THE TENTH OF AUGUST
According to agreement, Bremond sped instantly from the Assembly to
Courbevoie with news of the fresh humiliation put upon the King and the
outrageous scene which had taken place. He found Calvert, Monciel,
Favernay, Bachman, and several officers of the Swiss Guard, upon whose
loyalty they could depend, assembled in a room of the officers' quarters
of the barracks, anxiously awaiting the issue of the day's events. He
told his news amid a dead silence, broken only now and then by an
exclamation of indignation or disappointment from one of the listeners.
When he had finished speaking, Calvert turned to the little group,
"Then, gentlemen," he says, "pursuant to the plan, the King's request
having been denied, we may expect their Majesties here before ten, and
shall have the honor of guarding them to Compiègne."
As he looked around upon the little company, there was not a face but
expressed some secret doubt and misgiving. The King's timidity and
vacillation were so well known that 'twas impossible not to question his
good faith even in this last extremity. As ten o'clock passed and eleven
and no message or sign of the royal fugitives came to the anxious,
impatient watchers, those secret doubts and misgivings began to be
openly expressed.
"'Tis the Austrian who has kept him, I will bet a hundred louis," said
one of the Guard's officers, gloomily. "I never believed she would keep
faith with us--she is too deeply committed to Brunswick--nor will she
let the King do so." Even while he spoke there was a sound of someone's
running hurriedly up the stairs--they were assembled in an upper
room--and in an instant an orderly was hammering at the door, which was
flung open by Monciel.
"A messenger for Monsieur Calvert," he says, saluting.
Calvert followed the man hastily down the steps to where a figure waited
for him which made him start back with an exclamation of surprise and
consternation.
Adrienne--for it was she--came forward, taking off the cap pulled over
her eyes and letting fall the great cloak with which she had enveloped
herself in spite of the intense heat, and appearing in the outrider's
livery which was to have been the Queen's disguise.
"C'est moi," she says, hurriedly, and putting a finger to her lips, "and
I am come to tell you that their Majesties have failed you--have
abandoned the plan--and to implore you to escape while there is time."
She stood straight and tall in her boy's clothes, but the dim light,
falling upon her upturned face, showed it pale as death, and her voice
trembled as she spoke.
"You are come to tell me this?" says Calvert, slowly, still staring at
her as though scarce able to believe his senses. "And where is
Beaufort?"
"The King refused to let him go; he is with his Majesty," she says,
breathlessly--"d'Angrémont is taken--'tis reported that the palace is to
be attacked to-night. The King and Queen will not come--the King is
afraid to attempt the escape, and the Queen will rely on no one save the
allies--we implored them in vain to come but they refused--they have
failed you--save yourselves!" She leaned heavily against the door.
"It is quite certain?--they will not come?" asked Calvert. Adrienne
shook her head.
"Then wait--come in here," he said, drawing her into a little anteroom.
He ran back up the stairs and burst into the room he had just left, with
an imprecation.
"Their Majesties have flashed in the pan," he said to the gentlemen who
crowded about him. "'Tis no use to wait longer. D'Angrémont is taken.
You, Monciel and Favernay, set out instantly to intercept Marbois's
regiment and turn it back to Compiègne. You will go back with the troops
and report to General de Lafayette what has happened. As for you,
gentlemen," he says to the officers of the Guard, "not being needed here
longer, you had best lead your men back with all speed to Paris to guard
the palace. The attack is for to-night."
Almost before he had finished speaking the little company had vanished
which it had taken such secrecy and courage and fidelity to call
together; the great plan was overthrown which had taken such daring and
patience and wealth to set afoot. Timidity and bad faith had, in a
moment, destroyed what had taken so many weeks to build up, and for the
future calamities the King and Queen of France were to bear, they had
only themselves to thank.
Calvert ran down the stairs again quickly to the anteroom, where the
boyish figure in the long cloak awaited him.
"Come," he said, briefly, and, ordering a fresh horse for the rider,
whose mount was weary, almost without a word the two galloped back
together under the fading stars to the city of tumult and horror and
crime. And as they raced forward in silence, a thousand hopes and fears
crowded in upon Calvert's mind, but he put them steadily from him,
trying to think but of the King and Queen and if there might yet be help
for them or service to render. Only as he looked at the pale face beside
him, at the blue eyes, tired and strained now, a mad wonder would steal
over him that she had done this thing. And with this wonder tugging at
his heart and brain they pressed onward with all speed. They entered
Paris as the first streaks of dawn were beginning to redden the sky, and
in this rosy morning glow the haggard faces of the multitudes of men and
women pacing the streets--for who could sleep during that awful
night?--looked more haggard and wretched than ever before. Bands of
armed ruffians marched through the streets from all sections of the
city. 'Twas plain that some movement of importance was going forward.
The two riders made their way as quickly as possible past the Place du
Carrousel, where Calvert could see the faithful Swiss regiment at their
post, over the Pont Royal and so to the Faubourg St. Germain and the
American Legation.
"Mr. Morris's house is the only safe place in all this mad city, I
think," he said to Adrienne. "I will leave you in his care while I go
and see what has befallen the King and Queen."
Early as was the hour, the Legation was all astir, and Mr. Morris
himself came out to meet Calvert and Adrienne as they dismounted. He had
not been to bed during the night and looked harassed and weary. He drew
them into the house, where they found a large company assembled. Madame
de Montmorin was there, agony and terror written on her pallid face; the
old Count d'Estaing, who had fought so gallantly in America; Dillon,
Madame de Flahaut, and a dozen others, who had taken refuge with the
American Minister during that terrible night.
"You see!" said Mr. Morris, in a low tone, to Calvert, and indicating
the little group. "They have fled for protection here, but God knows
whether even this spot will afford them safety! I call you to witness,
Calvert, that if my protection of these persons should become a matter
of reproach to me here, or at home (and I have reason to expect it will,
from what I have already experienced), I call you to witness that I have
not violated the neutrality of this place by inviting them here, but I
will never put them out now that they are here, let the consequences be
what they may!"
"Who could believe that you could act in any other way!" said Calvert,
warmly, touched by the nobility and earnestness of Mr. Morris's manner,
very different from his usual cynical one. "And I am come to put another
in your charge until the Queen sends for her," he went on. "She has
ridden through this terrible night--God knows how--to give us warning
that the King and Queen have abandoned us and the great plan and have
chosen to remain at the palace. I must go to the Tuileries and find out
what has befallen their Majesties and then I will return."
"I know all," said Mr. Morris, bitterly. "I scarcely dared to hope that
their Majesties would stand by us or their promises. 'Tis as I thought,
my boy. Sacrifices and devotion, time and money have all been wasted in
their behalf. So be it! I think no power can save them now. You have
bravely done your share. Let this end it. And it were best that you
should leave Paris at once. D'Angrémont has died nobly without revealing
our secrets--he was murdered within two hours of his capture--but this
is no safe place for you. Go to the Tuileries, if you will, but return
to me as soon as possible. You have lost at the palace, but I think
there is a reward waiting for you here at the Legation," he says,
smiling a little and turning away.
Scarcely had Calvert left the Legation when he heard the alarm from the
great bell of St. Germain l'Auxerrois--that fatal bell which had rung
in the Massacre of St. Bartholomew two hundred and twenty years
before--and almost immediately after there came the sounds of musketry
and cannonading from the direction of the palace of the Tuileries. The
attack had already begun, and Calvert thought with a thrill of horror of
the fate that awaited Beaufort and those other loyal servants of their
Majesties within the palace.
The fearful drama of that day is too well known to need repeating. On
that day Louis XVI of France passed from history and the revolution was
consummated. By the time Calvert had reached the Quai opposite the
Louvre the battle was begun, the mob was forcing its way past the
scattered National Guard, whose commander lay murdered on the steps of
the Hôtel de Ville, past the stanch, true Swiss Guard, who, left without
orders, stood, martyrs at their posts, _ne sacramenti fidem fallerent_,
through the Carrousel up to the very palace itself. There, surrounded by
seven hundred loyal gentlemen, whom he was to abandon as he had
abandoned all his friends and servants, the King awaited his doom in
apathetic resignation. It was impossible to reach his Majesty or to do
aught for him, and Calvert could only look on from afar. There was no
place in that fearful scene for an American. The French at last knew
their power, had at last got the bit between their teeth, and no outside
interference could stay that fearful pace. The mob surged about Calvert,
increased every instant by fresh additions from the lowest quarters of
the city, reinforced by deputations from the provinces. The firing from
without grew quicker and quicker; from within fainter and less frequent,
as those devoted servants of the King were shot down, until finally
there was silence within the palace and the scarlet of the Swiss could
be seen scattered and fleeing in every direction as the armed and
triumphant mob pushed its way forward. Looking into the mad whirlwind of
faces, Calvert saw the great, disfigured head, the massive shoulders of
Danton, (but just come, on that fearful morning, to the fulness of his
infamy and power), followed by Bertrand, battling his way beside his
great leader.
"And 'twas for this I saved him!" said Calvert to himself. "Truly the
ways and ends of Providence are inscrutable!"
He watched the terrible scene a long while, and then, seeing that he was
powerless to aid those in the palace, he made his way back to the
Legation with a beating heart. The great disappointment the night had
brought, the failure of all those plans in which he had been so
profoundly interested and for which he had hazarded so much, even the
peril of the King and Queen, faded from before his mind as he thought of
Adrienne and asked himself why she had risked her life to come to him.
He saw her still galloping by his side, her face pale in the light of
the full August moon, her dusky hair blown backward, the strange,
inscrutable expression in her eyes.
She was not with the rest of the little company when Calvert once more
entered the Legation. He found her in an upper chamber, where she stood
alone beside an open window, looking out on the agitation and tumult of
the city below. She had doffed her travel-stained boy's clothes and now
wore a dress, which Madame de Montmorin had offered her, of some soft
black stuff that fell in heavy folds about her slender young figure. As
he entered she turned, hearing the sound, and their eyes met. He stood
silent, trying to fathom the strange look on that pale face. It was the
same beautiful face that he had seen in pictured loveliness that last
night at Monticello, the same that he had seen in reality for the first
time at Mr. Jefferson's levee at the Legation, and yet how changed! All
the haughty pride, the caprice, the vanity, the artificiality were gone,
and instead, upon the finely chiselled features and in the blue eyes,
rested a serene, if melancholy beauty, a quiet nobility born of
suffering. There rushed through Calvert's mind the thought that, after
all, that loveliness had at last developed into all that was best and
finest.
He stood thus looking at her in silence and thinking of these things,
and then he went slowly forward, scarce knowing how to address her or
explain his presence, who had so long avoided her.
"I am come," he says, at length, "to thank you for the great service
that you have this night rendered me and those other gentlemen engaged
with myself in the King's business. I dare not think what might have
been the fate of us all had you not come to our assistance. Were they
here they would, like myself, thank you with all their hearts."
"'Twas no great service," she says, "and I could scarce have done less
for one who has done so much--who has sacrificed so much for me."
"I have sacrificed nothing," says Calvert, in a low, compassionate
voice. "'Twas you who sacrificed yourself, and all in vain! Believe me,
I suffered for you in that knowledge. I should not have let you--should
have found a way, but I was weak and ill and scarcely struggled against
the fate that gave you to me. I wish that 'twere as easy to undo the
evil as for you to forget me."
"Forget you! I wish I could forget you. I have thought of you so much
that sometimes I wish I could forget you entirely. But I think 'tis out
of my power to do so now. I think I should have to be quite dead--and
even then I do not know--I am not sure--if you should speak to me I
think I would hear," she says, wildly, and covering her eyes with her
hand.
He looked at the dark-robed figure, the dark head bowed on the heaving
breast, and suddenly a joy such as he had never thought to feel ran
through his veins. He went over to her, and, lifting the hand from the
closed eyes, he put it to his lips.
"Adrienne," he says, tenderly and wonderingly, "you are crying! Why?"
"I am crying for so many things! For joy and despair and hope and dead
love, because this means nothing to you and everything to me, because I
love you and you love me not, because you once loved me--!" She stopped
in an access of anguish and, sobbing, knelt before him. The humility of
true love had at last mastered her.
"Not to me--not to me," he said, unsteadily, lifting her.
"And why not to you? There is no one so true, no one I honor so much! In
my pride and ignorance I thought you were not the equal of these fine
gentlemen who have abandoned their King and their country. But I have
learned to know you, and my own heart, and what I have thrown away! I am
not ashamed to say this--to own to you that I love you." She threw back
her head and looked at Calvert with eyes that shone with a sorrowful
light. "For you once told me that you loved me, and though I know I have
lost that love, the memory that I once had it will stay with me and be
my pride forever."
"'Tis yours still, believe me," said Calvert. "'Tis yours now and
forever--forever." He put his arm around her and drew her to him. "Far
or near I have loved you since the first day I saw you, but I never
dreamed that you would come to care, and in my pride I swore I would
never tell you of my love after that day in the garden at Azay."
"I must have been mad, I think," she said, wonderingly. "Mad to have
laughed at you--mad to have thrown away your love. Ah, I have learned
since then!"
"'Tis like a miracle that you should have come to care for me," said
Calvert, his lips upon her dark hair.
"The hour you left me I knew that I loved you. Oh, the agony of that
knowledge and the thought that I would never see you again! Even then
my pride would not let me tell you--I thought you would come again--and
then--then when later you turned from me--my heart broke, I think--'twas
quite numb--I was neither sorry nor glad--" She stopped again.
"Are you glad now, Adrienne?" asked Calvert, looking at her tenderly.
"Yes," she said, quietly.
"And will you be content to leave this France of yours and come with me
to America? There is a home waiting for you there--'tis not a splendid
place like those you know, but only a country house that stands near the
noblest and loveliest river of the land, upon whose banks peace and
happiness dwell." As he spoke, grim sounds of tumult, cannonading,
fierce cries, and hoarse commands came to them from the hot, crowded
street below, but they did not heed them--they were far away from that
terrible, doomed city. Words were scarcely needed--they stood there soul
to soul, alone in all the world, and happy.
"I am going back to that land of mine, where there is work for me to do.
Will you not go with me? There is nothing more we can do here. The last
chance to save their Majesties is gone. Will you leave this troubled,
fated land and come with me to that other one, where I will make you
forget the horrors, the sufferings you have endured in this--where I
swear I will make you happy? Will you go to this America of mine?" he
asked.
She gazed into the eyes she so loved and trusted with a glance as serene
and true as their own.
"I will go," she said.