! And at the present moment you seem to
be in a mind to sacrifice the Republic."

Oliver responded with a start: "I firmly believe that France has need of
order, repose, stability, and a firm hand. I believe that authority
should be concentrated in the greatest captain of modern times."

"And what are your Bonaparte's titles--for you doubtless mean him--to
the government of France?"

"His victories!"

"But is not the military glory of Hoche, Marceau, Joubert, Massena,
Moreau, Kleber, Augereau, Bernadotte, Desaix, equal to that of your
general? And even if he were the greatest captain the world has ever
seen, it does not follow that he should be given the dictatorship. A
nation should never place its destinies in the hands of one man and
confide to him that exorbitant power, which smites with vertigo even the
hardest heads."

At this juncture Martin returned, and by a look inquired of his friend
the result of his interview with the colonel. Lebrenn shook his head in
the negative. Martin then addressed the officer:

"I would have excused myself, citizen, for my absence just now, had I
not left you in the company of our comrade John. Now I am at your
service. Let us discuss the battle scene you wish to give me the
commission for. Some explanation will be requisite."

"It is a brilliant charge executed by a squadron of my regiment against
the Mamelukes of Hussein Bey. I can furnish you with a sketch of the
field of battle made by one of my officers, and some notes I took on
the feat of arms itself."

"Any such documents would much facilitate my work, and I can, if you
desire it, citizen, commence work in a month--provided," he added with a
smile, "I am not in the meantime banished or shot."

"And why should either of those fates befall you, monsieur?"

"I am one of the Council of Five Hundred, and strongly resolved, like
the majority of my colleagues, to defend the Republic and the
Constitution against all factions. But the defenders of the best cause
may be defeated. In that case, your general, who seems to side with the
conspirators, is capable, in the event of his triumph, of transporting
the republican deputies to Cayenne, or having them shot on the plain of
Grenelle."

"Monsieur, I have still to learn that the vanquisher of Lodi, Arcola,
and the Pyramids is party to a conspiracy. But if he is conspiring, he
has for accomplice the whole of France; and in that case the factious
are those who attempt to oppose themselves to the national will."

Just then Duresnel, the young recruit of the Parisian battalion who
served under Martin at Weissenburg was introduced into the studio. The
colonel brusquely saluted the newcomer together with the two who were
already present and left the apartment.

Duresnel looked at John Lebrenn several seconds, and then cried out:

"Eh! If I am not mistaken, I have the pleasure of meeting, at the house
of a common friend, an old comrade of the Seventh Battalion of
Volunteers?"

"A comrade who was a witness to your first feat of arms, Citizen
Duresnel," rejoined Lebrenn cordially, "when after the charge of the
German cuirassiers upon our battery, you and Castillon took the Grand
Duke of Gerolstein prisoner."




CHAPTER III.

CROSS PURPOSES.


The same day as that on which occurred the scene just described, that is
to say, the 17th Brumaire, year VIII (November 7, 1799), the following
events took place at the home of Monsieur Hubert, banker and member of
the Council of Ancients and uncle to Charlotte. This exponent of high
finance had tenfold increased his fortune by his enterprises in
furnishing supplies to the army, or, in other words, robbing the people
and famishing the soldiers. In conference with the banker was the
reverend Father Morlet; politics was on the carpet.

"My reverend sir," asked Hubert, "will you please to tell me why the
Catholic and royalist party is taking no hand in political affairs? Do
you not comprehend that in supporting the dictatorship of Bonaparte you
deal the last blow to the Republic?"

"And who will profit thereby? Just clarify me on that point."

"He will, as a matter of course."

"Bonaparte's ambition is boundless," returned the Jesuit. "He is not
ignorant that a monarchy which owes its restoration to a Monck has no
more dire need than, as soon as it no longer needs his treasons, to rid
itself of the traitor. It is thus more than probable that General
Bonaparte prefers the role of a Cromwell, or a Caesar. In either of
these two cases we Catholics and royalists must oppose him, for he would
thus put off for a long time the return of the Old Regime. But as, after
all, and in spite of its improbability, there is one chance in a
thousand that he may be looking out for a restoration, we maintain for
the present complete neutrality."

"Monsieur John Lebrenn asks to speak with you, sir," announced a valet.

"John Lebrenn in Paris!--Pray Monsieur Lebrenn to wait an instant!"
cried the banker to the valet, who at once left the room to execute his
master's orders.

"My dear Monsieur Hubert, I am not at all anxious for a meeting with
that red-cap Jacobin, and for reasons of a particular nature," said the
Jesuit.

"Step into my cabinet. Thence you can descend by the little staircase."

"In case of unforeseen developments, write me, or--you know----"

"Oh, I forgot to ask you about the Count of Plouernel."

"He is," replied the Jesuit, "at Vienna, with his wife, who has just
presented him with a son, according to what the Count's brother, the
Bishop _in partibus_, whom you know, has just written me."

"And your god-son, little Rodin?"

"He is growing up under the eye of the Lord. He is in Rome, attending
the seminary of our Society."

The financier conducted Father Morlet to the door of the cabinet, and
then rang for the valet to show in Monsieur Lebrenn at once.

"What can be the motive of my nephew's coming now to Paris?" pondered
Hubert. "I hope he bears no bad news from my poor sister. Her last
letters foreshadowed nothing untoward. Ah, here he is. Welcome, my dear
nephew," he cried as he held out his hand, "welcome! And first of all
put me at ease about my sister and niece. Are they well?"

"Charlotte and her mother are in perfect health," answered Lebrenn.
"They charged me to visit you and tell you so, and I have made it a
point to deliver the message the very day of my arrival. We are living
happily in the peaceful town of Vannes, and still occupied in our cloth
trade."

"From which I conclude that you no longer trouble yourself with
politics. I congratulate you upon your wisdom, my dear nephew. The
Republic is a chimera, as I said long ago. Look at it to-day, as good as
dead, and to-morrow it will have heaved its last sigh. You come just in
time to attend the funeral. May it never rise from its ashes."

"The Republic is like Lazarus in the Scriptures. It may be wrapped in
its shroud, it will burst the stones of its sepulture. But let us leave
politics aside; we are not agreed on the matter, and never will be. I am
asked by my wife and her mother to inquire of you after the health of my
father-in-law, your colleague in the Council of Ancients, of whom we
have no news."

"My brother-in-law is still the same, dragging his miserable life from
apostasy to apostasy, tormented by the fear of death."

"What an existence!"

"He is, indeed, the most cowardly of men, and at the same time the most
talkative and vain of lawyers. Then, his position of Representative of
the people in the Convention, and now as deputy in the Council of
Ancients, flatters his vanity, and furnishes him with the opportunity to
give a loose to his voluble oratory. So, tossed back and forth between
his vanity, which impels him toward the hazards of political life, just
now so tempestuous, and his cowardice, which makes him tremble each day
lest he receive the reward of his apostasies, the miserable fellow's
life is kept, as the Catholics say, in perpetual hell."

"Monsieur Desmarais!" announced the valet.

The lawyer, barely across the threshold, stopped stock still, as
surprised as put out of sorts by the unexpected presence of his
son-in-law; for a moment he was unable to utter a word, and Hubert said
to him sardonically:

"How, brother! Is it so that you greet your son-in-law after so many
years' separation?"

"Monsieur Lebrenn should know," at length replied the lawyer, regaining
his self-assurance, "that a deep gulf separates honest men from the
Jacobins of '93, the Septembrists, Terrorists, Communists, and other
Socialists."

"Citizen Desmarais, we have known each other a long time," retorted
Lebrenn. "You are the father of my dear wife, to whom my life owes its
happiness. Whatever may be your words or your conduct toward me, there
are limits which I shall never exceed in my treatment of you. You
inspire me neither with anger nor hatred, but with a profound pity, for
you are unhappy."

"What insolence! To hear such words issue from the lips of my daughter's
husband, and be unable to punish him for them!"

"My pity for you is very natural," continued Lebrenn. "I pity your
condition because you must feel a cruel chagrin at being separated from
your wife and daughter."

"Scurrilous fellow!" bellowed the attorney, unable to contain himself.
"It is you who came to sow trouble and discord between the members of my
family and me."

"Citizen Desmarais, you are arrived at the decline of life; your
solitude weighs upon you. You regret, you regret each day anew the
sweets of the domestic hearth; our home is and always will be open to
you. Renounce your life in politics, the incessant source of your
anguish and your alarms, because of your lack of steadfastness. Return
to your wife and daughter; they will forget the past. But when fear has
its clutch upon you, you are like a person out of his mind; though you
may be in perfect safety, yet you will perish anyhow. So then, when you
please, Citizen Desmarais, you will find a place at our fireside. You
will enjoy with us an existence as peaceful and happy as your present
one is tortured."

Then to Hubert he added:

"Adieu, citizen. I shall return before my departure, to get your
messages for Vannes."

"Adieu, dear nephew," answered the latter. "Although a Jacobin, you have
my esteem."




CHAPTER IV.

LAYING THE TRAIN.


Late that afternoon conspiracy held high carnival in the parlor of
Lahary, an influential member of the Council of Ancients. The
conspirators present were scattered in groups about the apartment,
engaged in lively conversation, when Hubert the banker and advocate
Desmarais made their entrance upon the scene.

"Messieurs," Lahary was saying, "there are a number of us present. Let
us begin our deliberations. I shall preside. Our colleague Regnier has
the floor."

Regnier at once began: "Gentlemen, yesterday, in a long conference held
at the home of our friend the president of the Council of Ancients,
various opinions were advanced and discussed, but we separated without
having reached any conclusion, setting to-day for the final
deliberation. We should no longer temporize. Time presses; public
opinion, very uneasy, very restless, is watching; it apprehends a coup
d'etat, they say, from moment to moment. This state of mind is
particularly favorable to our projects, only we must make speed to
profit by circumstances, and hasten events. Else the Council of Five
Hundred will steal a march on us and appeal to an insurrection, in the
name of the Constitution in danger. We should thus lose much of our
vantage ground."

"Aye, let us haste," agreed Fouche. "Trust to my long experience. In
revolutions, he who attacks has three chances to one."

"The experience and authority of our friend Fouche in matters of
conspiracy can not be too highly estimated," Regnier hastened to put in.
"I am for attacking, and that to-morrow, the 18th Brumaire. Here is my
project. The Council of Five Hundred is the only real obstacle to the
overthrow of the Constitution, which, it is decided, shall give way to
another form of government, to be determined on later. The Council of
Five Hundred, composed in its immense majority of republicans, is, then,
the stumbling block to our projects. It must be either suppressed or
annihilated."

"It is more than probable that the canaille of the suburbs will not
budge an inch. Nevertheless, let us proceed prudently, as if an
insurrection were really to be feared. Let us get all the police, horse
and foot, upon the field to repress all suggestion of revolt," advised
Fouche.

"To conjure away the peril of an insurrection, this is what I would
propose," Regnier continued. "The Constitution of the year III vests
exclusively in us, the Council of Ancients, the right to appoint or
change the meeting-place of the Assemblies. Let us, in virtue of our
constitutional right, transfer our seat and that of the Five Hundred to
St. Cloud, which we can invest with five or six thousand troops, of
which we will give the command to General Bonaparte. Things thus
prepared, if the Council of Five Hundred refuses to adhere to our most
drastic measures--a refusal who can doubt?--we shall pronounce the
dissolution of their Council, and commission General Bonaparte to carry
out the decree. Triumph is assured--"

"I am authorized by my brother," spoke up a new party to the debate,
Lucien Bonaparte, "to declare to you that if he is placed in supreme
command of the troops he will answer for everything, even to the burning
of Paris."

"Those are extreme measures, but we must not recoil before them. We may
have to burn Paris," chimed in the plotters in chorus.

"Yes, I share the opinion of my colleagues," declared Desmarais the
lawyer. "The Council of Five Hundred, transferred to St. Cloud, becomes
no longer an object of fear. But how can we justify that relegation in
the eyes of the public?"

Fouche smiled sardonically. "Citizen Brutus Desmarais," said he, "you
have forgotten the fifty thousand Septembrists who are in the catacombs!
My spies and my horse police will spread themselves all over Paris
to-morrow trumpeting to the good bourgeois that a tremendous plot has
been unearthed to-night by Monsieur Fouche, Minister of Police. He,
wishing to frustrate the abominable projects of the scoundrels of
Terrorists, who are in league with the Five Hundred, all Jacobins,
warned the Council of Ancients of what was on foot; and the noble
conscript fathers, who would be the first to perish under the daggers of
the bloodthirsty Terrorists, thereupon decided to remove the sessions of
the national representation to St. Cloud."

"Hurrah for the great complot!" shouted Lemercier, opening his mouth for
the first time. "And this reason can well be supported by another, by
insisting above all that the lives of the Council of Ancients are
menaced by their sitting any longer in Paris."

"Yes, yes--on with the 'great conspiracy'!" cried all.

"It is agreed, then," summed up Regnier, "that the discovery of this
plot--excellent invention of the police!--is to justify the removal to
St. Cloud. Now we must see that our project does not miss fire."

"For that purpose we must call a special session of our colleagues of
the Council of Ancients, without informing them of the reason therefor,"
suggested Lemercier.

"I would observe to my honorable colleague, that, to my mind, it would
be a very prudent move not to notify the republican minority which sits
with us in the Council. These fellows would ask the most indiscreet
questions, the most absurd, ridiculous questions. They wouldn't content
themselves with the simple affirmation that there was a plot discovered;
they would ask for proofs of the plot! And the details of its discovery!
It would be most difficult to answer them!" put in Desmarais.

"Desmarais is right," assented Cornet, another of the conspirators. "My
belief is that all of us here present should charge ourselves to go this
evening to see our colleagues of the majority personally, let them know
the reason for to-morrow morning's extraordinary session, and address
letters of notification to them alone. Treason all along the line--our
success depends upon it. Is my advice taken?"

"If the republican minority complains about not being notified, we can
blame the inspectors of the hall," ventured Lemercier.

"It will be necessary, as a matter of precaution, to double the troops
about the Council of Ancients," Lucien Bonaparte advised. "Everything
must be foreseen. Squads of police agents should even be mixed with
them."

"General Bonaparte, more than anyone else, will serve our ends,"
answered Regnier. "We shall count on General Bonaparte; say to him that
he may count on us."

"Ah, there, Lucien," said Fouche with his withered leer, "if your
brother orders the troops to march, how will you, as president of the
Fire Hundred, whom you betray with such neatness and despatch, keep
those prattlers from screeching like jays when they are dissolved?"

"I shall head off the storm, never fear," laughed Lucien.

"And now, dear colleagues," interrupted Regnier, "let us make haste. The
day is nearly gone, and we have not a moment to lose. Let us go on. Who
will undertake to prepare the letters of notification?"

"I," volunteered Lahary, their host. "I shall see the inspectors of the
hall, who are ours. They are all ready to sell themselves."

"My dear Lucien, you will make it your duty to signify to the General
the result of our deliberations?" asked Regnier.

"I am going at once to my brother's, on Victory Street," answered the
young man.

"Who," Regnier continued, "will post the inspectors of the hall to have
the guards doubled to-morrow?"

"I; and I shall reinforce the posts with spies," replied Cornet.

"My other colleagues and I," Regnier went on, "shall partition among us
the task of visiting our friends at once, at their homes, and informing
them of the motive of to-morrow's special session."

"We ought above all to caution them to keep the strictest secrecy about
the affair," counseled Boulay, from the Meurthe district. "Otherwise it
will get noised about, and to-morrow we will see the republican minority
march into the Council with their bothersome questions."

"It must be an absolute secret, and I particularly recommend this to our
friends," assented Regnier.

"And I," Fouche added, "I shall go teach their lesson to my spies and
agents of police, all blackguards and off-scourings, willing to do
anything, if they are well paid."

Meanwhile Desmarais, aside, was saying in Lucien's ear: "And so,
to-morrow evening the greatest captain of modern times, your illustrious
brother, that grand man clad in the dictatorship which he alone can
wield, will decide the form of government it pleases him to bestow upon
France. We shall behold once more the glorious days of the monarchy."

"How! the dictatorship is to fall on Bonaparte!" cried Councillor
Herwin, in surprise.

"We certainly shall not allow General Bonaparte to decide alone on the
form of the government!" declared Cornet.

"What a stupid ass this Desmarais is!" said young Bonaparte to himself.
"Messieurs," he added aloud, "I give you my word of honor as a man, my
brother has no other ambition than to place his genius and his sword at
the service of the Council of Ancients. He is outspokenly republican,
and has no thoughts of a dictatorship."

Despite the reassuring effect of Lucien Bonaparte's words, his fellow
conspirator Regnier thought it wisest also to jump into the breach. "We
won't occupy ourselves, dear colleagues," he said, "with a premature
question. Let us first turn down the Constitution of the year III, and
pronounce the dissolution of the Council of Five Hundred which sustains
it. That done, we shall take further counsel; but first let us triumph
over the common enemy. And now, gentlemen--till to-morrow!"

To cries of "Till to-morrow!" "Till to-morrow, the day of great events!"
the conspirators dispersed.




CHAPTER V.

THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE.


By eight o'clock on the morning of the 18th Brumaire, year VIII
(November 9, 1799), the Council of Ancients were assembled in their
hall. Several members of the republican minority, which had not been
notified of the session, had nevertheless come to the Assembly, warned
by public rumor of something unusual in the wind. These latter gathered
in a group about the tribunal, engaged in animated conversation.

Lemercier, presiding officer of the Council, sounded his bell; silence
fell upon the assembly, and the members took their seats.

"Messieurs, our colleague Cornet, chairman of the Committee of
Inspectors, has the floor," he said.

Cornet mounted the tribunal and began: "Representatives of the
people:--The confidence you have reposed in your Committee of Inspectors
has laid it under the obligation of watching over your individual
safety, with which the public safety is so closely bound up. For, when
the representatives of a nation are menaced in their persons, so that
they do not enjoy in their deliberations the most absolute independence,
it is no longer a Republic. Your Committee of Inspectors knows that
conspirators are pouring into Paris in swarms; that those who are
already here do but await the signal to bare their poniards against the
representatives of the nation, against the highest authorities and
members of the Republic. In presence of the danger which encompasses
you, Representatives of the people, your committee felt it incumbent
upon it to call you together in special session to inform you thereon;
it felt it to be its duty to spur the deliberations of the Council on in
deciding what part it was to play in these circumstances. The Council of
Ancients holds in its hands the means of saving the country and liberty;
it would be doubting its prudence, it would be doubting its wisdom, to
think that it will not grapple the problem with its accustomed courage
and energy."

"It is inconceivable that neither I nor several of my colleagues
received notice of this convocation of the Assembly. This
omission--voluntary or involuntary--must be explained," interposed
Montmayon, a member of the minority.

"You have not been given the floor!" yelled President Lemercier. "Your
motion is out of order. I give the floor to Monsieur Regnier."

"Representatives of the people," declared the latter when he in turn had
climbed up to the tribunal, "where is the man so stupid as still to
doubt the dangers which encompass us? The proofs have been only too well
multiplied. But this is not the time to unroll their lamentable length.
Time presses! The least delay may prove so fatal that it would then no
longer lie in your power to deliberate on remedies. God forbid that I
should so insult the citizens of Paris as to believe them capable of
assaulting the national representation! On the contrary, I doubt not
but they would protect it with their own bodies, if need were; but this
immense city is nursing within its bosom a horde of brigands, of bold
and desperate scoundrels. They only await, with ferocious impatience,
our first unguarded moment to strike us, and, consequently, to strike at
the heart of the Republic itself."

Great cries of feigned indignation burst from the conspirators. Tumult
rose in the hall. Aside to himself Hubert muttered--"Forward, with
Fouche's Septembrists!"

"If there exists a conspiracy against the Republic--unmask it!" cried a
member of the minority. "Your assertions are without bottom. Let's have
the proofs!"

"You have not got the floor!" again declared President Lemercier.

Regnier continued: "I propose, gentlemen, according to the precise terms
of the Constitution, the following motion and irrevocable decree; and I
propose it to you with all the more confidence that a large number of
our colleagues, honored by our confidence, share my views:

     "The Council of Ancients, in virtue of Articles 102, 103, and 104
     of the Constitution, decrees the following:

     "Article 1.--The legislative body is transferred to the Commune of
     St. Cloud. The two Councils, the Five Hundred and the Ancients,
     shall there sit in the two wings of the palace.

     "Article 2.--They shall have moved by to-morrow, the 19th Brumaire,
     at noon. All continuation of functions and deliberations elsewhere
     before that time is forbidden.

     "Article 3.--General Bonaparte is commissioned to execute the
     present decree. He will take all measures necessary for the safety
     of the national representation. All the troops are placed under
     the command of General Bonaparte; he will be called into the
     Council to receive the announcement of the present decree and to
     take the oath. He shall act in concert with the Committee of
     Inspectors of the two Councils.

     "Article 5.--The present decree shall at once be transmitted by
     messenger to the Council of Five Hundred and to the executive
     Directorate."

The reading of the decree, acclaimed though it was by the intriguing
majority, elicited the most energetic disapproval from the members
present of the republican minority.

Cornudet followed Regnier on the tribunal: "Representatives of the
people, I move the adoption of this address to the French:

     "Frenchmen--The Council of Ancients uses its right, delegated to it
     by Article 102 of the Constitution, to change the seat of the
     legislative body.

     "The common safety, the common prosperity, are alone the object of
     this constitutional measure. They shall be attained.

     "And you, inhabitants of Paris, be calm. In a few days the presence
     of the legislative body will be restored to you.

     "Frenchmen, the results of this day will soon make it evident
     whether the legislative body is worthy of establishing your
     happiness, and if worthy, whether it can.

     "Long live the people, by whom, and of whom, the Republic has its
     existence."

The intriguers rose in mass to adopt this address to the French. In vain
the minority struggled to make their protests heard. They were drowned
out by the clamor raised by the conspirators.

"Ushers, lead General Bonaparte to the bar," ordered President
Lemercier.

Bonaparte was introduced by the ushers. He was clad in the severe
uniform of the generals of the Republic, a blue coat with large lapels,
a scarf tricolored, like the plume in his hat, tight trousers of white
cloth, and high yellow boots coming up to the middle of his calf. The
sickly and bilious complexion of the Corsican general brought out
remarkably the leanness of his countenance, which was furthermore
strongly accentuated by its frame of straight black hair. His look was
inscrutable; it disclosed at once pride and dissimulation, astuteness
and energy. A smile, which varied between insidiousness, mockery and
haughtiness, completed his physiognomy. Generals Berthier, Lefebvre,
Moreau, Macdonald, Murat, Moncey, Beurnonville, Marmont, and several
aides-de-camp, among whom strode Colonel Oliver, escorted Bonaparte.
Their air was one of jauntiness and triumph, and the clatter of their
trailing sabers and their spurred boots on the flagstones of the hall
rang out harshly. Then a profound silence fell upon the Assembly.

"General," quoth President Lemercier, "the Council of Ancients has
summoned you to its bar to impart to you its instructions."

In a voice that was clear and shrill, and marked by a curt and haughty
accent, General Bonaparte answered: "Representatives of the people, the
Republic was perishing. You perceived its plight; your decree has saved
it. Unhappy they who would trouble or disturb it! I shall arrest them,
with the aid of General Lefebvre, General Berthier, and all my
companions in arms. Woe to the seditious!"

Immoderate applause, echoing "Bravos!" on the part of the majority,
greeted this speech. Cries of "Long live General Bonaparte!" were heard.

President Lemercier interrupted the tumult. "General," he said, "the
Council of Ancients receives your oaths. It entertains no doubt of their
sincerity and your zeal to fulfil them. He who never promised the
Republic victories in vain can not but execute with devotion his new
engagement to serve her in all faith and loyalty."

Followed by his staff, General Bonaparte strode from the hall. The
traitor majority rose to its feet with the foresworn cry upon its lips:

"Long live the Republic!"




CHAPTER VI.

IN THE ORANGERY AT ST. CLOUD.


Promptly at noon of the 19th Brumaire the Council of Ancients assembled
in the great gallery of the palace at St. Cloud, still under the
presidency of Lemercier, one of the most active spirits in the
conspiracy. An usher announced:

"General Bonaparte."

General Bonaparte entered the gallery with a lofty air; his aides
trailed in his wake. Through the doors of the gallery, which remained
open, were visible the guns and fur caps of a platoon of grenadiers.

"What! Soldiers here!" demanded several members of the minority, with
indignation. "What right has General Bonaparte to announce himself in
this guise? Would he play the role of a new Caesar?"

"I demand the floor!" cried Bonaparte imperiously.

"In what title, in what right do you thrust yourself into these
precincts?" demanded Savary.

"General Bonaparte has the floor," Lemercier declared from his chair.

"Representatives of the people, you are in no ordinary circumstances,"
began Bonaparte, when at last he could speak. "You are sitting upon a
volcano. Allow me to speak with the frankness of a soldier, the
frankness of a citizen zealous for the welfare of his country; and
suspend, I pray you, your judgment till you have heard me to the end. I
was at ease and quiet in Paris when I received the decree of the Council
of Ancients, which opened my eyes to the dangers that it and the
Republic ran. At once I called to my brothers-in-arms, and we came to
give you our support. We came to offer you the arm of the nation, for
you are its head. Our intentions were pure and disinterested; and as the
price of the devotion we yesterday and to-day displayed, lo, already we
reap calumnies! There is speech of 'a new Caesar,' 'a new Cromwell';
they pretend that I aim to establish a new military government."

The majority violently applauded these words. The minority held itself
impassible. General Bonaparte continued, increasingly threatening,
imperious, and haughty:

"If it was said, to put me outside the law, I would call upon you, brave
defenders of the Republic, with whom I have shared so many perils to
establish liberty and equality. I would throw myself and my braves upon
the courage of you all, and upon my fortune!" (Shudders of indignation
among the minority, shocked by this audacious appeal to force.) "I
invite you, Representatives of the people, to form into a general
committee, and to take those salutary measures which the present dangers
urgently demand. You will find my arm ever ready to execute your
commands."

Then Bonaparte and his suite retired.

While the majority of the Council of Ancients pledged their allegiance
to the military dictator, the republican majority in the Council of Five
Hundred, assembled in the Orangery of the palace, was a prey to the
most lively agitation. Lucien Bonaparte was in the chair.

"You have the floor, citizen," he said, indicating Emile Gaudin, who was
on his feet.

The latter mounted to the tribunal: "Citizen Representatives," he began,
"a decree of the Council of Ancients has transferred the seat of the
legislative body to this commune. So extraordinary a measure can only be
evoked by the fear of, or approach of, some extraordinary danger. In
fact, the Council of Ancients has declared to the French people that it
made use of the right conferred upon it by Article 102 of the
Constitution, in order _to disarm the factions which seek to subjugate
the national representation, and to restore internal peace_. I ask,
first, that a committee of seven members be elected to report on the
condition of the Republic and the means of saving it; second, that the
committee make its report to the present session; third, that until then
all deliberation be suspended; fourth, that all motions be submitted to
it. Let the Assembly decide."

Long applause followed this speech. Representative Delbrel rose next.

"Representatives of the people," said he, "grave dangers do, in fact,
threaten the Republic. But those who wish to destroy it are themselves
the very ones who, under the pretext of saving it, wish to change or
overturn the existing form of government. In vain these conspirators
have hoped to frighten us by deploying about us the trappings of armed
force. If, nevertheless, the conspirators succeed in deceiving or
misleading the courage of our troops, we shall know how to die at our
posts, in the defense of public liberty against the tyrants, against
the dictators who wish to crush it. _We want the Constitution!_"

Again prolonged applause burst out as Delbrel uttered these words. Many
of the members spontaneously rose and repeated, with enthusiasm:

"The Constitution or death!"

Lucien Bonaparte hammered his bell for silence, and Delbrel resumed,
energetically:

"Bayonets affright us not. Here we are free! I ask that all the members
of this Council, by roll-call, renew at once their oath to sustain the
Constitution of the year III."

The Assembly rose as one. "Down with the traitors!" "Long live the
Constitution!" "Death to the traitors and conspirators!" shouted several
members.

"I ask that we take the oath to oppose the re-establishment of all forms
of tyranny," cried Grandmaison.

Grandmaison left the tribunal amid thunderous applause and continued
cries of "Long live the Constitution!" The acclamations lasted several
minutes. Hardly able to dissimulate the inward irritation he felt, young
Bonaparte was finally forced to put the taking of the oath to a vote. It
was carried unanimously, the infamous minority of intriguers in league
with the president not daring to come out in the open by voting against.

When it came in regular course to his turn to take the oath, Lucien
Bonaparte left the chair, ostentatiously mounted the tribunal, and in
the midst of a profound silence, with the eyes of all fixed upon him,
uttered the words in a strangely unnatural voice:

"_I swear fidelity to the Republic and to the Constitution of the year
III._"

"Secretary of the _Monitor_ newspaper, insert in the report the solemn
oath of Citizen Lucien Bonaparte!" cried Briot quickly. The words were
followed by shouts of "Bravo!"

"If he plays false to his oath, the treachery will live in history!"
exclaimed Grandmaison.

Suddenly one of the doors of the Orangery flew open with a crash, and on
the threshold appeared General Bonaparte, encircled by his generals and
aides-de-camp, and followed by his company of grenadiers, with fixed
bayonets. At the sight of this irruption of armed force into their
sacred precincts, the Representatives of the people sprang from their
benches as if impelled by an electric shock. Their indignation swelled
to voice, and outcries rose in all quarters--"What! Bayonets here! Saber
draggers! Down with the dictator!"

All his assurance notwithstanding, General Bonaparte fell back before
the outburst produced by his and his soldiers' presence. He removed his
hat and signified that he wished to speak. He made to cross the sill of
the entrance, when Representative Bigonnet sprang before him, and,
barring his passage and that of his armed escort, cried:

"Back--back, rash man! Leave this place at once; you violate the
sanctuary of the law!"

The attitude of the Representative of the people, his forceful accents,
made their impression upon General Bonaparte. He paled, hesitated, and
stopped. A new outburst of indignation resounded in the hall:

"Down with the dictator!"

"Outlaw the audacious fellow!"

"Long live the Constitution!"

"Let us die at our post; long live the Republic!"

Controlling the passion which boiled within him, General Bonaparte shook
his head haughtily, and seemed again, by a commanding gesture, to ask
for the floor. Once more he essayed to cross the threshold of the hall,
followed by his staff, when again several Representatives threw
themselves in front of him, forcing him to retire; and Citizen Destrem
called in a voice choked with indignation:

"General, did you, then, only conquer in order to insult the national
representation?"

Anew, and with redoubled energy, the cries broke out of "Long live the
Constitution! Outlaw the dictator!"

White with fear and at a loss what to do, Bonaparte recoiled before the
universal reprobation displayed against him. His boldness no longer
swayed the situation; he made a sign to his officers, several of whom
had carried their clenched hands to their sabers, and he and they
withdrew.

Lucien Bonaparte, the secret accomplice of his brother's intrigue
against the liberties of the land, and who had followed with anguish the
diverse incidents of the preceding scene, seemed stricken with
consternation at the General's retreat. The great uproar which continued
after the departure of Bonaparte gradually calmed down, and little by
little peace was restored on the benches of the national
representatives.

No sooner had quiet come upon the assembly, however, than a grenadier
captain burst into the hall, leaving his platoon standing in the
hallway. He marched rapidly towards the group in the middle of which
stood Lucien Bonaparte, answering a vehement cross fire of questions
from his colleagues with a vehemence no less than theirs. The captain
approached Lucien, spoke a few words in his ear, and the young man
hastened from the hall, followed by the captain and his escort. This new
violation of the council-chamber of the Five Hundred was so sudden, the
departure of their president so unexpected, that the Representatives of
the people at first were dumb with astonishment. Then a full-throated
cry burst forth, "We are betrayed! Our president has gone over to
General Bonaparte!" The agitation of the assembly was tremendous.

Lucien Bonaparte, on the other hand, surrounded by his escort of
soldiers, marched rapidly from the hall of the Five Hundred towards a
large assemblage of troops drawn up in the middle of the park of St.
Cloud. A great drove of people, inhabitants of the commune or arrivals
from Paris, drawn thither by curiosity, crowded behind the ranks of
soldiers; among these spectators were John Lebrenn and Duresnel.
Bonaparte and his staff were in front of the troops. The General was
pale and seemed a prey to keen anxiety; for the rumor had spread among
the throng of onlookers and the soldiers that he had just been outlawed
by the Council of Five Hundred. When Lucien, feigning intense
indignation, ran up and spoke to his brother, his first words reassured
and put new heart into the would-be dictator. Assuredly, failing of
Lucien's presence of mind, the fortune of that day would have gone
against the house of Bonaparte, for the youngster at once faced the
troops and cried, in ringing tones:

"Citizens! Soldiers! I, president of the Council of Five Hundred,
declare to you that the majority of the Council is at this moment under
the terror of several Representatives armed with stilettos, who besiege
the tribunal, threatening their fellow-members with death, and carrying
on the most frightful deliberations.

"Soldiers," he continued, "I declare to you that these audacious
brigands, who are without doubt sold to England, have set themselves up
in rebellion against the Council of Ancients; they have dared to declare
a sentence of outlawry against the general charged to execute its
decree, just as if we were still living in the frightful times of the
Reign of Terror, when that one word--'outlaw'--sufficed to cause the
dearest heads of the fatherland to fall under the knife."

The aides and generals about Bonaparte began to utter threats against
the members of the Council of Five Hundred. Colonel Oliver, drawing his
sword and brandishing it aloft, cried:

"These bandits must be put an end to!"

"Aye! Aye!" replied several voices from the ranks of the soldiery. "Long
live General Bonaparte!"

"Soldiers, I declare to you," continued Lucien, "that this little
handful of rabid Representatives has read itself outside the law by its
assaults on the liberty of the Council. Well, in the name of that people
which is a by-word with this miserable spawn of the Terror, I confide to
you, brave soldiers, the necessity of delivering the majority of its
Representatives, so that, freed by the bayonet from the stiletto, they
may deliberate on the welfare of the Republic."

Prolonged acclamation on the part of the officers and soldiers greeted
these words of Lucien's. Exasperation ran high against the
'Representatives of the stiletto.' "The villains," exclaimed several
soldiers, "it is with poniard at throat that they have forced the
others to decree our general an outlaw. They should be shot on the spot!
Death to the assassins! To the firing squad with these aristocrats."

Noticing that his brother was more and more regaining his confidence, at
the success of this jugglery with facts, Lucien continued, addressing
him at first:

"General! And you, soldiers! You shall not recognize as legislators of
France any but those who follow me. As to those who remain in the
Orangery, let force be invoked to expel them. These folks are no longer
Representatives of the people, but Representatives of the poniard. Let
that title stick to them--let it follow them forever, and when they dare
to show themselves before the people, let all fingers point them out
under that well-deserved designation, 'Representatives of the poniard'!
Long live the Republic!"

While Lucien was thus haranguing his brother's troops, the
Representatives of the people, no longer doubting the complicity of
their president in the schemes of the aspiring dictator, and beset by
inexpressible anxiety, set about averting the evils which they felt
impending. Motion after motion followed hard upon one another, and
passed unnoticed amid the tumult.

"Let us die for liberty!" "Outlawry for the dictator!" "Long live the
Constitution!" "Long live the Republic!" Such were the cries that rang
within the Orangery.

All at once the roll of drums was heard approaching, then the heavy and
regular tread of a marching army. The Orangery door was battered down
with the butts of muskets. General Leclerc, his sword drawn, entered,
followed by grenadiers. At this apparition, a death-like stillness fell
as if by enchantment upon the assembly. The Representatives, calm and
grave, regained their benches, where they sat immovable as the Senators
of ancient Rome. Right, succumbing to the blows of brutal force,
protested as it fell, and denounced Iniquity triumphant, a denunciation
which will ring through the ages.

From the tribunal General Leclerc gave the word of command:

"In the name of General Bonaparte, the Council of Five Hundred is
dissolved. Let all good citizens retire. Forward, grenadiers! Strike for
the breast!"

The grenadiers swarmed down the length of the hall, presenting the
points of their bayonets to the breasts of the elected legislators of
the nation. Most of the Representatives of the people fell back slowly,
step by step, still facing the soldiers and crying "Long live the
Republic!" Others threw themselves upon the bayonet-blades; but the
grenadiers raised their guns and dragged the Representatives out of the
hall.

Caesar triumphed; but the day of Brutus will come! Execration on
Bonaparte!

Such were the days of Brumaire.




CHAPTER VII.

GLORY; AND ELBA.


The war, immediately after the Brumaire coup d'etat, was pushed with
vigor. Moreau received the commandership-in-chief of the Army of the
Rhine, and Bonaparte, on the 16th Floreal of the same year (May 6,
1800), left Paris to put himself at the head of the Army of Italy. On
the 25th Prairial (June 14), he achieved the brilliant victory of
Marengo, which, completing the work begun under the Directorate,
expelled the Austrians from Italy.

Between January 8, 1801, and the 25th of March, 1802, the various powers
at war with France were one by one forced to sue for peace. The first
treaty was signed by England at Amiens. The peace was to be short-lived,
but Bonaparte improved his days of calm to restore a great part of the
abuses overthrown by the Revolution, and to lay the foundations for his
future hereditary power. Himself a sceptic, but considering religion in
the light of an instrument of domination, he treated with the Pope of
Rome toward the end of re-establishing Catholicism in all its splendor.
He founded the order of the Legion of Honor, a ridiculous and
anti-democratic body, and in so much a restoration of social inequality.
Shortly thereafter the Revolutionary calendar was replaced by the
Gregorian; in short, the First Consul set himself against the current
of public opinion, by returning, more and more, to the traditions of the
Old Regime.

On May 6, 1802, the Tribunate promulgated the suggestion that the powers
of the First Consul be extended for ten years; and two months later upon
motion of the Senate, the docile tool of Bonaparte, he was voted the
Consulate for life. Pope Pius VII came to Paris to anoint and crown the
brow of Napoleon, Emperor of the French by the grace of God.

The consequences of the restoration of hereditary monarchy in France
were not long to await. One by one Napoleon forcibly seized all the
budding republics of Europe which the breath of the Revolution had
fanned into being, and bestowed them as benefices upon his family. Part
of Italy, incorporated into France, was given into the vice-regency of
Prince Eugene Beauharnais, the Emperor's brother-in-law; and one of the
Emperor's sisters received the Duchy of Modena.

The 11th of April, 1803, was marked by a new coalition between England,
Austria and Russia. For a moment bent on a descent upon England,
Napoleon abandoned the adventurous project. Recalled from Boulogne to
face a war on the continent, Bonaparte, whose military genius still
attended him, gained on the 2nd of December, 1805, the wonderful victory
of Austerlitz. Peace was again imposed upon Austria; on the 26th of the
same month she signed the treaty of Presburg by which she surrendered
enormous slices of territory.

In 1806 the King of Naples broke his treaties with France. He was
summarily dispossessed of his throne to the profit of Joseph Bonaparte,
brother to Napoleon. A short time thereafter, the republic of Batavia
was presented to Louis Bonaparte, another brother.

Now dreaming of universal empire, and retrograding toward the era of
feudal barbarism, Napoleon attached foreign duchy after foreign duchy as
fiefs to his throne. His continual inroads into the neighboring
territories rekindled the war. A fourth coalition was formed against the
Empire. Prussia, neutral in the previous war, this time took an active
part; but October 14, 1806, saw her crushing defeat at Jena; on the 26th
the French army entered Berlin in triumph.

Russia, defeated at Friedland and at Eylau, begged for peace; it was
concluded at Tilsitt, June 21, 1807.

At each of these new and crowning victories Napoleon's vertigo grew.
Drunk with constant success, a universal monarchy now became his fixed
idea, and still another of his brothers, Jerome Bonaparte, was invested
with a kingdom formed out of several states of the Germanic
Confederation. The single member of the Bonaparte family who took no
part in the rich quarry of thrones distributed by the conqueror was
Lucien. Did he seek thus voluntarily to expiate his complicity in the
events of Brumaire, or was he victim to the Emperor's ingratitude?
Lucien received not a single crown out of the booty.

Napoleon's return to the traditions of the Old Regime, even to those
most execrated by the nation, became more and more extravagant. For
instance, the right of primogeniture, abolished by the Revolution, was
re-established. This iniquity, from the point of view of society and of
the family, was forced upon the Emperor by the logic of his mistakes:
if he reconstituted the nobility, he could not but ensure its existence
by restricting the partition of property.

On March 1st, 1813, the Prussian government, yielding to the public
voice of Germany, which was ever more and more hostile to Napoleon, gave
the signal for treachery by breaking its alliance with the French Empire
and again joining hands with England and Russia. The new coalition was
reinforced by Sweden, where Bernadotte, the old general of the Republic,
had become King. The victories of Lutzen and Bautzen at first seemed to
assure Napoleon's success. Austria proffered its mediation to the
belligerent parties, and they concluded, on June 4, 1813, the armistice
of Plessewitz. A congress, in session at Prague, offered Napoleon as
national limits those won by the armies of the Republic--the Rhine, the
Meuse, and the Alps. But Napoleon rejected the proposal with disdain; he
feared to lose by it his prestige in the eyes of the world and of
France, which he believed he could hold in subjection only by the glamor
of his victories.

The war recommenced, but soon, blow upon blow, began the reverses.
Macdonald was defeated in Silesia, Ney in Prussia, Vandamme at Culm. The
princes of the Germanic Confederation, encouraged by these checks, and
yielding to the pressure of their people, abandoned Napoleon on the
battle-field of Leipzig. They turned their troops against him. The
French army, in full rout, retreated within its frontiers, October 31,
1813; soon the allies threatened them even there. Napoleon rushed to
Paris on November 9th, and ordered new levies of troops. Thousands of
families, at extortionate prices, had previously bought off their sons
from conscription. This last draft took them all. The Corsican ogre
devoured the whole generation.

The situation was desperate. The Austrians advanced by way of Italy and
through Switzerland; the English, masters of Spain and Portugal, poured
over the Pyrenees, under the command of Wellington; the Prussians, led
by Bluecher, invaded Frankfort; and the army of the North, with
Bernadotte at its head, penetrated France by way of Belgium. In vain the
French soldiers performed miracles of valor; in vain were the Prussians
annihilated at Montmirail, at Champaubert, and at Chateau-Thierry, and
the Austrians overthrown at Montereau. These sterile victories were the
final effort of Napoleon's warrior genius.

On the 30th of March, 1814, the foreign armies entered the capital, a
shame which France had undergone but once before across the ages, under
the monarchy, in the reign of King John. Talleyrand and Fouche, so long
the servile tools of their master, were the first to betray him. On
April 11, 1814, Napoleon abdicated the Empire after a reign of ten
years.

The Senate, whose conduct during the Empire had been marked with abject
servility, put the final touches to its ignominy by decreeing with the
following justifications the deposition of the man of whom its own
members had been the accomplices:

     The Senate Conservator,

     Considering, That under a constitutional monarchy the monarch
     exists only in virtue of the Constitution, or the social contract;

     That Napoleon Bonaparte, for some time head of a firm and prudent
     government, gave to the nation and his subjects reason to depend
     for the future upon his wisdom and justice; but thereupon he
     sundered the pact which bound the French people, notably by levying
     imposts and establishing taxes not warranted by the law, and
     against the expressed tenor of the oath which he swore to before
     his ascension to the throne, according to Article 43 of the Act of
     Constitution of the 28th Floreal, year XII;

     That he committed this assault upon the rights of the people just
     when he had without necessity adjourned the legislative body and
     had caused to be suppressed as criminal a report of that body in
     which it contested his title and his part in the national
     representation;

     That he undertook a series of wars in violation of Article 50 of
     the Constitutional Act of the 22nd Frimaire, year VIII, which
     states that declarations of war must be moved, discussed, decreed
     and promulgated the same as laws;

     That he unconstitutionally rendered several decrees carrying the
     penalty of death, namely the decrees of the 5th of March, last;
     that he presumed to consider national a war which he entered upon
     in the interest alone of his own unbridled ambition;

     That he violated the laws and the Constitution by his decrees on
     State Prisons;

     That he has abolished ministerial responsibility, confounded all
     powers, and destroyed the independence of the judiciary;

     Considering, That the liberty of the press, established and
     consecrated as one of the rights of the nation, has been constantly
     subjected to the arbitrary censorship of the police, and that at
     the same time he has made use of the press to fill France and all
     Europe with contradicted facts, false maxims, doctrines favorable
     to despotism, and outrages against foreign governments;

     That acts and reports rendered by the Senate have been caused to be
     garbled in publication;

     Considering, That, in place of reigning with an eye singly to the
     interest, the happiness and the glory of the French people and in
     accordance with the words of his oath, Napoleon has heaped high the
     woes of the fatherland by his refusal to treat upon conditions
     which the national interests bade him accept, and which would have
     compromised neither French honor nor the interests of the nation;

     By the abuse he has made of all the resources of men and of money
     that have been confided to him;

     By his abandoning of the wounded without medical attention, without
     assistance, and without food;

     By various measures, the result of which has been the ruin of
     cities, the misery and depopulation of the country districts,
     famine and contagious diseases;

     Considering, That, by all these causes, the Imperial Government,
     established by the Senate-Consulate on the 28th Floreal, year XII,
     has ceased to exist, and that the manifest will of all the French
     calls for an order of things whose first result shall be the
     re-establishment of general peace and which may be also an epoch of
     solemn reconciliation among all the states of the great European
     family,

     The Senate declares and decrees as follows:

     Article 1.--Napoleon Bonaparte is deposed from the throne, and the
     hereditary right set up in his family is abolished. The French
     people and the army are released from their oath of fidelity
     towards Napoleon Bonaparte, who has ceased to be Emperor.

The heart rises with indignation and disgust at the thought of the
shamefulness of these miserable senators. Not alone did not one among
them dare to protest, even by his silence, against these acts which they
now condemned, but these very acts in their time had had no more
vociferous upholders than they themselves.

One last test was reserved for France and Napoleon. The latter was
furnished later (in 1815) with the opportunity to expiate and redeem the
past. His monarchical pride, his hatred for the Revolution both
contrived to render impossible this supreme expiation, and a terrible
chastisement fell upon him. In 1814 Bonaparte, although his throne was
forfeit, was recognized sovereign of the island of Elba. The coalized
Kings assigned him that place as a residence, and thither, attended by
several officers and soldiers faithful to him in his misfortune, he
repaired.

So great was the need felt by France for peace, repose, and
independence, after these ten years of warfare and hard service, that in
spite of her profound aversion for the Bourbons, their return was hailed
with joy. The kingdom of 1814, a new usurpation of the sole,
indivisible, indefeasable and inalienable sovereignty of the people,
consecrated again the iniquitous principle of monarchy, against which
the republican minority in vain protested.

Louis XVIII, accordingly, made his solemn entry into Paris on the 3rd of
May, 1814, in the midst of the princes of his family, escorted by the
greater part of the Marshals of the Empire, among whom mingled Emigrants
and foreign generals: legitimate punishment to Napoleon!

The Bourbons deeply wounded the sentiment of the nation by a return to
the usages of the Old Regime and by outrages against the acts of the
Revolution. Decrees restored to the Emigrants the estates and property
that had not yet been sold; the loans contracted by Louis XVIII in
various countries were placed among the debts of the state. Ordinances
prescribed the observation of church days and Sundays; the censorship
was retained almost as rigorous as under the Empire. Processions
commenced again to circulate about the churches. Thus the royal
government in a short space became as odious as the imperial government
had been. Several military conspiracies were organized. One faction of
the bourgeoisie thought of calling to the throne the Duke of Orleans,
while the republican party thought, on its part, to turn the trend of
events to its own profit. But, as has well been said, the fate of France
lay in the hands of the army, attached to Napoleon by the privileges he
had showered upon it, and by the memories of its glory. The people, long
grown disused to political life, switched off by Napoleon, and wounded
by the Bourbons in its revolutionary instincts, lay inert, all save a
few old patriots of the illustrious days of the Revolution. The army
alone, then, was the deciding factor in the fate of the Restoration.
Such was the state of mind in France from the 3rd of May, 1814, the day
of Louis XVIII's entry into Paris, up to the beginning of the month of
March, 1815, at which period begins our next chapter.




CHAPTER VIII.

RETURN OF NAPOLEON.


It was ten o'clock in the morning of the 20th day of March, of the year
1815. Monsieur Desmarais and his brother-in-law, Monsieur Hubert, were
awaiting in a chamber of the Tuileries an audience which they had
requested with the Duke of Blacas, minister to Louis XVIII, and his most
intimate favorite. They had anticipated the hour of the interview, in
order to arrive among the first; for great was the throng of solicitants
which sought Monsieur Blacas, whose recommendation was all-powerful with
the King. Desmarais and Hubert were dressed in the costume of peers of
the realm of France. The former, first senator under the Consulate, then
under the Empire, had been besides created a Count by Napoleon. Thus,
turned royalist, just as he had been Bonapartist (and, to retrace his
political career, Thermidorean, Terrorist, Jacobin, and first of all
Constitutional), Count Desmarais owed to his recent royalist devotion
the fact that he had been included in the list of senators who were made
peers of France since the Bourbon return. He was now in his sixty-ninth
year; his careworn, bitter features began to show the weakening hand of
age. Hubert, on the contrary, seemed lively and brisk as ever. He had
become the possessor of an enormous fortune, thanks to his purveyorship
under the Directorate, while he was a member of the Council of Ancients.
He had curried no favors at the hand of the Empire, whose absolutism
conflicted with his political principles; his ideal government had
always been a constitutional King, subordinated to an oligarchy of
bourgeois. Hubert had been one of a batch of large proprietors whom
Louis XVIII had in one day admitted to the Chamber of Peers; but he had
not been long in alienating himself from the government of the
Restoration, which was piling fault upon fault; he accordingly attached
himself to the Orleanist faction.

While awaiting their audience with Minister Blacas, the two were engaged
in a political discussion. Soon there entered Fouche, in tow of an
usher. "You will inform his Excellency that the Duke of Otranto begs an
audience with him," said Fouche to the usher. The usher bowed and
disappeared into the ante-room, while the new Duke exclaimed:

"What, is this you, Citizen Brutus Desmarais? And pray, what are you
soliciting here? An order for the debut at the Opera of that dancing
girl you are protecting?"

"That devil of a Fouche knows everything! You would think he was still
Minister of Police," interjected Hubert.

"The cask will always smell of the herring, my dear. I saw this morning
two of my old agents, who continue to make me their little confidences."

"Prefect of police, chief of spies! A pretty function, and highly
honorable!" sneered Hubert.

"Take care, take care, Citizen Hubert," cautioned Fouche. "I have my eye
on the Orleanist conspiracy, in which you have taken it upon yourself to
play a role!"

"Your spies are robbing you. You are very ill informed," retorted the
banker.

"Why try to trifle with me? Everybody conspires under the open heavens
these days. These Bourbons are imbeciles, and their Prefect of Police,
Monsieur Andre, is a ninny! We play all around their legs."

"How can you dare to hold such language in the very palace of our
beloved sovereigns?" protested Count Desmarais.

"Come, now! You and your fellows in the Chamber of Peers are yourselves
conspirators and enemies of the Bourbons."

"Your conspiracies are pure will-o'-the-wisps," again retorted Hubert.

"Well, I tell you that you, Hubert, are conspiring for the Duke of
Orleans. Several officers and generals are conspiring in favor of
Bonaparte. A number of colonels in command of regiments are connected
with this second plot; while, finally, the old Jacobins, and notably
your son-in-law John Lebrenn, Citizen Brutus, as well as the painter
Martin and their friends, are conspiring for the Republic; that's a
third conspiracy."

"All these plots and complots are of your own invention," grumbled
Desmarais, feeling very uneasy.

"True!" acquiesced Fouche with a smile. "But if I never follow the
conspiracies I invent, I at least always let myself into those which the
imbeciles are nursing. I've a foot everywhere: with the republicans, as
an ex-Terrorist; among the Bonapartists, as ex-minister of the Emperor;
with the Orleanists as an old friend of Philip Equality's; in short, the
best proof I can give you of the existence of these complots is, that I
have just come to denounce them. Yes," he continued, his smile
broadening, while Desmarais and Hubert stared at him in stupefaction, "I
have come to denounce them to that blockhead of a Blacas."

"His Excellency will have the honor to receive Monsieur the Duke of
Otranto," announced the usher, making a low bow to Fouche.

"Messieurs," beamed Fouche as he moved towards the open door, "a
royalist like me comes before everybody."

As the door closed after Fouche, a new group of solicitors entered the
waiting room. These newcomers were the Count of Plouernel, now in spite
of his missing eye lieutenant-general and second in command of the
company of Black Musketeers of the military household of Louis XVIII;
the Count's son, Viscount Gonthram, a boy of thirteen, in the costume of
King's page; and, lastly, Cardinal Plouernel, the Count's younger
brother. The prelate was garbed in a red cloak and cap. For a moment
these new personages stood apart, then the Count of Plouernel advanced
towards Monsieur Hubert, whom he did not at first recognize, and engaged
him in the following conversation:

"Will you have the goodness, sir, to inform me whether the audiences
have commenced?"

"Yes, monsieur; just now the Duke of Otranto was called in by Monsieur
the Duke of Blacas. But, pardon me," he added, as little by little he
recalled the other's features, "is it not Monsieur the Count of
Plouernel whom I have the honor to address?"

"Yes, monsieur," replied the latter.

"Monsieur, do you not recognize me?" continued Hubert. "I will assist
you. We met in 1792, during the trial of our unhappy King. We were
conspiring then against the Republic--"

"St. Roche Street, at the house of the former beadle of the parish? Now
I recall it!"

"Who would have told us then, Monsieur Count, that more than twenty
years after that meeting we would encounter each other again in the
palace of the brother of that royal martyr?"

"I fear lest that terrible lesson be lost upon royalty."

"Between ourselves, and without reproach, you have been somewhat the
cause of these unhappinesses, you gentlemen of the nobility."

"In conspiring against the republican Constitution we but defended our
property and our honor. The Republic despoiled us of our seigniorial
rights, sacred and consecrated rights which we held of God and of our
sword."

"Ah, the eternal strife between the Franks and the Gauls! Why is not my
nephew Lebrenn here to reply to you!"

"What say you, sir?" asked Plouernel, shuddering at the name. "That
Lebrenn, that ironsmith, has he become your nephew? What strange news!"

"He married my niece, the daughter of advocate Desmarais, to-day Count
and peer of France."

Under the weight of the memories evoked by the name of Lebrenn, the
Count fell silent. The Cardinal drew close to the speakers, holding by
the hand his nephew Gonthram. His Eminence, better served by his memory
than his brother the Count, recognized Hubert at once, and addressed him
in the most courteous tones:

"It has indeed been many years since we met, monsieur; for, if you
recollect, I accompanied my brother to the cabal in St. Roche Street.
What a time! What sad days!"

"Indeed; and your Eminence must recall how lacking in respect to you the
reverend Father Morlet was, who arrogated to himself the chairmanship of
our meeting. The reverend was accompanied by his god-son, who seemed to
be about the age of this pretty page" (indicating Gonthram); "but he was
far from resembling him, for I never saw a face more sly and
hypocritical than that child of the Church wore."

"Father Morlet is dead, and his god-son, taking orders in Rome under the
name of Abbot Rodin, is affiliated with the Society of Jesus," the
Cardinal informed the group. "This Father Rodin, as private secretary of
the present General of the Order, enjoys great influence. Ah! by my
faith! I did not know that our master hypocrite was in Paris!"

While the Cardinal was uttering these last words, the door opened and in
stepped himself, the reverend Father Rodin. He was accompanied by an
usher, into whose ear he dropped a couple of words. Rodin was now past
his thirtieth year. His meager face, smooth shaven and wan, his
half-closed and restless reptile eyes, his slightly bowed back, his
already bald forehead, his bent neck, his sidling gait, his attitude of
mock-humility, through which shone his contempt for others--everything
about the man stamped him as hypocrisy incarnate. His black gown was
threadbare and whitened at the seams; the mud was caked on his clumsy
shoes. In one hand he held a squalid-looking cap, in the other an old
cotton umbrella with red-and-white checks.

The usher to whom he spoke stepped for a moment into the next room and
returned almost immediately. He made a deep obeisance of respect to the
Jesuit, and said to him in a voice marked with great deference,
"Reverend Father, I have the honor to conduct you at once to the private
cabinet of monseigneur, who is at present engaged with the Duke of
Otranto."

Rodin made a sign of assent, and with eyes fixed on his shoes, so that
he did not see the Cardinal, he was about to walk by the group in which
the latter stood.

"Usher!" called the Cardinal, haughtily, "a word with you. We, Monsieur
the Count of Plouernel and I, were here before this reverend, which he
does not seem to know. The reverend gentleman should wait his time of
audience, and not usurp ours," he added, while Rodin bowed himself
almost to the ground before him.

"I have the honor to inform your Eminence that I have orders from
Monseigneur the Duke of Blacas on the subject of this holy Father. He is
to be introduced whenever he presents himself, and before all other
persons. I obey the orders given me," returned the usher.

"I shall not allow a simple priest to precede by a single step a Prince
of the Church!" stamped the Cardinal. Rodin only bowed before him
several times, lower than before, without raising his eyes to his face.

"My orders are imperative," said the usher.

Indignant the Cardinal turned to his brother. "Well, brother," he said,
"there we are! By the navel of the Pope, I'd like to knock the
interloper down!"

For all answer Rodin again mutely and humbly inclined towards the
Cardinal. Then he made a sign to the usher to precede him, and vanished
through a door on the opposite side of the room from where he had
entered.

The latter entrance again swung open, and admitted Lieutenant General
Count Oliver, in the garish uniform of his rank and decorated with the
Legion of Honor and several foreign orders. He wore the great red ribbon
on his scarf, the order of the Iron Crown over his shoulder, and the
Cross of St. Louis in one of the buttonholes of his coat, which
glittered with braid. John Lebrenn's old apprentice was now
thirty-eight; his moustache still held its blackness, but his hair was
streaked with grey; his face still was handsome and martial. A total
stranger to the other personages in the audience chamber, he seated
himself a little distance off from the group formed by the Cardinal, the
Count of Plouernel, and Monsieur Hubert. Count Desmarais had withdrawn
into the alcove of a window.

"That Jesuit, that scamp, that priestlet, introduced to Monsieur Blacas
before me!" stormed the Cardinal to the Count, his brother. "Me, a
Prince of the Church! I declare, as things are going, helped along by
that execrable charter of 1814, we are marching towards another '93!
France is lost!"

"The Restoration has done a great deal for the clergy, Monsieur
Cardinal," declared Hubert. "You are very wrong to cast reproaches at
the King and the government."

"I am of my brother's opinion as to what concerns the nobility," said
the Count of Plouernel. "I blame the King strongly for giving the
command of two regiments of his guards to ex-Marshals of the Empire,
clodhoppers, men of no account, like all these plebeians, hardly scraped
clean by the nobility Napoleon covered them with." General Oliver, so
far unnoticed by the Count of Plouernel, here moved indignantly, but the
Count proceeded: "The King should never have entrusted commands to these
barrack-heroes, smelling of the pipe and the bottle, bumpkins whom we
must elbow out of our way at the Tuileries, we, old Emigrants, who
fought them under the Republic. We sacrificed all for our masters, and
they do us the outrage to treat these upstarts as our equals! These
specimens, during their Emperor's time, expressed themselves most
insultingly toward the house of Bourbon; and to-day they accept
services, favors, and commands from the King. It is only to betray him
some day; at least that would not be the last word in the renegades'
baseness, and they would not even be conscious of their apostasy!"

At this General Oliver rose, pale with anger, and striding roughly up to
Plouernel said in a voice of concentrated rage:

"Sir, you will regret, I am convinced, your last words, when you learn
that I, Lieutenant General, Count Oliver, have served the Emperor, to
whom I owe my rank and title. For I have the honor to be a soldier of
fortune, sir. I shall know how to chastise any insolence that may be
addressed to me!"

Disdainfully looking General Oliver over from head to foot, the Count of
Plouernel made answer: "Well, sir! I, Gaston, Count of Plouernel, second
in command in his Majesty's Black Musketeers, have the honor never to
have served any but my masters. I followed them into exile, and I
returned to France in 1814. You have my opinion of traitors and
turn-coats."

"The King has conferred on me the command of a military division, and it
pleased him to award me the Cross of St. Louis. Tell me, sir, am I in
your eyes because of that command and that decoration a traitor or a
renegade? Answer, sir," demanded Oliver.

"Since you ask me, sir, I shall reply in all sincerity----"

At the moment when Plouernel would have finished the sentence, he was
interrupted by the hilarious roar of a new personage who had burst into
the room laughing fit to split his sides. It was his old friend the
Marquis of St. Esteve, that intolerable would-be conspirator, whom the
most serious moment could not check in his buffoonery. Powdered white,
the Marquis's hair was dressed in 'pigeon-wings'; his little queue
bobbed up and down on the collar of his bourgeois' coat with gold
epaulets. He wore a court sword, knee breeches, and top boots; he was
the epitome of that type of Emigrant dubbed 'Louis XV's tumblers.' On
seeing Plouernel he at once ran toward him, clasped him in his arms, and
all the while laughing fit to kill, exclaimed:

"Ah, Count! Hold me! I die! Oh, the idea! Ha, ha, ha! This time I shall
split of it, surely! Oh, oh, oh! If you knew the funny sto--ry! Ah, the
idea! I shall surely choke--let me laugh!"

Plouernel pushed him off, muttering "Devil take the nuisance!"

"Hang the Emigrant!" growled Oliver, on his part. "Interrupting just as
I was about to slap that insolent fellow's face!"

"You don't know of it!" ran on the Marquis, continuing to shriek with
laughter. "Ha, ha, ha! Bonaparte--has--has--oh! the idea!--has
returned--has landed at the gulf--oh! oh!--at the gulf of Juan, near the
town of Antibes! If that wouldn't make one split his sides laughing! Hi,
hi, hi!"

"Gentlemen," cried an usher rushing in in a fright, and beside himself,
"his Excellency has just been summoned to the King in haste by an
important unforeseen matter. There is no need waiting--the audiences are
off for another day!"

Following him hurriedly out of Blacas's cabinet, came Fouche, rubbing
his hands. Glimpsing Desmarais, pale and distracted at the news of
Napoleon's landing, he called to him: "If the tyrant does not have you
shot on his return, Citizen Count Brutus, my faith, you will have
fortune with you this time. Make your will!"

"Such a catastrophe! The designs of God are indeed impenetrable!"
exclaimed the Cardinal to Fouche.

"On the contrary, this is the happiest event that could happen under the
canopy. You don't see that Bonaparte falls into the little trap I set
for him. His return is folly. He will reach Paris without striking a
blow, for the Bourbons are execrated. But before a month, all Europe
will march against France."

Without waiting for Fouche to finish his speech, the various persons in
the hall fled to the door, each a prey to a different fear.




CHAPTER IX.

WATERLOO.


The Hundred Days were over. They had passed like the lightning in a
stormy night. Relying only on his genius and his army, Napoleon had
staked upon the turn of a battle his Empire and the independence of the
country. This battle, of Waterloo, he lost, in spite of the super-human
heroism of his soldiers.

May the name of Napoleon be accursed!

Several days had passed since that great disaster. In the cloth shop of
John Lebrenn, in St. Denis Street, under the sign of the 'Sword of
Brennus,' the following scene was enacting.

General Oliver, back wounded from the battle of Waterloo, where he had
bravely conducted himself, was engaged in conversation with his former
master.

"Well, Oliver," Lebrenn was saying to the wounded warrior, "your
Bonaparte has led France to her doom. We have lost the frontiers
conquered by the Republic. A second time the stranger is in the heart of
our country."

"Ah, would that I had remained at Waterloo, like so many others of my
companions-in-arms. But death would not take me!"

"I reproach you not, Oliver. You are defeated and unhappy; you have
returned to us. Let us draw the curtain over the past."

"How just were the forebodings of your valiant sister! I sought a title
of nobility, chivalric orders, and an income. To sustain the Empire I
would have shot my parents and friends. When the Restoration took place,
I did like the most of the Marshals and generals. In order to preserve
my rank, my title, my crosses and my pay, I turned traitor to my past, I
served the Bourbons, whom I despised. I would still have retained a fair
competency even if, which was almost impossible, I had been able to tear
myself away from the attraction of the army. But no, I had become a
servile courtier. I had breathed the air of the court, I could live
nowhere else. I cried 'Long live the King!' I went to mass, I followed
the processions, a wax taper in my hand, I swallowed the insults the
Emigrants heaped upon us when they beheld us at court crooking the knee
to their princes. Ah, Victoria! Victoria! Shame and anguish have fallen
upon me. I betrayed the Republic in Brumaire, I sold myself to the
Restoration in 1814, I deserted it during the Hundred Days, and here I
am reduced to exile--a just punishment for my apostasies."

"You have at least, Oliver, the conscience to repent that sad past. But
you will see how few among the generals and Marshals of the Empire will
repent like you the acts whose memory now galls you. Yes, you will yet
see the Princes, the Dukes, and the Counts of the Empire, little as the
new Restoration will please them, take up again the white cockade as
quickly as they threw it down three months ago for the tricolor. Most of
the Marshals are gorged with wealth; dignity would be easy for them.
But no, they must renounce it for vanities dearer to their pride. Just
God! There you have the fruits of Napoleon's maxim 'It is by rattles
that men are led.'"

"I see too late the abysses toward which Napoleon was driving France,"
groaned Oliver.

Martin the painter just then happened in. "Ah, my dear friend," he
announced from the threshold, "all hope is lost. Carnot despairs of the
situation."

"Nevertheless, the situation is still good," protested Oliver. "Paris,
considered as an immense entrenched camp, gives us the disposition of
the five bridges across the Seine. It would be possible, by a night
march, to move our troops by either bank of the river and wipe out the
Prussian army. But, to carry out that plan, the people would have to be
armed, which Napoleon does not want. The people in arms would mean
revolution and the Republic."

"What Oliver says bears the stamp of reason," remarked Lebrenn.

"Our friends said to Carnot," returned Martin, "'The Emperor will be
forced to abdicate, his hopes of empire will be blasted. The allies will
not content themselves with sending him back again to Elba; he has
everything to fear at their hands. Well, despairing as our position
seems, never, if he wished it, will it have been so excellent! He can
yet become the savior of France and the admiration of posterity. Let him
again transform himself into General Bonaparte, let him put himself at
the head of the troops and the armed people, with the battle-cry "Long
live the Republic! Long live the Nation!" Then liberty will triumph and
France arise, as ever, victorious.'"

"My heart leaps with enthusiasm at hearing such noble language," cried
Oliver. "Yes, yes, Long live the Republic! No more monarchs! Neither
Kings nor masters!"

"'The Emperor is resolved to abdicate,' replied Carnot to us," Martin
continued. "'He knows well enough that he has only to don the red bonnet
and cry To arms! for the whole people to rise. But he does not desire a
new revolution, he does not want to go outside the law. He has no longer
any authority. The Chamber of Deputies has seized the executive power,
and is treating with the allies. The Emperor's part is played, he can do
nothing more for France. Without his concurrence, I consider it futile
to engage upon a struggle.' Such was the response of Carnot."

Castillon and Duchemin were the next to come into the cloth shop. The
first, in his working clothes, still had on his leather apron, blackened
by smoke from the forge. Duchemin, whose moustache had grown quite grey
in the interim, wore a veteran's uniform. He had been placed in that
corps after the Russian campaign, in which he served as quartermaster in
the artillery of the Imperial Guard.

"Well, my friends, what news from the suburbs?" asked Lebrenn.

"In St. Antoine they are demanding arms to run to the defense of the
barrier of La Villette, which they say is already threatened by the
Prussians. 'Guns! Your Emperor will never give them to you!' I told
them," answered Castillon. And catching sight of General Oliver, he
gazed at him a moment open-mouthed and concluded: "Well, I am not
blind! There is Oliver! What a strange encounter!"

"It is indeed Oliver, our old apprentice," said Lebrenn, smiling.

"Ah, it is really you, my fine fellow!" returned Castillon. "Well, well!
It seems you have become a general. Well, that is nothing wrong, for you
are a brave one. But I also learned--and this, on my faith, would make a
hen smile--I also read that you had become a Count! Is it possible! You,
a Count! an ex-ragamuffin who used to ply the bellows for our forge, and
to whom I taught the song of those fine days: '_Ah ca ira, ca ira_, to
the lamp-post with the aristocrats!'"

Instead this time of getting angry, Oliver smiled sadly and extended his
hand to Castillon, saying, "Amuse yourself at my expense, my old
Castillon; it is your right. Your quips are merited, I confess my
wrongs. But be indulgent toward your old comrade. To-day, I wish to
fight for the Republic."

"Heaven be thanked! You have sung me an air there that has brought the
tears to my eyes," exclaimed Castillon with emotion as he eagerly
pressed the general's hand.

Duchemin smiled genially and gave the military salute. "Present,
general," he said. "Still another of the Army of the Rhine and Moselle.
You do not recall me at the passage of the Beresina?"

"Well! Well!" replied Oliver warmly. "Well do I remember you, and
Carmagnole, your sweetheart of a spit-fire."

"Here is an ex-member of the battalion of Paris Volunteers--a tried
patriot, and a republican of the old school," raid Castillon, indicating
to General Oliver Duresnel, who just then entered.

"Ah, my friend," said John Lebrenn to the new arrival, "if you do not
bring me better news than Martin has just given us, our reunion to-day
will lack its flavor. The masses lie indifferent."

"_Consummatum est!_" Duresnel sighed by way of answer. "It is finished.
I have just left the Chamber of Deputies; the Emperor has issued his
abdication, and is preparing, they say, to set out for his residence of
Malmaison, where he will remain while the allies settle upon his fate."

"And what news of the army?"

"The Prince of Eckmuehl, who commands the troops united under the walls
of Paris, assembled his generals this morning, and all or nearly all
have gone over to the Bourbon government. No more hope for it; we must
endure the ignominy of a second Restoration."

"In which case, friend John, what shall we do? Without arms, without
headship, without leaders, the people can do nothing," sighed Castillon.

"The old sans-culottes of the St. Antoine suburb ask nothing better than
to go to the front. In desperation for the cause, they were to march
to-day in mass to the Elysian Fields, in the hope that Napoleon would
yield to the acclamations of the populace," commented Duchemin.

"I am on guard at the Elysian Fields at six o'clock!" exclaimed John
Lebrenn, looking at his watch. "Like an old National Guard, I must to my
post. Adieu, friends!" And he continued to Oliver, "Come to supper this
evening with us and with our old comrades here. We shall take our
adieus of the banished soldier, and before we part, Oliver, we will
drain a last bumper of wine to the re-birth of the Republic. Neither
Kings nor masters! The Commune, the Federation, and the Red Flag!"

"Till this evening, then," replied Oliver. "Long live the Republic! War
upon Kings! Down with the Bourbons!"




CHAPTER X.

DEPOSITION.


Although it was mid-June, the day touched its close towards eight
o'clock in the evening. The shadows of night were already mingling with
the thick shade of the Elysian Garden, where Napoleon dismounted on his
return from Waterloo. A compact mass of people filled Marigny Alley, one
of whose sides was formed by the terrace of the palace, on which trees
and verdure grew in profusion.

The throng was composed almost to a man of artisans or federated troops
of the suburbs. From time to time the buzzing of the vast multitude was
dominated by the cry from thousands of throats--"Down with the
Bourbons!"--"Down with the foreigners!"--"Down with the
traitors!"--"Arms!"--"To the front!"--"Long live the Emperor!"

As the evening wore on, however, that last cry of "Long live the
Emperor," became more and more infrequent. The people understood at last
that Napoleon, whose return they had acclaimed with such hopefulness,
preferred rather to abandon France to the woes which hung over her than
to make an appeal to the spirit of Revolution. The Corsican ceased to be
the idol of the people. Cursed be the name of Napoleon!

At his post, gun on shoulder, John Lebrenn paced up and down the length
of the terrace of the Elysian Garden. He heard the cries of the
crowd--"Down with the traitors"--"Down with the Bourbons"--"The Emperor,
the Emperor!"--"War to the knife against the invaders!"

At that moment Napoleon, in a round hat and plain citizen's cloak,
turned out of the alley which abutted on the terrace. The dethroned
Emperor was walking, in a revery, his hands crossed behind his back. In
the dark, and under the trees, he did not notice the sentry until close
upon him. When he did, he stopped short, and, falling into his usual
habit of questioning those whom he met, he said to Lebrenn, who
presented arms:

"Have you been in the service?"

"Yes, Sire," replied John. The thought flashed through his mind that he
had in the same words answered Louis Capet in his prison in the Temple;
now he was calling Napoleon "Sire" on the day of his deposition.

"What campaigns were you in? Answer," commanded Napoleon.

"The campaign of 1794, in the Army of the Rhine and Moselle."

"Under the Republic! Have you served since?"

"No, Sire; I was married. I served the Republic."

"What is your profession?"

"I am a cloth merchant."

"In what quarter?"

"St. Denis Street."

"What say they of the Emperor among the merchants of St. Denis Street?
Answer me without hunting for phrases."

At that moment a new cry burst from the throng below and reached the
ears of Napoleon:

"Down with the Bourbons!"

"Down with the traitors!"

"Arms! Arms! To the frontiers!"

"The Emperor, long live the Emperor!"

"Again?" said Napoleon, shrugging his shoulders; and then to Lebrenn,
"Well, what do they say of me in St. Denis Street?"

"The most of the burghers look with repugnance upon a new Restoration;
but for the commercial bourgeoisie, the Restoration, if it will only
assure peace, means a renewal of business," replied Lebrenn.

"Always the same, these bourgeois," muttered Napoleon; "peace, business.
Their mouths can shape no other words. Among them never the shadow of
national sentiment! And what is the attitude of the people, the
workingmen of your quarter?"

"Some are astonished at your inaction, Sire; others are more severe;
they arraign your general policies."

"Have I not always had my hands tied by the Chamber of Deputies, by
babblers, lawyers, and rainbow-chasers! They think only of orating, of
overwhelming me with their reproaches, instead of aiding me to save the
country. They balanced opinions like the Greeks in the lower world,
while here the barbarians were at the gates of Paris. They are the
wretches!"

"I was at St. Cloud in the days of Brumaire, Sire, when with your
grenadiers you drove the Representatives of the people from their seats.
Now, when the safety of the fatherland is at stake, why do you not
employ the same measures against the deputies who prevent your saving
France?"

"The Five Hundred were Terrorists, malcontents, seditionists,
assassins," said Napoleon quickly; "they merited death."

"I arrived shortly after the session of the Five Hundred. You ran no
danger. No poniard was raised against you. The Five Hundred were no
malcontents; they defended the law and the Constitution."

"You are a Jacobin."

"Yes, Sire; ever since '93; and I believe that to-day, as in '93, the
Republic single-handed could cope with coalized Europe--especially had
the Republic your sword!"

Napoleon's face changed, and he smiled with that inscrutability mingled
with grace and good-fellowship which gave him, more than anything else,
such influence over the simple-minded. "Ah, ah, Sir Jacobin," he said,
"well for you it is that I find out so late what you are. You have no
doubt some influence in your quarter; I would have sent you to rot in
Vincennes, my new prison of state, at the bottom of a pit!"

Anew the cries from below broke out: "Down with the Bourbons!" "Arms!"
"To the frontiers!" "Long live the Emperor--War to the death against the
foreigners!"

"Brave people!" said Napoleon. "They would let themselves still be hewed
to pieces for me; and still they bear the weight of imposts, of
munitions of war, while my Marshals and all the military chiefs whom I
covered with riches betray me. My role is played out. I shall go to
America and turn planter, and philosophize on the emptiness of human
events! I shall write my campaigns, like Caesar."

"Sire, you forget France. Place your sword at her service; become again
General Bonaparte, as you were in the glorious days of Arcola and
Lodi--"

"Sir," broke in the Emperor impatiently and with emphasis, "when one has
been Emperor of the French, he does not step down. To fall, smitten by
the thunderbolt, is not debasement. Never shall I consent to become
again a simple general."

An aide-de-camp came up and joined the General. "Sire," he said,
"Colonel Gourgaud awaits your Majesty's commands."

"Let him harness the six-horse coach and make his way out through the
large gate of the Elysian Garden, to draw the attention of the mob about
the palace. I shall take the single-horse carriage and leave by the
equerries' gate. Hold, I have another order for you."

Napoleon grasped the aide by the arm, addressed him in a low voice, and
walked off with him. Soon they both disappeared around the corner of the
alley. The night was now black as pitch. Below, the cries of the people
ascended again:

"Arms! Arms!"

"To the frontiers!"

"The Emperor, the Emperor! War to the bitter end against the invaders!"

"Your Emperor, O people! is fleeing from you by night," soliloquized
John Lebrenn as he paced his weary round on the terrace. "He flees the
duties to which your voice would call him. He might have enshrined his
name in a new glory, that would have been pure and bright forever. But
fate drives him on to terrible retribution--captivity, perhaps death.
And thus will be avenged the coup d'etat of Brumaire, thus his attempts
against the liberty of the people. May the same fate fall upon all the
monarchs of the world!"




EPILOGUE.




CHAPTER I.

"TO THE BARRICADES!"--1830.


Fifteen years have rolled their course since the second Restoration,
accomplished after the Hundred Days. The Bourbon government seems to
have set itself the task of making the indignation of the people run
over.

Many are the grievances of France against the Bourbons: Provocations,
iniquities, barbarisms, the White Terror of 1815;--the provost courts,
where the hatred and rancor of the Emigrants sated itself with
vengeance;--assassination, organized, blessed, and glorified, in the
south;--Trestaillon and other defenders of altar and throne slaying
their fellow citizens with impunity;--the Chamber of Deputies
unattainable, all its members royalists save one;--the billion francs'
indemnity granted to the Emigrants;--the establishment by the
Ultramountainists and the Ultraroyalists of the law of sacrilege and the
law of primogeniture;--the impieties of the clergy;--the orgies of the
mission fathers.

Military and civil conspiracies sprang up, to protest against the
Bourbons with the blood of martyrs. The _Carbonarii_, a vast secret
society, extended its ramifications throughout all France and preserved
the traditions of republicanism. The Chamber of Deputies was dissolved,
having been guilty of declaring to Charles X through the organ of its
majority, in its address to the crown, that harmony no longer existed
between the legislative body and the government. The Chamber having been
dissolved, the country in the new elections responded by returning 221
deputies of the opposition which composed the majority of the Assembly.
King Charles X, in place of deferring to this manifestation by the
country, imagined that, thanks to the successes of the French arms in
Algeria, he could successfully put through a coup d'etat; which he
attempted, using Minister Polignac as his instrument, and rendering the
ordinances of the 26th of July, 1830, which suppressed the liberties of
the nation.

During the fifteen years of the Restoration, John Lebrenn had continued
his Breton cloth trade in Paris. Monsieur Desmarais, having gone mad
upon the second return of the Bourbons, died in isolation. Marik,
Lebrenn's son, had espoused Henory Kerdren, the daughter of a merchant
of Vannes, a correspondent of his father's. One son had been born of the
marriage. He was now two years old, and had been given the name of one
of the heroes of ancient Gaul, Sacrovir.

The 27th of July, the day after the promulgation of the Polignac
decrees, at about eleven in the evening, Madam Lebrenn and her
daughter-in-law Henory had closed the shop, and had gone up to their
mezzanine floor; there, together in their room, they busied themselves
with the preparation of lint, in anticipation of the insurrection which
seemed due on the morrow. Marik Lebrenn and Castillon were loading
cartridges. Castillon, now at the ripe old age of sixty-three, was white
of hair, but still supple and robust, and still plied his ironsmith's
trade. A cradle, in which slept little Sacrovir, the grandson of John
Lebrenn, was placed beside Henory. It was a picture of the sweet joys of
the family.

"In the presence of the passing events, and especially of those that
seem to be preparing," observed Madam Lebrenn, the same brave, steadfast
Charlotte as of yore, "I feel again that grave and almost solemn emotion
which I felt in my girlhood, in the grand days of the Revolution. Those
were glorious spectacles!"

"A terrible and glorious time, mother," answered Henory. "Imperishable
memories!"

"In the name of a name! We shall fight, Madam Henory!" quoth old
Castillon. "These cartridges will not be wasted. Down with Charles X,
Polignac, and the whole clique of them! Down with the skull-caps!"

Just then John Lebrenn came up. All rose and ran to meet him. He held
out his hand to his wife, and kissed his daughter-in-law Henory on the
forehead.

"The delegates of the patriot workingmen of the quarter have not yet
come?" he asked.

"No, father," replied Marik.

"What news have you picked up on your travels, my friend?" asked his
wife.

"Good, and bad."

"Commence with the bad, father," said Marik.

"The 221 deputies of the opposition lack energy," began his father;
"there is indeed a minority of resolute citizens, Mauguin, Labbey of
Pompieres, Dupont from the Eure, Audrey of Puyraveau, Daunou, and some
others. But the majority seems paralyzed with fear. Thiers is a coward,
Casimir Perier a poltroon. These two wretches pretend that royalty must
be given time to repent and to return to the paths of legality. They
propose opening negotiations with the monarchy."

"Death to Thiers, the petty bourgeois! Death to his accomplices. To the
lamp-post with the traitors!" cried Castillon, as he filled a shell.

"The same fear, the same lack of confidence on the part of the
bourgeoisie as in 1789," remarked Madam Lebrenn. "To-day, as then, the
bourgeoisie is ready to fall at the feet of the King and implore his aid
against the revolution."

"What is James Lafitte's attitude?" queried Marik. "Does he show himself
a man of resolution in the struggle?"

"His civic courage does not fail him. He remains calm and smiling. His
establishment is the rendezvous of the Orleanist party, which is making
a lot of stir, but takes no determined stand."

"And Lafayette--is he on the side of the people?" asked Madam Lebrenn in
turn.

"He is still the same man as we knew him forty years ago," her husband
replied; "undecided, vacillating, incapable of taking a stand. Lafayette
is of all cliques."

"General Lafayette knows well enough that if Charles X wins in the
struggle, his life is in danger," interjected Madam Lebrenn.

"The General's courage is above suspicion; but his lack of decision may
have disastrous consequences for our cause."

"His popularity is very great, and he may aspire to be President of the
Republic," pursued Lebrenn's wife.

"Our friends declared to him to-day that they counted on him for
President in case the Republic were proclaimed. He made answer that he
had no ambition in that direction, and that he would first have to see
how things fell out."

At that moment Martin, the painter of battles, and Duresnel entered the
room. They were both armed with hunting pieces, and carried belts full
of cartridges. Both the artist and Duresnel were chiefs in the
republican Carbonarii, and had played their part in many a conspiracy
upon the return of the Bourbons. Duresnel had spent three years in
prison, having been sentenced for press offences, for being proprietor
of a liberal newspaper. Martin, compromised in the conspiracy of
Belfort, and being condemned to death in John Doe proceedings, took
refuge in England, where he lived for four years, returning to France
only after the amnesty. Through it all the two men had retained the
patriotic ardor of their youth. They were frank republicans, and
partisans of the Commune.

"Good even, Madam Lebrenn," said Martin, setting down his gun. "I see
you are pulling lint; a good precaution, for to-morrow, at daybreak,
there will be hot work, or I am mistaken. Good evening, Madam Henory;
your little Sacrovir will probably hear music to-morrow which will not
be as pleasing to his ear as his mother's songs."

"It is good that my son become early used to such music, Monsieur
Martin," smiled the young mother. "Perhaps he will have to listen to it
often, for I want to make him a good republican, like his father and
grandfather."

"What news do you bring, friends?" asked John Lebrenn.

"I am just from the office of the _National_," said Duresnel, "where
they were holding a meeting of the opposition journalists. Armand Carrel
regards all attempt at revolution as senseless. He will not admit that
an undisciplined population can triumph over an army."

"The people, happily, will not guide themselves by the opinion of this
particular journalist," laughed Martin. "The agitation is spreading in
all quarters. A gathering, ordered to evacuate the Place of the Bourse,
attacked the troops, shouting 'Long live the charter! Down with the
King! To the lamp-post with the Jesuits and Polignac!'"

"The same scene was reproduced on the Place of Our Lady of Victories,
and on St. Denis Boulevard," said Duresnel.

"And they are getting ready for the same struggle in the St. Honore
quarter," Martin continued. "To-morrow at dawn Paris will bristle with
barricades. The combatants are pouring in by the thousand. Several
printers have released their workmen. Maes, the brewer in the Marceau
suburb, is ready to march at the head of his helpers. Coming along the
Dauphine passage, I stepped into our friend Joubert's; his book store is
a veritable arsenal, filled with arms."

"Several armorers' shops have been invaded," Duresnel went on. "On the
Place of the Bourse I met Etienne Arago, the director of the Vaudeville
Theater, who was taking a cart-load of guns and swords from the theater
to the home of Citizen Charles Teste, whom he charged with the task of
distributing them to combatants. There will be arms in abundance."

"This evening," said Martin, "I saw in St. Antoine women and children
carrying paving stones to the upper stories of their houses, to hurl
down upon the troops. The word is being passed along: 'Down with the
pretorians! Death to all the officers!'"

"When the women take part in a revolution," put in Madam Lebrenn, "it is
a good omen. Here are some old friends coming," she added. "They will
have news also."

Upon the word, in came General Oliver, accompanied by the old mounted
artilleryman of the republican Army of the Rhine and Moselle. Duchemin's
hair and moustache were now both as white as snow; but he was still
alert and active, and carried under his arm an old rusted musket. The
bitterness of exile had furrowed Oliver's face with premature wrinkles,
and turned his hair nigh as white as his companion's.

Oliver affectionately gave his hand to Charlotte, saying as he did so,
"Good evening, my dear Madam Lebrenn;--good evening, Madam Henory. Oh,
ho! Here you are occupied like the Gallic women of old on the eve of
battle. And here is brave Castillon filling shells. The picture is
complete."

Duchemin, also, saluted the company in military fashion, and said, "In
my capacity as old artilleryman, I shall lend you a hand, Castillon."

"So here you are at last," cried John Lebrenn cordially to the General.
"Our friends and I were beginning to get surprised, and almost worried
at not having seen you since the promulgation of the ordinances."

"Before two days have passed the Bourbons will be driven from France,"
returned the General. "The army can not stand against Paris in
insurrection. There are but twelve thousand troops in the city; the
victory of the people is assured."

"I fear you are mistaken, General," interposed Martin.

"You may be certain of what I tell you. I have my information from
several old officers of the Empire, who have maintained some sort of
relations with the War Ministry."

"Your old friends are thinking, perhaps, of giving the movement a
Bonapartist turn?" asked Lebrenn.

"They are thinking seriously of it. They besought me to attend a reunion
at the house of Colonel Gourgaud, where I met Dumoulin, Dufays,
Bacheville, Clavel, and other old comrades. I strove hard, but
ineffectually, to convince them that Napoleon's death had made all
thought of empire impossible. I remained alone in my opinion."

"I am afraid you will fall again under the influence of your old
war-time memories, and that of your companions-in-arms," said Lebrenn,
kindly.

"Ah, my friend," replied Oliver with emotion, "I have to-day no other
desire than that of retrieving the errors of my military career. I have
resolved to fight with you and our friends for the triumph of the
Republic."

"We have examined, with Martin, the position of this house," continued
Lebrenn, "and the wide open angle which the street forms twenty paces
from here seems to render imperative the building of a barricade almost
at our doors, in order to cut off the communication of the troops that
may come by the boulevards to effect their junction with those who no
doubt will occupy the City Hall."

"The place is well chosen," commented Oliver, ever the General.

"In that case," cried Duresnel, smiling, "I move that we name the
General commandant-in-chief of the barricade!"

"Carried! Carried!" cried all.

"I accept the position," replied Oliver; "but in order to command a
barricade, there must first be one."

"Here, my friend, is how things stand," Lebrenn resumed, when the
merriment had subsided; "my son and I enjoy in this street some
reputation as patriots. The active men of the quarter, mainly
workingmen, have full confidence in us. A number of them have come
several times through the day to seek advice. They are resolved to
engage in the struggle, if necessary, and only await our giving the
signal. Our responsibility is great. If we urge them to the conflict, we
must, in placing ourselves at their head, be certain in our consciences
of our means of defense. I have assured the brave patriots that this
evening, after having visited the different quarters of Paris and
informing myself to the best of my ability, by personal observation and
through friends, of the state of affairs, I would answer them as to
whether they would best take up arms or not. They were to come at eleven
o'clock or midnight to receive my decision. It is now half after eleven;
their delegates should not be long in coming.

"Now, my friends," continued John, "the supreme hour is come. Let us
take counsel. Let us not forget that among the energetic citizens who
await only one word of ours to run to arms, many have wives and children
of whom they are the only support. If they are killed or defeated, their
families will be plunged into distress. It is for us, then, to decide
whether their fighting is commanded by civic duty, whether it offers
sufficient chance of success for us to give the signal for battle. We,
more happy than our proletarian brothers, are at least certain, if we
succumb, of not leaving our families resourceless. Here, then, my
friends, is what I propose. We all know how things stand in Paris. Let
us put the question to a vote."

Madam Lebrenn spoke first. "Civil war is a terrible extremity," she
said. "Vanquishers or vanquished, the mother-country has always some
children to mourn. But to-day one can no longer hesitate. It is a choice
between servitude or revolt. So, with my spirit in mourning for the
fratricidal strife, I say to my husband, and to my son, You must fight
to defend the liberties that the kingdom has not yet despoiled us of;
you must fight to reconquer, if possible, the heritage of the great
Republic. It alone can bestow moral and material freedom upon the
disinherited ones of the world, in virtue of its immortal principles,
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, and Solidarity. So then, as I see it, we
must fight. Let the blood which flows fall upon the head of royalty, it
alone has called down this impious struggle! To arms! To arms!"

All were deeply moved at Charlotte's stirring words, and Lebrenn said to
his daughter-in-law, "What is your opinion, dear Henory?"

"I believe throughout with my mother. The insurrection must be called."

"And your opinion, Castillon? Speak, old comrade," Lebrenn continued.

"<DW19> and death, and _Ca ira_! Commune and Federation, and the Red
Flag!"

"You have no need to ask me, friend Lebrenn," volunteered Duchemin. "You
have only to look at my musket. The barrel is oiled, and the lock
graced with a new flint. Long live the social and democratic Republic!"

"What do you think about it, my dear Martin? What is your advice?" asked
Lebrenn of the painter in turn.

"I," said Martin, "say with Madam Lebrenn: Civil war is a terrible
extremity; but legal resistance is impossible and laughable. When a
government appeals to cannon to back up a coup d'etat, insurrection
becomes the most sacred of duties. Long live the Republic!"

"Is that your opinion too, Duresnel?" queried Lebrenn.

"Aye, and all the more so because, as I see it, the insurrection has
every chance of success. As for asserting that success will lead to a
re-establishment of the Republic, I would be careful of falling into a
deception. But at any rate we will have made a big step forward in
finally driving out the Bourbons; and whatever the government may be
that succeeds them, it can not but carry us far towards the Republic.
So, then, down with the King! Down with the Jesuits and priests!"

General Oliver did not wait for the question to be put to him. "My
friend," he declared simply, "I have but one way to redeem the past.
That is to fight for the Republic, or to die for it."

"As to you, Marik," said Lebrenn, turning to his son, "you have regarded
an insurrection as inevitable ever since you heard of the ordinances.
You are, then, for taking arms, are you not?"

"Yes, I am for battle, father."

"Well, then, war!" cried John; "Long live the Republic."

"Someone to see you, sir," announced a servant.

"These are the delegates of our friends, come for the word. Ask the
gentlemen in."

The servant showed into the room three workmen, in their laboring
clothes. One of them, a man still young, and with a face full of fire,
addressed John Lebrenn: "Are we to fight, or not to fight, in this
quarter, sir? They say it is warming up in St. Antoine, and that they
are building barricades. Our St. Denis Street is behind-hand; that will
be humiliating for the quarter."

"My men, you have asked my advice--" began Lebrenn.

"We felt the need of getting in touch with things, Monsieur Lebrenn.
Yes, for indeed we said to each other from the first, Ordinances, coups
d'etat--what has all that to do with us? Our misery is great, our wages
hardly buy bread for our children and ourselves; will our distress be
any greater after the coup d'etat than before? And still we said that
these Bourbons, these 'whites,' are the enemies of the people, and that
we should seize the occasion to turn them out. But after all, what will
it bring us? The same misery as in the past."

"What will we have gained by driving out Charles, Polignac, and the
skull-cap bands?" added the other two workingmen.

"My men, here in two words is the meat of the matter. To-day, in 1830,
the proletarians of the towns and the country, in other words the
immense majority of the people, produce, almost by their labor alone,
the riches of the country; and yet they live in misery. Why is it thus?
Because you have no political rights."

"And what help would political rights be to us?"

"Suppose you were all electors, as you were under the great Republic.
You would elect your representatives; these representatives would make
the laws. So that, if you chose for representatives friends of the
people, is it not clear that the laws they made would be favorable to
the people? The law could decree, for example, as in the time of the
Republic, the education of children, instructed and maintained by the
state, from the age of five to twelve. The law could decree assistance
for disabled proletarians, for widows with children. The law could
decree the abolition of slavery in the colonies, equality of civic
rights between man and woman. The law could assure work to citizens in
times of unemployment, and sustain them against the exploitation of
capital. The law, in short, could change your condition completely, for
the law is sovereign. The law can perform everything within the limits
of the possible; so then, by their number, the proletarians composing
the great majority of the citizens, they would be assured of having a
majority in the elections; whence it follows that if they had well
chosen their representatives, all the laws made by these would be in
favor of the proletariat. Do you follow me, friends?"

"In virtue of our political rights we would choose the representatives
who make the laws, and they would make them in our interests," answered
the first workingman. The other two also added: "That is easy to
understand."

"That is why," continued John Lebrenn, "as long as you remain without
political rights, your condition will continue precarious and
miserable."

"But how can we obtain these political rights?" asked one of the
workingmen.

"By combatting all governments which refuse to recognize your rights or
which pluck you of them, as did Napoleon, the accursed Corsican, and as
the Bourbons have done."

"It stiffens one's spine," returned the artisan, "to know that by
fighting against Charles X and Polignac we will obtain rights which will
permit us to choose the representatives who will make laws in our favor.
On to the barricades, then! Let us strike a blow that will count,
against the gendarmes, and the officers of the troops."

"To the barricades! Death to the gendarmes!" repeated the other two
artisans.

"In conclusion, my men," resumed Lebrenn, "I tell you in all sincerity,
it is possible, although doubtful, that we may with this one blow
reconquer the Republic, which alone can free you in mind and body, and
restore to you the exercise of your sovereignty. Now, my men, decide."

With ringing enthusiasm the three workingmen shouted:

"To the barricades!"

"Down with Charles X and Polignac!"

"Down with all the Jesuits and skull-caps!"

And all present joined in the battle-cry:

"Long live the Republic! To the barricades!"




CHAPTER II.

ORLEANS ON THE THRONE.


Four days later, namely, the 31st of July, Marik Lebrenn lay on his bed,
sorely wounded. Bravely defending, with his father, his friends, and a
little army of workingmen of St. Denis Street, on the 28th, the
barricade raised by them the preceding day a few steps from the Lebrenn
domicile, he had his arm broken by a ball. The wound, grave in itself,
was further complicated by an attack of lockjaw, induced by the stifling
heat of those summer days. Thanks to the care of Doctor Delaberge, one
of his father's political friends and one of the heroes of July, Marik
had come safely through the lockjaw, in spite of its usual deadliness.
But for the three days he had remained a prey to a violent delirium; his
reason had now returned to him hardly an hour ago.

Beside his cot was seated his mother; his wife, bent over the bed, held
her infant in her arms.

"How sweet it is to return to life between a mother and a darling wife,
to embrace one's child, and moreover to feel that one has done his duty
as a patriot," murmured Marik feebly, but happily. "But where is
father?"

"Father is unwounded. He went out, an hour ago, to be present at a final
meeting with Monsieur Godefroy Cavaignac, the valiant democrat,"
answered his mother.

"And our friends, Martin, Duresnel, and General Oliver?"

"You will see them all soon. Neither the General nor Monsieur Martin was
wounded. Duresnel was grazed slightly by a bayonet."

"And Castillon? And Duchemin?"

Madam Lebrenn exchanged a look of intelligence with her daughter-in-law,
who had gone to put her child in his cradle, and answered, "We have as
yet no news of those brave champions, Castillon and Duchemin."

"Then they must be badly hurt," exclaimed Marik, anxiously. "Castillon
would not have gone without coming to see me, for it was he who picked
me up when I fell, on the barricade."

"Our friends are probably in some hospital," suggested his wife,
soothingly. "But please, do not alarm yourself so; you are still very
weak, and strong excitement might be bad for you. We can only tell you
that your father is unscathed, and the insurrection victorious."

"Victory rests with the people! It is well; and yet, what will it profit
them?"

John Lebrenn and General Oliver now entered the sick-room. Madam Lebrenn
rose and said to her husband, with all a mother's joy: "Our son has come
entirely to himself, as the consequence of the long sleep which already
reassured us. About half an hour after you left he awoke with his head
perfectly clear. Our last anxieties may now be set aside; the
convalescence begins well."

Lebrenn walked quickly over to the bed, looked at Marik a moment, and
then embraced him tenderly, saying: "Here you are, out of danger, my
dear son. Ah, what a weight was on my heart! The joy I feel consoles me
for our deception--"

"My friend, I beg you--" interposed Madam Lebrenn. "The physician bade
me shield our dear patient from all emotion."

"Perhaps it would, indeed, be better to leave Marik in ignorance of the
result of our victory; but now it is impossible longer to hide from him
the truth."

"You may tell me everything, dear father. Disillusionment is no doubt
cruel, but we have already reckoned with that possibility in our
forecasts. Whatever the government may be which succeeds that of Charles
X, it will still be an improvement over the abhorred regime of the
Bourbons."

"Well, then, my son, here is our disappointment: The Republic has been
crowded out by the intriguers of the bourgeoisie, and the Duke of
Orleans has been acclaimed Lieutenant-General of the kingdom. In a few
days the deputies will offer him the crown."

"Our friends then let their guns cool after their success? And did not
Lafayette intervene in this matter of kingship?"

"Here," replied John, "is how the comedy was played. Seeing the
triumphant progress of the insurrection, and recognizing that Charles
was as good as gone, his friends flocked over to the Orleanists. The
Chamber of Deputies met last evening in the Bourbon Palace, in solemn
session. It was there that Lafitte, elected to the chairmanship of the
Assembly, proposed outright to confer upon the Duke of Orleans the
Lieutenant-Generalship of the realm. The majority applauded, and named a
committee to go to the Chamber of Peers, also in session, and inform
them of the decision of the deputies. The peers spared no enthusiasm in
acclaiming the Lieutenant-Generalship of Orleans, in order to safeguard
their own places, their titles, and their pensions. One single voice
protested against this act of turpitude, that of Chateaubriand. At the
City Hall, meanwhile, a municipal committee was in waiting there before
the arrival of Lafayette. It was composed of Casimir Perier, General
Lobau, and Messieurs Schonen, Audrey of Puyraveau, and Mauguin. These
two last republicans and anti-Orleanists urged upon the committee to
institute a provisional government, but the majority would not hear of
it, wishing, on the contrary, like Casimir Perier, to treat with Charles
X; or, like General Lobau, to turn over the office to Orleans. In fact,
Messieurs Semonville and Sussy having presented themselves in the name
of Charles X, who then proposed to abdicate in favor of the Duke of
Bordeaux, Casimir Perier consented to listen to their overtures. But
Audrey of Puyraveau cried out indignantly, 'If you do not break off your
shameful negotiations, sir, I shall bring the people up here!' His
language intimidated Perier, and the Bourbon go-betweens retired,
followed by Mauguin's words, 'It is too late, gentlemen.'

"A deputation headed by the two Garnier-Page brothers was sent to
General Lafayette to offer him the supreme command of the National
Guards of the kingdom; which he accepted. From that moment it was a
dictatorship. The General went to the City Hall, amid the transports of
the people; he could do anything; he was master, and could have carried
the revolution to its logical conclusion! But, with the exception of
Mauguin and Audrey of Puyraveau, the municipal committee, in
subordinating itself to Lafayette, contrived to frustrate any such
intention on his part by at once flattering and frightening him, posing
him in his own eyes as the supreme arbiter of the situation, and showing
him the responsibility that was falling upon him and the calamities
ready to loose themselves upon France if he did not attach himself to
the Duke of Orleans; whom, they went on with much ado to show, was able,
by an unhoped-for piece of good fortune, to restore order and liberty,
while as to the Republic--that was anarchy, that was civil war, that was
war with Europe! These words at once tickled Lafayette's vanity and
disturbed his honest conscience. He saw before him a role of a certain
degree of grandeur, that of sacrificing his personal convictions to the
peace of the country."

"In other words, of sacrificing the Republic to senseless fears!" cried
Marik.

"History will severely reproach Lafayette for that defection, that lack
of faith in the principles he supported, which he propagated for half a
century," continued Marik's father. "But, his character not being equal
to the dizzy height of the position whither events had wafted him, he
slipped; and promised his support to the Orleanists. In July, 1830, as
in the old days of Thermidor, our enemies have defeated us by their
quickness, although we had right and the people on our side. The Commune
should at that time have triumphed over the scoundrels of the
Convention, the same as to-day the City Hall should have triumphed over
the intrigues of the Bourbon Palace. May this new lesson be studied and
taken to heart by the revolutionists of the future."

"Malediction on the Conservative deputies! They deserve to be shot!"

"Our program contained in substance this: 'France is free, she wants a
Constitution. She will accord to the provisional government no right but
that to consult the nation. The people should not, and can not, alienate
its sovereignty. No more royalty. Let the executive power be delegated
to an elected President, responsible and subject to recall. The
legislative power should be reposed in an Assembly elected by universal
suffrage. For these principles we have just exposed our lives and shed
our blood, and we will uphold them at need by a new insurrection.'"

"What effect had the reading of this program?" asked Marik.

"It was applauded by the small number who could hear it. Some cried out,
in their simplicity, 'That's the program of Lafayette! Long live
Lafayette!' But at that moment a singular procession arrived at the City
Hall. It was headed by a coach in which sat Monsieur Lafitte, whose bad
leg prevented him from walking. Then came the Duke of Orleans, on
horseback, attended by Generals Gerard, Sebastiani, and others, and
followed by the committee of the deputies who had named him
Lieutenant-General of the kingdom. The prince was pale and uneasy,
although he affected to smile at the throngs of combatants, who still
carried their arms. Their attitude, their words, became more and more
threatening. Some guns were even leveled at this man who, after the
combat, came to usurp the sovereignty of the people. But a feeling of
humanity soon raised them again, and a few minutes later the Duke
appeared on the balcony of the City Hall with Lafayette. The latter
embraced the Duke, and presented him to the people, with the words:

"'Here, my friends, is the best of Republics--'

"Such was the result for which the people of Paris had fought for three
days! It is for this that we risked our lives, that you shed your blood,
my son--and that our old friends Castillon and Duchemin died valiantly,
as did so many other patriots."

"Great heaven! Father, what say you! Castillon--Duchemin--both dead!"

In agony at his unfortunate words, Lebrenn turned to his wife: "Our son
did not know, then, the fate of our friends?"

"Poor old Castillon--I loved him so," sobbed Marik, while his tears
poured upon the pillow. "Brave Duchemin--how did he meet his end?"

"In spite of his age," said General Oliver, who had so far been a silent
spectator of the scene, "he did not leave my side the whole day of the
27th. His patriotic fervor seemed to double his strength. That night he
went home with me. At daybreak of the 28th we rejoined, in Prouvaires
Street, the citizens who were defending the barricades there. The
colonel who commanded the attack, despairing of ever capturing the
barricade, attempted to demolish it with his cannon. A piece was brought
up, and at the first round a bullet rebounded and tore into Duchemin's
thigh. He fell, crying 'Long live the Republic!' Then he forced a smile
on his lips, and with his last breath said to me, 'I die like an old
republican cannonier. Long live the Commune!'"

Just then a servant entered, and said to Lebrenn, "Sir, one of the
workingmen who was here four days ago is come to ask news of Marik."

"Let him come in," replied the young man's father.

It was the artisan who, on the 27th, had acted as spokesman for his
comrades of St. Denis Street. His head was wrapped in a bloody bandage;
he was also wounded in the leg, and supported himself as with a cane,
with the scabbard of a cavalry saber.

"I heard that your son was wounded, Monsieur Lebrenn. I came to inquire
after him," he said.

"My son's condition is causing us no uneasiness," Madam Lebrenn
answered. "Be pleased to take a seat beside his bed, for you also are
wounded."

"I received a saber cut on the head and a bayonet thrust in the leg. But
they will be healed in a day or two."

Marik held out his hand to the workman, and said: "Thanks to you,
citizen, for thinking of me. Thank you for your mark of sympathy."

"Oh, that's nothing, Monsieur Marik," replied the workman, heartily
pressing the proffered hand. "Only I am sorry to have to come alone to
see you, because the two comrades who accompanied me here--the other
evening--"

"They are also wounded?" asked John Lebrenn hastily.

"They are dead, sir," sighed the workman.

"Still martyrs! How much blood Kings cause to flow! What woes they bring
to families!"

"Here, dear son, is how the political farce was wound up," began John
Lebrenn again, to complete his interrupted account. "The majority of
the 221 opposition deputies, typified in Casimir Perier, Dupin,
Sebastiani, Guizot, Thiers, and a few other reprobates, were terrified
when they saw the insurrection on the 28th grow to formidable
proportions. For, had it been defeated, the 221 would have been taken as
its instigators, and, as such, assuredly condemned for high treason
either to death or to life imprisonment; on the other hand, if it was
successful, they dreaded the establishment of the Republic. To conjure
off this double peril, they declared in their special sessions that they
still regarded Charles X as the legitimate King, and that if he would
revoke the ordinances and discharge his minister, they would at all
costs stand for the continuation of the elder branch. Penetrated by this
thought, they went to Marshal Marmont on the 28th to beg him to cease
firing, declaring that if the ordinances were repealed, Paris would
return to its duty. The Prince of Polignac, full of faith in his army,
would listen to no proposition on the 27th nor on the 28th. He counted
on the intervention of God. The stupid monarch and his minister did not
begin to recognize the gravity of their situation till the evening of
the 29th, when the troops, thoroughly routed, beat a retreat upon St.
Cloud. Then the ordinances were repealed, and Messieurs Mortemart and
Gerard were appointed ministers. Charles imagined that these concessions
would mollify the insurrectionists, and cause them to throw down their
arms."

"And what sort of a role did James Lafitte play through all this?" again
inquired Marik.

"The minority of the deputies convened at his house, and, from the 28th
on, they judged the kingship of Charles to be at an end. Thenceforward,
yielding to the counsel of Beranger, they labored actively for the Duke
of Orleans. The rich bourgeoisie, the big commercial men, and a certain
number of military chieftains, Gerard and Lobau among them, also rallied
to the Orleanist party, desiring a new kingdom under which they hoped to
place the actual government in the hands of a bourgeois oligarchy. The
house of James Lafitte was thus the center of the Orleanist
wire-pullings. You asked my advice," continued Lebrenn to the
workingman, "in the name of your comrades, before entering the fight. In
the light of our present set-back, do you regret having assisted in the
revolution?"

"No, Monsieur Lebrenn; I have no regret for having taken up arms. No
doubt we have not obtained what we sought, a government of the people.
But is it nothing to have cleaned out the Bourbons who wished to enslave
us? If we did not get the Republic this time, we at least know how to go
about driving out a King and defeating his army. We shall appeal to the
spirit of insurrection!"

"The day of retribution will come, my friend," declared Lebrenn. "A few
elected men, chosen not by the rank and file of the citizens, but by a
small party representing the privilege of riches, has decided upon the
form of government for France and has offered the crown to Louis
Philippe. They have stained themselves with the guilt of usurping the
sovereignty of the people, which is single, indivisible, and
inalienable. To this usurpation we shall reply by a permanent conspiracy
until the day of that new revolution when shall be proclaimed the
Republican government, which alone is compatible with the sovereignty of
the people, which alone is capable of striking off the material and
mental shackles of the proletariat. The Commune, and the Federation
under the Red Flag! Neither priests, nor Kings, nor masters!"

"On that day," re-echoed the stalwart proletarian at Marik's bedside,
"we shall all rise in arms, and cry:

"Long live the Republic! Long live the Commune!"




CONCLUSION


I, John Lebrenn, concluded the writing of this account on the 29th of
December, 1831, the eve of the day on which a daughter was born to my
son Marik; she was named Velleda, in memory of our Gallic nationality.

To you, Marik, my beloved son, I bequeath this chronicle, along with the
sword I received from General Hoche the day of the battle of
Weissenburg. You will join them to the other legends and relics of our
family, and you will bequeath them, in your turn, to your son Sacrovir.
You will add to these scrolls the history of whatever new events may
befall in your time, and our posterity will continue, from generation to
generation, these our domestic annals.

And now sons of Joel, courage, perseverance, hope--not only hope, but
certitude. In spite of the transient eclipses of the star of the
Republic since the beginning of this century, in spite of the
disappointment of which we were the victims in 1830, in spite of all the
trials which we, and our children, perhaps, have yet to undergo, the
future of the world belongs to the principle of Democracy.

       *       *       *       *       *

I, Marik Lebrenn, inscribe here, with unspeakable anguish, the date of
April 17, 1832, the evil day on which my beloved father and mother, both
at the same hour, although some distance from each other, died under the
scourge of the cholera. They retained to the end the serenity of their
unsullied lives, and went to await us in those mysterious worlds where
we shall at last be reborn, to continue to live in mind and body, and
follow there our eternal existence.


THE END.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See "The Pocket Bible," the sixteenth of this series.

[2] See "The Iron Arrow Head," the tenth of this series.

[3] This speech, which clearly shows the social tendencies of the most
radical party in 1789, is here reproduced almost literally from Luchet,
_Essays on the Illuminati_, chap. V, p. 23.

[4] See, for details of these scenes, and the questions and discourse of
the initiators, Luchet's _Essays on the Illuminati_, chap. V. p. 23, and
following; also Robinson, _Proofs of a Conspiracy against All the
Religions and all the Governments of Europe_, vol. I, p. 114 and
following.

[5] See the preceding work in this series, "The Blacksmith's Hammer."

[6] The old palace of the Bourbons, now abandoned to cheap lodgings and
hucksters' booths.

[7] All the persons and facts cited in this story as of historic
importance, are authentic.

[8] For an exactly parallel line of conduct, see that of Abbot Le Roy,
at the time of the invasion of Reveillon's paper factory in the St.
Antoine suburb, as given in the admirable _History of the Revolution_ by
Louis Blanc. We are glad to render here this public testimony of our
sympathy and old friendship for an illustrious campaign in exile.

[9] Mirabeau's death was for long attributed to poison.

[10] The correspondence found at the Tuileries, in the Iron Cupboard, on
August 10, 1792, and the correspondence of the Count of Lamark,
published in our day, establish superabundantly the treason of Mirabeau.

[11] See "The Abbatial Crosier," volume eight in this series.

[12] See "The Infant's Skull," volume eleven in this series.

[13] As each year started anew on the autumnal equinox, the dates varied
a little from those here given. Those given are for the first year of
the era. September, 1792, to September, 1793.

[14] The name for the paper notes issued by the Convention.

[15] Department of War, Sec. III, Correspondence, 1793-1794.

[16] This note is historic.

[17] It is fallaciously that tradition reports the attempted suicide of
Robespierre. He was assaulted by the gendarme Herda. See the _Monitor_,
session of the 10th Thermidor.

[18] The first care of the Royalists in the Convention, the day after
the 9th Thermidor, was not to decree liberty to the suspects, but to go
in person to open the prisons, whence flocked forth a horde of
recalcitrant priests and blood-stained counter-revolutionaries.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Sword of Honor, volumes 1 & 2, by Eugene Sue

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