Count Fersen.
Royalty, in fact, should, by this time, be far on with its
preparations. Unhappily much preparation is needful: could a
Hereditary Representative be carried in leather _vache_, how easy
were it! But it is not so.
New clothes are needed, as usual, in all Epic transactions, were
it in the grimmest iron ages; consider “Queen Chrimhilde, with
her sixty semstresses,” in that iron _Nibelungen Song!_ No Queen
can stir without new clothes. Therefore, now, Dame Campan whisks
assiduous to this mantua-maker and to that: and there is clipping
of frocks and gowns, upper clothes and under, great and small;
such a clipping and sewing, as might have been dispensed with.
Moreover, her Majesty cannot go a step anywhither without her
_Nécessaire;_ dear _Nécessaire_, of inlaid ivory and rosewood;
cunningly devised; which holds perfumes, toilet-implements,
infinite small queenlike furnitures: Necessary to terrestrial
life. Not without a cost of some five hundred louis, of much
precious time, and difficult hoodwinking which does not blind,
can this same Necessary of life be forwarded by the Flanders
Carriers,—never to get to hand.[370] All which, you would say,
augurs ill for the prospering of the enterprise. But the whims of
women and queens must be humoured.
Bouillé, on his side, is making a fortified Camp at Montmédi;
gathering Royal-Allemand, and all manner of other German and true
French Troops thither, “to watch the Austrians.” His Majesty will
not cross the Frontiers, unless on compulsion. Neither shall the
Emigrants be much employed, hateful as they are to all
people.[371] Nor shall old war-god Broglie have any hand in the
business; but solely our brave Bouillé; to whom, on the day of
meeting, a Marshal’s Baton shall be delivered, by a rescued King,
amid the shouting of all the troops. In the meanwhile, Paris
being so suspicious, were it not perhaps good to write your
Foreign Ambassadors an ostensible Constitutional Letter; desiring
all Kings and men to take heed that King Louis loves the
Constitution, that he has voluntarily sworn, and does again
swear, to maintain the same, and will reckon those his enemies
who affect to say otherwise? Such a Constitutional circular is
despatched by Couriers, is communicated confidentially to the
Assembly, and printed in all Newspapers; with the finest
effect.[372] Simulation and dissimulation mingle extensively in
human affairs.
We observe, however, that Count Fersen is often using his Ticket
of Entry; which surely he has clear right to do. A gallant
Soldier and Swede, devoted to this fair Queen;—as indeed the
Highest Swede now is. Has not King Gustav, famed fiery _Chevalier
du Nord_, sworn himself, by the old laws of chivalry, her Knight?
He will descend on fire-wings, of Swedish musketry, and deliver
her from these foul dragons,—if, alas, the assassin’s pistol
intervene not!
But, in fact, Count Fersen does seem a likely young soldier, of
alert decisive ways: he circulates widely, seen, unseen; and has
business on hand. Also Colonel the Duke de Choiseul, nephew of
Choiseul the great, of Choiseul the now deceased; he and Engineer
Goguelat are passing and repassing between Metz and the
Tuileries; and Letters go in cipher,—one of them, a most
important one, hard to _de_cipher; Fersen having ciphered it in
haste.[373] As for Duke de Villequier, he is gone ever since the
Day of Poniards; but his Apartment is useful for her Majesty.
On the other side, poor Commandment Gouvion, watching at the
Tuileries, second in National Command, sees several things hard
to interpret. It is the same Gouvion who sat, long months ago, at
the Townhall, gazing helpless into that Insurrection of Women;
motionless, as the brave stabled steed when conflagration rises,
till Usher Maillard snatched his drum. Sincerer Patriot there is
not; but many a shiftier. He, if Dame Campan gossip credibly, is
paying some similitude of love-court to a certain false
Chambermaid of the Palace, who betrays much to him: the
_Nécessaire_, the clothes, the packing of the jewels,[374]—could
he understand it when betrayed. Helpless Gouvion gazes with
sincere glassy eyes into it; stirs up his sentries to vigilence;
walks restless to and fro; and hopes the best.
But, on the whole, one finds that, in the second week of June,
Colonel de Choiseul is privately in Paris; having come “to see
his children.” Also that Fersen has got a stupendous new Coach
built, of the kind named _Berline;_ done by the first artists;
according to a model: they bring it home to him, in Choiseul’s
presence; the two friends take a proof-drive in it, along the
streets; in meditative mood; then send it up to “Madame
Sullivan’s, in the Rue de Clichy,” far North, to wait there till
wanted. Apparently a certain Russian Baroness de Korff, with
Waiting-woman, Valet, and two Children, will travel homewards
with some state: in whom these young military gentlemen take
interest? A Passport has been procured for her; and much
assistance shewn, with Coach-builders and such like;—so helpful
polite are young military men. Fersen has likewise purchased a
Chaise fit for two, at least for two waiting-maids; further,
certain necessary horses: one would say, he is himself quitting
France, not without outlay? We observe finally that their
Majesties, Heaven willing, will assist at _Corpus-Christi Day_,
this blessed Summer Solstice, in Assumption Church, here at
Paris, to the joy of all the world. For which same day, moreover,
brave Bouillé, at Metz, as we find, has invited a party of
friends to dinner; but indeed is gone from home, in the interim,
over to Montmédi.
These are of the Phenomena, or visual Appearances, of this
wide-working terrestrial world: which truly is all phenomenal,
what they call spectral; and never rests at any moment; one never
at any moment can know why.
On Monday night, the Twentieth of June 1791, about eleven
o’clock, there is many a hackney-coach, and glass-coach
(_carrosse de remise_), still rumbling, or at rest, on the
streets of Paris. But of all Glass-coaches, we recommend this to
thee, O Reader, which stands drawn up, in the Rue de l’Echelle,
hard by the Carrousel and outgate of the Tuileries; in the Rue de
l’Echelle that then was; “opposite Ronsin the saddler’s door,” as
if waiting for a fare there! Not long does it wait: a hooded
Dame, with two hooded Children has issued from Villequier’s door,
where no sentry walks, into the Tuileries Court-of-Princes; into
the Carrousel; into the Rue de l’Echelle; where the
Glass-coachman readily admits them; and again waits. Not long;
another Dame, likewise hooded or shrouded, leaning on a servant,
issues in the same manner, by the Glass-coachman, cheerfully
admitted. Whither go, so many Dames? ’Tis His Majesty’s
_Couchée_, Majesty just gone to bed, and all the Palace-world is
retiring home. But the Glass-coachman still waits; his fare
seemingly incomplete.
By and by, we note a thickset Individual, in round hat and
peruke, arm-and-arm with some servant, seemingly of the Runner or
Courier sort; he also issues through Villequier’s door; starts a
shoebuckle as he passes one of the sentries, stoops down to clasp
it again; is however, by the Glass-coachman, still more
cheerfully admitted. And _now_, is his fare complete? Not yet;
the Glass-coachman still waits.—Alas! and the false Chambermaid
has warned Gouvion that she thinks the Royal Family will fly this
very night; and Gouvion distrusting his own glazed eyes, has sent
express for Lafayette; and Lafayette’s Carriage, flaring with
lights, rolls this moment through the inner Arch of the
Carrousel,—where a Lady shaded in broad gypsy-hat, and leaning on
the arm of a servant, also of the Runner or Courier sort, stands
aside to let it pass, and has even the whim to touch a spoke of
it with her _badine_,—light little magic rod which she calls
_badine_, such as the Beautiful then wore. The flare of
Lafayette’s Carriage, rolls past: all is found quiet in the
Court-of-Princes; sentries at their post; Majesties’ Apartments
closed in smooth rest. Your false Chambermaid must have been
mistaken? Watch thou, Gouvion, with Argus’ vigilance; for, of a
truth, treachery is within these walls.
But where is the Lady that stood aside in gypsy hat, and touched
the wheel-spoke with her _badine?_ O Reader, that Lady that
touched the wheel-spoke was the Queen of France! She has issued
safe through that inner Arch, into the Carrousel itself; but not
into the Rue de l’Echelle. Flurried by the rattle and rencounter,
she took the right hand not the left; neither she nor her Courier
knows Paris; he indeed is no Courier, but a loyal stupid
_ci-devant_ Bodyguard disguised as one. They are off, quite
wrong, over the Pont Royal and River; roaming disconsolate in the
Rue du Bac; far from the Glass-coachman, who still waits. Waits,
with flutter of heart; with thoughts—which he must button close
up, under his jarvie surtout!
Midnight clangs from all the City-steeples; one precious hour has
been spent so; most mortals are asleep. The Glass-coachman waits;
and what mood! A brother jarvie drives up, enters into
conversation; is answered cheerfully in jarvie dialect: the
brothers of the whip exchange a pinch of snuff;[375] decline
drinking together; and part with good night. Be the Heavens
blest! here at length is the Queen-lady, in gypsy-hat; safe after
perils; who has had to inquire her way. She too is admitted; her
Courier jumps aloft, as the other, who is also a disguised
Bodyguard, has done: and now, O Glass-coachman of a
thousand,—Count Fersen, for the Reader sees it is thou,—drive!
Dust shall not stick to the hoofs of Fersen: crack! crack! the
Glass-coach rattles, and every soul breathes lighter. But is
Fersen on the right road? Northeastward, to the Barrier of
Saint-Martin and Metz Highway, thither were we bound: and lo, he
drives right Northward! The royal Individual, in round hat and
peruke, sits astonished; but right or wrong, there is no remedy.
Crack, crack, we go incessant, through the slumbering City.
Seldom, since Paris rose out of mud, or the Longhaired Kings went
in Bullock-carts, was there such a drive. Mortals on each hand of
you, close by, stretched out horizontal, dormant; and we alive
and quaking! Crack, crack, through the Rue de Grammont; across
the Boulevard; up the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin,—these windows,
all silent, of Number 42, were Mirabeau’s. Towards the Barrier
not of Saint-Martin, but of Clichy on the utmost North! Patience,
ye royal Individuals; Fersen understands what he is about.
Passing up the Rue de Clichy, he alights for one moment at Madame
Sullivan’s: ‘Did Count Fersen’s Coachman get the Baroness de
Korff’s new Berline?’—‘Gone with it an hour-and-half ago,’
grumbles responsive the drowsy Porter.—‘_C’est bien_.’ Yes, it is
well;—though had not such hour-and half been _lost_, it were
still better. Forth therefore, O Fersen, fast, by the Barrier de
Clichy; then Eastward along the Outward Boulevard, what horses
and whipcord can do!
Thus Fersen drives, through the ambrosial night. Sleeping Paris
is now all on the right hand of him; silent except for some
snoring hum; and now he is Eastward as far as the Barrier de
Saint-Martin; looking earnestly for Baroness de Korff’s Berline.
This Heaven’s Berline he at length does descry, drawn up with its
six horses, his own German Coachman waiting on the box. Right,
thou good German: now haste, whither thou knowest!—And as for us
of the Glass-coach, haste too, O haste; much time is already
lost! The august Glass-coach fare, six Insides, hastily packs
itself into the new Berline; two Bodyguard Couriers behind. The
Glass-coach itself is turned adrift, its head towards the City;
to wander whither it lists,—and be found next morning tumbled in
a ditch. But Fersen is on the new box, with its brave new
hammer-cloths; flourishing his whip; he bolts forward towards
Bondy. There a third and final Bodyguard Courier of ours ought
surely to be, with post-horses ready-ordered. There likewise
ought that purchased Chaise, with the two Waiting-maids and their
bandboxes to be; whom also her Majesty could not travel without.
Swift, thou deft Fersen, and may the Heavens turn it well!
Once more, by Heaven’s blessing, it is all well. Here is the
sleeping Hamlet of Bondy; Chaise with Waiting-women; horses all
ready, and postillions with their churn-boots, impatient in the
dewy dawn. Brief harnessing done, the postillions with their
churn-boots vault into the saddles; brandish circularly their
little noisy whips. Fersen, under his jarvie-surtout, bends in
lowly silent reverence of adieu; royal hands wave speechless in
expressible response; Baroness de Korff’s Berline, with the
Royalty of France, bounds off: for ever, as it proved. Deft
Fersen dashes obliquely Northward, through the country, towards
Bougret; gains Bougret, finds his German Coachman and chariot
waiting there; cracks off, and drives undiscovered into unknown
space. A deft active man, we say; what he undertook to do is
nimbly and successfully done.
And so the Royalty of France is actually fled? This precious
night, the shortest of the year, it flies and drives! _Baroness
de Korff_ is, at bottom, Dame de Tourzel, Governess of the Royal
Children: she who came hooded with the two hooded little ones;
little Dauphin; little Madame Royale, known long afterwards as
Duchess d’Angouleme. Baroness de Korff’s _Waiting-maid_ is the
Queen in gypsy-hat. The royal Individual in round hat and peruke,
he is _Valet_, for the time being. That other hooded Dame, styled
_Travelling-companion_, is kind Sister Elizabeth; she had sworn,
long since, when the Insurrection of Women was, that only death
should part her and them. And so they rush there, not too
impetuously, through the Wood of Bondy:—over a Rubicon in their
own and France’s History.
Great; though the future is all vague! If we reach Bouillé? If we
do not reach him? O Louis! and this all round thee is the great
slumbering Earth (and overhead, the great watchful Heaven); the
slumbering Wood of Bondy,—where Longhaired Childeric Donothing
was struck through with iron;[376] not unreasonably. These peaked
stone-towers are Raincy; towers of wicked d’Orléans. All slumbers
save the multiplex rustle of our new Berline. Loose-skirted
scarecrow of an Herb-merchant, with his ass and early greens,
toilsomely plodding, seems the only creature we meet. But right
ahead the great North-East sends up evermore his gray brindled
dawn: from dewy branch, birds here and there, with short deep
warble, salute the coming Sun. Stars fade out, and Galaxies;
Street-lamps of the City of God. The Universe, O my brothers, is
flinging wide its portals for the Levee of the GREAT HIGH KING.
Thou, poor King Louis, farest nevertheless, as mortals do,
towards Orient lands of Hope; and the Tuileries with _its_
Levees, and France and the Earth itself, is but a larger kind of
doghutch,—occasionally going rabid.